Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I trail off because he clenches his jaw.
Which is fine; he does that all the time.
But this time he also gives me a look, or rather his eyes turn commanding, slightly narrowed and even more intense. And paired with his tight jaw, he doesn’t need words.
To order me. To make me do things.
I do it.
I have to.
Even though I’m a tiny bit afraid to show him my efforts.
I know he already saw me draw those roses on my thighs that night, and then again, his eyes in my sketchpad. But this is different. This is him seeing something in its entirety and I’m nervous.
I want him to like it.
I walk over to him on trembling legs, my ornaments clinking. He straightens as I draw closer and when I reach him, he widens his muscular thighs.
As if in invitation to step between them.
Or more like a command if he’s issuing it, and I do that too. Happily.
And I do it in a way that the sides of my naked thighs brush against the coarse fabric of his jeans. And when they do, his muscles flex. They twitch and leap and so I bend my knee and rub it against his tightly strung thigh even more before offering him my sketchpad.
Which he takes, his eyes darker than before.
Once he has it in his large hand, his gaze drops away from me for the first time since we entered the room. And he sees it. How I see him.
A warrior. A god. A protector.
The original thorn.
My thorn.
A few moments pass in silence with his head bent and his eyes glued to my sketchbook. And when I can’t take it anymore, I ask, both hesitantly and eagerly, “Do you like it?”
He looks up then.
And I have to fist my dress at the sight of his face.
All tight and pretty and brimming with things.
Things that are reflected in his blue — bluest ever — eyes and in the leaping muscle on his cheek. In his fingers too. That have tightened on the sketchpad so much that he’s crinkling the paper, bending the thick pad.
“I’m keeping it,” he says in a voice that’s brimming with things as well.
Throbbing and thick.
“But it’s not done yet,” I say, feeling each jump of the muscle on his cheek in my own belly.
In the place between my legs.
“I’m keeping it,” he repeats, bites out almost.
“But I —”
“It’s mine, isn’t it? My sketch.”
“Yes. But it’s for my…”
I can’t say it.
For some reason, I cannot say it.
Even though I’ve said it to him so many times before.
His eyes flash as he completes my thread. “For your college applications.”
A hot blush creeps up my neck, my cheeks, and I jerk out a nod. “Yes.”
“That you submitted a month ago.”
As always, he hasn’t raised his voice.
It’s very rare for him to do that. But I still flinch.
I still try to get away from him.
But he doesn’t let me go.
He keeps me where I am as he tightens his thighs around mine. His knees digging into my soft flesh and his eyes warning me against moving even an inch.
“Didn’t you?” he asks when all I do is stay silent and drag short puffs of breath.
“You know,” I whisper.
“That you don’t need my help,” he says in his soft, silky voice. “Yeah, I know. I know when most college applications are due. I went to college. Even if it was years ago. And even if it was only for a little bit.”
I have been lying to him.
Back at the library when I first brought it up, it was a lie then too; I’d already submitted my applications. I only said it so he’d agree, but he didn’t. And later when he did, I didn’t want to tell him the truth. I could have. I should have. I know that. But I needed this time — I need this time — with him so I can do the thing I want to.
But of course he knows. Of course.
It was a stupid, careless lie to begin with.
“So then why did you…” I fist and unfist my dress. “Why did you agree to do it? I’d abandoned all plans of ever getting to draw you after the library. After you…”
Hurt me so badly.
Regret flickers over his features at what he did back then and I want to tell him that I’ve forgiven him for it. The moment he apologized. But he squeezes his thighs around my legs and says, “Because I’ve been lying to you too.”
“What?”
He licks his lips. “About not remembering you.” Then, “I pretended that I didn’t. And while I still stand by it, I wanted to… give you what you wanted. Before, when I was still lying. In exchange for all the bullshit I put you through. So consider us even. And now you have what you wanted. You’ve drawn me.” A jaw clench. “So I’m keeping this. Because you don’t need it.”