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"Twenty-one."
I flick my hair over my shoulder. "You’re only seven years older."
He scoffs, "And this is bullfuck.”
H-o-l-y shit. He said, fuck... Aloud. I’ve read that particular swear word in my smutty books but never come across anyone who used it to swear aloud in real life.
He groans, "Don’t tell me my swearing shocks you?"
"Of course not.” I lie.
"You expect me to believe that?" He plants his hands on his hips again. "And don’t change the topic. We’re talking about why you were wandering on the beach at that time of the night dressed like that." He stabs a finger in my direction.
I look down at my nightshirt covered chest, over which the sheet is draped, then back at him. "So, it’s my fault that I was attacked? That th-th-those m-m-men—" I burst out crying.Oh, my god, how embarrassing!I’m weeping bucketsful in front of this hot stranger who looks exactly like one of the guys from my smutty books. And he found me in such a horrible situation, too. I bury my face in my hands, and weep and weep.
At some point, he gathers me in his arms, and the scent of dark chocolate and coffee fills my senses. I turn my face into his shoulder, wrap my arms about him, and allow myself to cry. When the tears finally slow down, I hiccup.
"I’ve got you; I promise." He rubs his hand down my back in slow soothing circles.
I focus on his touch, on how my breasts feel heavy, on my nipples which are pebbled and pressing into his chest, on that strange, tickling sensation that feels like I’m developing an itch between my legs, on the hard column that presses against my inner thigh. My heartbeat kicks up, I angle myself so the space between my legs rubs against that thick rod, just to alleviate the itch, I swear. Goosebumps pop on my skin. My thighs tremble.
He must become aware of my actions in the same breath for he freezes and asks, "What are you doing?" He pushes me away and surges to his feet, looking down at me with a mixture of horror and disgust... and lust. It must be lust that makes his blue eyes darken until they’re nearly indigo. Color splotches his cheeks.
"Fuck!" He begins to pace. "You need to leave, right fucking now."
My heart seizes. My chest hurts. A crushing sensation squeezes my ribcage. So, he doesn’t want me. That’s okay. There’ll be others. Like the Mafia husband my family will engage me to when I’m eighteen. I hunch my shoulders. It’s fine. I can deal with it. I still have my spicy books. I’ll just have to do a better job of hiding them. My book boyfriends will never abandon me. They’ll save me from my wretched life and love me enough to make up for all the disappointments in real life. I throw off the cover, then swing my legs over the side. My feet brush my sandals—thank god, I didn’t lose them. I would have never been able to explain that to my mother—I slip my feet into them, then straighten.
"Fine!" I march past him toward the doorway and stop when he calls out.
"Wait, I’ll take you."
3
Declan
"Fucking hell, she’s fourteen; only fourteen!" I drop down into another push-up, then another. Sweat drips down my chest onto the already sticky floor of the gym. It’s a tiny underground space Knight and I discovered not long after arriving in Naples. A film role brought me here. The shooting wrapped up, but I decided to stay on, and Knight joined me. He decided to come out and visit me here in Naples before shipping out on his next mission. Then there’s Cade.
Our friendship was sealed a few years ago, over the course of one memorable bender that lasted forty-eight hours. Knight, Cade and I had bar hopped every nightclub in London’s East End and exchanged stories about the challenges we were facing in our chosen careers.
A month later, Knight left to join the army, I landed my first proper role in a movie, and Cade made reserve for the cricket team. The three of us have kept in touch since and hang out whenever we’re in the same city. With Cade busy establishing himself on the cricket circuit, more often than not, the three of us catch up on the phone nowadays.
"Nothing happened though." Knight pauses midway through his push up, "Amiright?"
"You’re right." I flow into the next push-up, and the next, then sink into plank position. "Nothing happened." Yet. And that’s what bothers me. The fact that I even let things progress to the extent they had. The fact that I hadn’t realized she was still a kid. Jesus Christ. She seemed so grown up with those fully formed boobs, and that dip of her waist, and those luscious lips. Her eyes though... The big green eyes with which she’d surveyed me, those fringed eyelashes, the way her pupils had dilated at my nearness—fuck, I should have realized she was an innocent. That she was younger than I thought.
"So, what’s the problem?" Knight lowers himself into the plank position, as well, his biceps bulging, chest muscles already sculpted from the years he’s already spent in the army. Asshole was huge to begin with, but after this last tour, he seems positively gargantuan. There’s not a hint of fat on his body, either. Which is why I’m going to push myself until I can compete with him in the gym.
"No problem," I grunt. My triceps hurt, my shoulders shudder, but I stay planked. Knight—the fucker—on the other hand, has barely broken a sweat.
"The furrow between your eyebrows says otherwise. Or wait... Is that because the workout is too much for you?" He raises his leg, balancing himself on his elbows and on one foot.
Asshole. When he shoots me a challenging glance. I mirror his move. My arms scream in protest, sweat runs in rivulets down my throat. I grit my teeth, fix my gaze on his, and balance myself.
Sweat drips down my temples, into my eyes. I blink it away. I’m not going to give in.
"Stop trying to compete with me, arsewipe," he grunts. "Your fitness levels are not bad for a pretty boy"—he huffs out a breath—"but your endurance levels leave much to be desired."
"Go fuck yourself," I growl out and set my jaw.
