I think I did something wrong.
Because the tension that’s been floating in the air for the past half hour is suffocating.
Even more than when he fucked me on the floor, face down, and made me come the strongest I ever have.
Without a condom.
Again.
But for some reason, that doesn’t make me mad. Deep down, I liked the sensation of his hot cum inside me and the friction of his skin against mine.
In fact, I liked it so much, I might be a little bit obsessed with it. And his rough dominance.
And devious fucking.
And everything about him, really.
But that’s wrong. I shouldn’t be so tangled up with him that I can’t escape his trap.
Even now, I can’t stop staring at him, at his broad shoulders that are stretching his shirt. But that’s not the only thing straining against his shirt; there’s also his bulging biceps, his pectoral muscles, and even his abdomen.
A wave of heat slaughters the fairies in my stomach and I clench my thighs together to trap whatever sensation is trying to escape.
I pulled on my hoodie earlier, but I couldn’t locate my panties, so I’m bare and that feels so revealing. Vulnerable, even.
My breathing is harsh and I’m glad I put on my “Oldies” playlist when we sat down so he can’t hear the loud inhales and exhales or how much I’m crossing and uncrossing my legs.
Besides, even on a low volume, my playlist gives me peace and a sense of courage. It’s even stronger than liquor in that department.
We’re sitting across from each other at the coffee table, eating the pizza I ordered. Or, I’m nibbling; he’s studying my small place with a critical eye. From his point of view, this must look so subpar. There are smoke lines on the cracked ceiling that is decorated by some star drawings the previous tenant left behind.
My furniture is sparse to none. Since this is a studio apartment, I only have a sofa that can be turned into a bed and a table—the one we’re sitting around. On the floor.
But he’s not looking at those, his attention is on the clothes scattered everywhere and the dishes piled up in the sink.
“I was going to clean them,” I blurt.
He focuses back on me with a small smirk. “Did I say anything?”
“I can tell you were going to.”
“You can tell how?”
“Well, people like you don’t appreciate the chaos.”
“People like me?”
“Prim and proper.”
“Liking things organized doesn’t have anything to do with being prim and proper.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No. You’re living proof of that.”
“How is that?”
“You’re prim and proper yourself, but you’re not organized.”
“I’m…not prim and proper.”
“Wearing lace panties, drinking water with a straw, and always keeping your nails clean and trimmed says otherwise. Besides, your manner of speech is calm and measured, as if you were taught by private tutors to speak a certain way.”
My mouth falls open and the slice of pizza remains suspended mid-air. How and when the hell did he even notice those things?
Hell, even I don’t pay attention to half of them.
I should’ve known he’d be a danger to me. I should’ve pushed him away harder when I could’ve.
But that’s not possible now, is it?
Not when I’ve become inexplicably addicted to him, to his ethereal face and that delicious accent in his deep voice.
Not when seeing him brings a sense of peace I’ve never experienced before.
He leans back on his hand, the gleam in his eyes so similar to a predator who’s enjoying toying with his prey. “Tell me, what made you prim and proper, Anastasia?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I take a bite of my pizza.
“Let me guess. It has something to do with your real identity, which is why you changed it. Was it suffocating where you came from? Is that why you left?”
My ears heat, but instead of playing into his hands, I strike back. “How about you?”
“What about me?”
“How did you become prim and proper?”
“Again, I’m not prim and proper, but I did have a cool foster father who saved me and my twin sister from the slums. It’s because of him that I changed from an ugly duckling to a beautiful swan.” He winks, but there’s no playfulness behind it. If anything, it seems like a camouflage for something dark and sinister trying to peek through.
“How about your parents?” Usually, I wouldn’t ask. I don’t really get curious about people in general, because I’d rather not get involved, but I am curious about him.
About the reason behind the darkening in his golden eyes.
He takes a bite of the pizza, chews slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. “Never knew my father, and my mother was a whore, who was as clueless as us about the identity of the man who impregnated her. When she got mad at us when we were six, she said we were the product of a gang bang from which she received her stash of drugs for the month, and the only reason she kept us was because many of her clients had pregnancy and lactation kinks.”
I gulp the mouthful of food, but that has less to do with the information and more to do with his tone when he talked about his mother.
In all my life among monsters, I’ve never heard someone speak with so much venom and pure hatred about their parent. It’s as if he wishes she were on the edge of a cliff so that he could push her off and watch as she meets her demise.
Knox leans back on his palm again and tilts his head to the side. “Now that the boring information is out of the way, why don’t you tell me about your parents?”
“What about them?”
“You mentioned your mum was abused and since you spoke about her in the past tense, I assume she’s no longer alive?”
The food gets stuck in my throat and it takes me a few swallows before I can push past the clog that’s built up there. “She’s not.”
“How about your father?”
“He’s around…”
“And?”
“What?”
“Are you close?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Do you not want to be around him?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
I tighten my hold on the slice of pizza until it’s almost crushed. “Because.”
“I see. Is he the reason behind the identity change?”
My head jerks and I realize my mistake when he smiles in that predatory way.
“So he is.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Then what do you want to talk about? How about how suspicious you are or…” he trails off when the opening of “Nothing Else Matters” by Metallica echoes from my phone. “You get a small pass for having good taste in music.”
My eyes bug out. “You like Metallica, too?”
