AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Boyd
Fiona stands awkwardly in my kitchen, arms wrapped tight around her midsection, like she’s afraid that if she touches anything she’ll be ruined.
I’m not entirely sure she’d be worse off, but it probably wouldn’t help, either.
When I picked her up from her house, she was practically catatonic; her eyes were wide and distant, registering my presence but not really comprehending it. Her lips were dry, sweat-stained her forehead, and her finger tapped out that consistent fucking rhythm while she stood there waiting for me to come inside.
I don’t think she even knew what she was doing.
When I heard someone coming down the stairs, I acted, not giving a second thought to the implications. I’d pulled her out onto the porch and shoved her into my waiting BMW, having ditched my bike when I stopped home to change from the gym.
Usually, I don’t bring people back here—not because I’m embarrassed, although the little white bungalow Dottie gave me doesn’t exactly scream wealthy bachelor—but because I don’t like people in my space. Don’t trust them not to snoop and try to get dirt on me.
But since Fiona knows what that’s like, and considering who she is in general, that paranoia doesn’t exist where she’s concerned.
Now, I’m just worried she hates the place.
Insecurity rushes through me as I walk ahead of her, clearing clutter from the vinyl countertops in the kitchen and shoving things from the circular dining room table into random cabinets. I wince, glancing at the worn yellow wallpaper surrounding us, kicking myself for not fixing it last winter during the holiday break from work and hoping she doesn’t notice.
She does.
Almost immediately, her eyes scan the area as I turn from the kitchen sink, zeroing in on one particularly bad spot where the paper is torn completely from the wall. Her doe eyes slide to mine, then back to the spot, and then meet mine again, and my skin prickles a little at the judgment.
Exhaling a harsh breath, I rub the back of my neck, trying to relieve some of the tension collecting there. “I don’t, uh... get many visitors.”
Smirking, she walks over and braces her palms on the edge of the counter, hoisting herself up and perching on the surface. “I can tell.”
The urge to fit myself between her legging-clad thighs is strong, but I resist, knowing that if I go there, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from taking her.
And fuck, do I want to take her. Fold her body into a thousand different positions, devour her sweet, juicy little cunt until she bleeds and then shove my dick inside of her, see how deep I can go before she’s choking on me.
The intensity of my want knows no bounds, blurring the lines between what’s socially acceptable and what the beast inside of me craves.
Every day, she consumes a bit more of my soul, desire coursing through me that I feel slipping out of my fingertips with each thought I entertain of demolishing whatever innocence she has left.
I’ve never felt anything this fucking intense before, and I can’t help wondering if it isn’t the forbidden aspect that adds to the appeal.
After ignoring Fiona the last seven years, logically, I’m having a hard time catching up to where my dick suddenly wants to be, but thinking about getting caught and the trouble it may cause certainly makes the idea more appetizing.
Makes her more appetizing.
But that’s not what I brought her here for. Frankly, I’m not a hundred percent why I brought her here, but now seems like as good a time as any to try and figure out why she texted me 911 and not someone else.
Opening a cabinet beside the white fridge, I pull out a box of spaghetti noodles and set it on the counter along with two jars of sauce, and some spices. Dottie usually grabs groceries for me when she leaves church on Sundays, keeping the place stocked even though I hardly ever eat in it.
“When you mentioned dinner, I didn’t know you’d be cooking it,” she says when I open the box, dumping the noodles into a large pot with water.
“Surprise.” She winces as I set the stove temperature, and I raise an eyebrow. “Something wrong, princess?”
“It’s just... are you supposed to put noodles in there like that before the water boils?” Scratching at her wrist, she tries to pose the question so it sounds nonchalant, but I can see the divots her nails make in her skin as she glares at the stove. “Don’t they cook faster if it’s already boiling?”
“They’ll cook either way, though, right?” I shrug, popping open the lid on one jar of sauce and pouring it into a saucepan. I catch her cringe again from the corner of my eye, and set the jar down, turning to face her. I’m growing irritated, her criticism hitting a nerve too close to home. “If you don’t like the way I’m doing it, feel free to help out. Most people know better than to bite the literal hand that’s feeding them.”
Sliding down from the counter, she walks around me and adjusts a few of the controls, adding some pepper, bay leaves, and rosemary to the sauce. “Sorry. Sometimes I can be a little crazy,” she says with a breathless laugh. One that feels forced and practiced, like it’s an insult she’s been told before that she’s trying to reclaim.
I don’t like the way it makes my stomach twist, a violent storm on the precipice of destruction.
She scratches at her forearm again, stepping back to lean against the inside corner of the counter, just inches away from me in the tiny kitchen. I study the heavy circles beneath her eyes, wondering when the last time she slept was, and note the way she refuses to make eye contact with me.
