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I swallow past the lump in my throat. Stupid me for getting emotional over that. I can’t tell if it’s the guilt I’ve disrupted his whole life, or just a weird sense of rejection that ties me in tighter knots. Maybe a little bit of both.
It’s not like he asked me to come here–I chased him down, manipulated the situation, made him feel the need to put me in his car and bring me here because I had no other options. And he doesn’t even want to see me naked, let alone touch me, so it’s not like I can repay him physically.
I didn’t expect him to not want to be in the same place… He could put me in one of these other rooms, if he wanted. Does he feel like he can’t? Was I too excited about the city view out the window, about being so close to Carnegie Hall? Would he stay if I hadn’t let him see the wounds on my back, or my thigh? Man, if he’d let me turn around yesterday…
“Oh,” I manage after a beat.
“Two more,” he urges, still so silky and smooth and sultry and mind numbing.
“I c-called you bunny ‘cause you’re…” I stop myself from finishing that sentence. It sounds stupid in my head now. I’m just trying not to cry, and him laughing at me is not gonna help that. “…y-you’re really skittish around me. It just fell out of my mouth. I’m sorry, I won’t…do that again.”
His chin angles up a bit, his jaw tightening like he’s not sure what to say. Maybe he wouldn’t have laughed. He looks like he’s sucking a lemon, and that’s almost worse.
He lands on, “Good.”
I cringe, looking down at my hands. Good job, Lucy. Way to make him even more annoyed with you.
“As in,” he says, waiting for me to look up, “GoodLucy, for telling me the truth.”
Oh, my. My heart trips over itself, and I catch my breath, slipping my hands under my legs so I don’t touch him. I give a nod, not trusting my voice, somehow knowing without trying I’ll sound needy as all get out if I reply.
He gives a small shiver and huffs, ramming his hand through his hair. “One more.”
He just praised me, and it made my head spin like nothing else. I really, really don’t want to upset him, but I can’t confidently say I did the right thing last night regarding dinner.
“I don’t remember,” I lie, looking down at his chest, “the last one.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then his hand is on my neck, cupping my chin and drawing my head back to look him in the eye. His knuckles brush against my throat, and where I’d normally panic at the contact, this one little touch almost has me melting at his feet. It startles the fire back to life in my chest and I whimper, grabbing on to his wrist so I don’t float away.
He flinches, but to my surprise—and relief—he doesn’t yank away from me this time.
“That’s not true,” he says. “I don’t like liars, Lucy.”
I swallow, and his grip tightens on my face when he feels my pulse jump. Alright. Here it goes.
“I didn’t eat,” I say, barely a whisper. “I promise.”
His eyes widen, clearly shocked I thought that was the right thing to say. “Why not?”
“It’s…your turn,” I say.
He lets go of my face and steps back, and I kick myself. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want him to let me go yet. It was a simple touch, but it did so much to calm my nerves, quiet the nagging in my brain.
He doesn’t storm off this time, though, so it doesn’t sting as bad. He reaches between his legs for the table, pulling it close enough to sit on it. He rests his elbows on his knees, and when I straighten up, his face is so close to mine I taste his minty breath on my lips.
“No, I haven’t slept yet,” he says in a rush, then slower, a hint of worry in his voice. “Now, why didn’t you make yourself dinner?” I rub my arm and look down at my lap, but the short tone is back when he says, “Look at me.”
I raise my head again and force a breath. He’s trying to kill me or something and I really don’t know what I did to bring this on, but I’m way more into it than I should be.
“We didn’t talk about what I could and couldn’t have,” I say. “Everything’s so perfect in there, I… I didn’t want to mess anything up and make you angry.”
He looks like I killed his dog. “You can have anything in the kitchen,” he says seriously. “What’s in the loft is yours. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t want you amongst my things.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, eyes narrowed slightly. “I should have made that more clear.”
I shift my legs again, pressing my knees together to relieve the pressure, and he snaps to his feet. Ugh. I didn’t even touch him!