“Like? Their music has been running in my veins since I knew what music is all about. Attending their concerts is always the highlight of my year.”
“Do you by any chance have a collection of their merch?” I always wished to own music-themed merchandise, but that was forbidden in my house.
“I collected a lot of T-shirts, jackets, hoodies, and other Metallica-themed merch in my teenage years. I even had a pair of headphones with the name of the band engraved on it. I kind of dropped endless hints about wanting it so Dad could get it for my birthday. They’re back in England and my sister always threatens to destroy them when I don’t do things her way.”
I can’t help the smile that curves my lips at how carefree he speaks about Metallica and his sister. It’s the first time I’ve witnessed this easygoing part of him.
He’s always been intense in some way or another, but now, it’s dulled down.
“Your sister seems fun.”
“No, she’s usually a pain in the arse. Headstrong and has a no-nonsense personality.”
“I get along with that type. My cousin is that way and we’re close…” I trail off as a tendril of sadness splashes inside me. “Were close.”
“I assume you left her behind, too?”
“I didn’t leave her behind. We’re just…on different sides of the battle.”
“Battle. Interesting terminology.”
I clear my throat, needing to derail his attention. He’s like a cat with a mouse, once he sees a chance to strike, he won’t hesitate to use it. “Do you listen to anything aside from Metallica?”
“I used to listen to Slipknot, Megadeth, and Iron Maiden when I was a teenager. Dad used to be fussy because I went to sleep and woke up with loud metal music in my ears.”
“You don’t do that anymore?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“In law school, I didn’t really listen to much music and it just extended to after I passed the bar and started working.”
“I don’t understand how someone can move on from music. It’s what helps me concentrate better.”
“I know that.”
“You do?”
“You usually have earbuds in when you’re working. I also know you listen to vintage music.”
“Are you a stalker?”
“I prefer professional watcher, just like you.”
“M-me?”
“Yeah, beautiful. I know you come to watch me sometimes.”
My cheeks are burning hot. “I do not.”
“We have glass walls, in case you haven’t noticed, and that means I can see you through them.”
I stare down at my lap. “I…wasn’t there for you.”
“Uh-huh. Your denial is adorable.”
I glare at him. “Don’t call me adorable.”
“Well, you are. Deal with it.” He motions at my phone. “Why do you like vintage music?”
“I’m an old soul that way. I like historical novels, music from decades ago, and everything vintage.”
“But you’re in IT.”
“An old soul with a futuristic mindset.”
The corners of his lips curve in a smile before it spreads all over his face. “I like that.”
My breath catches and it takes me a few tries to swallow it down. Hearing him say he likes that while smiling makes me think that maybe he likes me.
And that’s just stupid.
If there’s anything Knox has proved thus far, it’s that whatever is between us is only sexual, so I better kill that small voice whispering inside me.
“What’s your favorite band?” he asks.
“I don’t really have one.”
“Come on, everyone does.”
“Guns N’ Roses, I guess. They make me feel powerful.”
“You mean their music does.”
“What’s the difference?”
He’s poker-faced as he says, “There’s one. It’s their music, not the men in the band.”
“No clue about the logic in that, but whatever.”
We continue eating in silence, listening to the music and stealing peeks at each other. Or I am, anyway. Knox watches me openly, periodically narrowing his eyes on me and pursing his lips as if he disapproves of something.
“What?” I ask when he continues doing it.
“I want to see your real eyes.”
“W-what?”
“The blue ones. And don’t even dare say these are real. Without the glasses, they look fake as fuck.”
“I…can’t.”
“Why not? I already know your real name and what you look like.”
“Just…no.”
“Why?”
“Because…I don’t like it. Just like you don’t like looking into my eyes during sex. Do you see me asking about that?”
“Who told you I don’t like looking at your eyes?”
“Well, you’ve always fucked me or touched me from behind. Isn’t that indication enough?”
“I prefer that position.”
“And I prefer having these eyes.”
A muscle tics in his jaw and I expect him to insist, but he does something entirely different.
His voice lowers when he speaks. “I don’t like fucking from the front. It makes me feel less in control and brings back dark shadows from a past I like to keep buried.”
I’m suddenly hyperaware of the tension floating between us, as if he summoned it and its sole purpose is to suffocate us both.
“What type of past?” I ask in a murmur.
He shakes his head slowly. “You don’t get to ask that when you’re hiding yours.”
“I told you about my mom.”
“She’s not what you’re hiding from, so that doesn’t count.”
I purse my lips and attack another slice of pizza.
He just leans back on his palms, watching me with a grin. The asshole. “That’s what I thought.”
“I want my butterfly back,” I blurt out of nowhere.
He’s still grinning and I’m considering the best way to wipe it off his face, aside from the obvious option—murder.
“What makes you think I have it?”
“You mentioned it the other day, so that means you do.”
“Maybe if you show me your real eyes.”
“I will not.”
“Then I don’t have it.”
“Knox! That butterfly is important to me.”
“Apparently not enough, because you refuse to compromise.”
But it’s not a compromise. He’s demanding to see a part of me that will make me vulnerable and I refuse to play that game. “Are you always an asshole or only with me?”
“A little bit of both.” His grin widens.
“I hate you right now.”
“We have all the time in the world, so I’ll convince you otherwise.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Of course we do.” His voice drops when he says the words that make me shiver, “I’m not even close to being done with you, beautiful.”
