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There isn’t a mocking twist in his lips or amusement in his eyes.
He wears only one expression in this moment: possessiveness.
Red hot and burning.
Like I’m really his. Like I’ve been his for some time now. Years.
Since the first moment he saw me. Since before that even.
And then, he explains to me how.
“You’re my best friend’s girl, aren’t you? So you are. You aremine.To protect. To shield. To guard, to shelter and to keep safe,” he pauses after rattling out all the synonyms, “from every motherfucker out there. From every goddamn motherfucker who thinks he can pounce on you now. Who thinks you’re defenseless and alone and fair fucking game. Because you’re not. You’re under my fucking protection, you understand? So I’ll watch you. I’ll keep an eye on you and,” his eyes drop to my mouth then, making it tingle and swell, “I’ll choke the life out of anyone who thinks they can put their hands on you.”
* * *
Ithink I fell asleep.
While riding on his bike.
My chest plastered to his muscular back. My arms wrapped around his sleek waist. My cheek pressed on his shoulder. The only way I know for sure that I’m waking up now is that I blink my eyes open when we reach St. Mary’s, and realize that I have to untangle myself from him to get down.
But I don’t think anyone can blame me for falling asleep.
In fact, it’s a surprise that I haven’t fallen asleep the two times before I’ve ridden with him.
He’s just so warm, with summer stitched into his very skin.
And strong with all these corded muscles.
But I guess the first when I rode with him, I was still shocked that I was wrapped around him like that. And the second time — which was earlier tonight — I was too angry at him and nervous at what the night had in store for me.
And as disastrous as everything has turned out to be, this time around I managed to fall asleep because something has changed.
I can feel it.
Between him and me.
He feels safe now.
It’s crazy and bizarre because only a couple of hours ago, even though we were working together, I was still so distrustful of him. But it feels like I’ve lived a lifetime in these short hours and now I’ve come out on the other side of it.
So standing by his bike, I eye his bruises again. “Did you deserve it?”
And then I wait.
With bated breath.
To see if he’s lived a lifetime in these short hours like me or not.
He’s also climbed off his bike and looking down at me, he says, “Yeah.”
My eyes shoot up to his, at his raspy voice.
As if he’s woken from slumber as well and I believe he has.
Because he did come out on the other side of it. Like me.
With my heart racing in my chest, I whisper, “What did you do?”
