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“Hear what?”
“Your counterargument.”
“This isn’t a relationship. Only fucking, that either of us can walk away from at any second. And I’m not yours or anyone else’s. I belong to myself.”
His eye twitches, but other than that, no reaction shows on his face. “So you want us to be friends with benefits, minus the friends part. So should it be called enemies with benefits? A hate-fucking relationship?”
Now that he puts it that way, it sounds more fucked up than it did in my brain. But it does sound plausible enough and I can stand my ground, so I give a sharp nod.
“How much control do you have, Aspen? A mountain’s worth? Two? I want you to remember this moment when I force every inch of it to crumble to the ground.”
“Does that mean you agree?”
“To what, exactly? An open relationship where you act as if you’re not mine and I get to jam my dick into the city’s available holes?”
A bitter taste explodes at the back of my throat at the image he’s painted, and a weird negative energy perches on my chest.
It takes me a few moments to find my voice. “If you fuck another woman, I’ll fuck a man and make you watch.”
“Oh, I won’t be watching, sweetheart.Hewill, as I make you scream my name while you bounce on my cock like a filthy little whore, and just when he gets a hard-on, I will slice his throat and fuck you on all fours in his blood.”
My stomach tightens, and for a moment, I wish he’s joking or that this is a twisted hallucination, but the dark gleam shining in his eyes is nothing short of a lust for violence. A twisted possessiveness that I’m the subject of.
“You’re sick, Kingsley.”
“And you’re blushing.”
“I’mfuming.”
“Semantics.”
I release a long puff of air. “I mean it. No other women.”
“Sure thing. The price is admitting that you’re mine.”
“No.”
“We’re doing it my way then, and believe me, you’ll regret this decision.” He tosses the towel on the floor and turns around, his shoulders crowding with tension. “Come down when you’re ready.”
The room gains an unusual coldness once he leaves and I have no clue why I shiver like a stray kitten caught in the rain.
It’s not dread.
I refuse to believe it’s dread.
After throwing on one of Kingsley’s shirts, which swallows me whole and reaches my mid-thigh, I pad down the stairs.
I’m thankful he doesn’t have any live-in staff, which should be expected in mansions like his. They seem to come during the day and then leave before he gets home.
I pause in front of the demon painting. Now that I know its meaning and the story behind it, it’s gained a different, more sinister light. I can’t help thinking about a younger Kingsley staring at demons that might or might not reflect the ones inside him.
He’s had them for a long time. Since he was in his teens. And they might have been what attracted me to him in the first place.
Shooing that uncomfortable epiphany away, I follow the sound of clinking dishes that’s coming from the kitchen.
It’s spacious, has a built-in marble counter, and contains steel equipment that’s fit for a chef’s kitchen.
Kingsley’s back seems to have lost the tension from earlier as he stands over the stove.
