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“That’s called Stockholm syndrome,” I inform him lightly.
Musingly, he asks, “Then am I your prisoner, Lana?”
I choose not to answer because his words are making it hard to breathe, something clenched loosening in my chest.
I might be his.
13
Oliver
The weekend is spent christening Lana’s new apartment.
By the time Sunday arrives, there is no surface where I haven’t fucked her senseless. As I smugly survey the kitchen countertop, Lana elbows me. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” I ask innocently, reaching out to help her with the takeout bags.
“I can barely walk.” She gives me a warning look. “We’re not doing it again.”
I smile.
She says that… but then my insatiable darling just pushes me against a flat surface at a whim and drives me insane until I have her bent over, full of my cock.
However, I’m smart enough not to point that out to her, so I simply smile amiably.
We consume the Chinese takeout as we sit on kitchen stools, both starving. The silence is comfortable, but then Lana says,
“I have to report this.”
“The food?” I ask, puzzled. “It lacks a little spice, but it’s hardly something to complain—”
“No.” She snickers at my confusion. “Our relationship.”
“Oh. Well, Caleb already knows,” I say, lightly.
“Wait, what?” I hear the thud of the container as Lana smacks it down to gape. “What do you mean by Caleb knows?”
“I informed him of my intentions to ask you out. I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t face any difficulties at work.”
I freeze as Lana’s face tightens with anger. Seething, she says slowly, “So, what? You asked Caleb’s permission to fuck me?”
Suddenly, I realize how this sounds, and I start scrambling. “No, Lana. That’s not what I meant. I was just making sure your job wasn’t in peril.”
From where she’s standing on the other side of the counter, she takes a step back, creating a tangible distance between us, a shutter falling over her face. “You think I can’t take care of myself—that I need you to look out for me?” Her voice is soft, as if she doesn’t quite trust herself. “What if Caleb had said ‘no’? Would you have conveniently told me that you and I couldn’t pursue a relationship for my own good?”
Her words are harsh, and I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach.
I’m not used to screwing up so massively, so I desperately try to salvage what there is between us.
“I would have walked away from the project!”
That makes her hesitate. “What?” And then, her anger comes out sharp as a blade. “Are you insane? You would have thrown your job away for me?”
Frustration rears its head. My voice is raised, my own fury at the forefront. “You would have been worth it!”
She stumbles back, her face paling, confusion and bewilderment written all over her. “No, I’m not. I’m not that—”
“Yes, you are,” I interrupt her hotly, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence. I round the table, stalking toward her until her back is pressed against the refrigerator. “I have seen happiness and held it, and I’ve had it torn from my fingers. You’re nothing like the women I used to date. And yet, you’ve crept under my skin, carved your name in my heart, and now I can’t let you go!”
