He’s been in there, not preserving water and our pump—fine, his pump—for the past twenty minutes. Both my brothers spend at least thirty minutes in the bathroom every single day. Archie has just proved my point: I will fight anyone who will argue that women “spend hours in the bathroom, doing God knows what.” How about men spending hours in there doing God knows what?
As I stir in this unfairness, I chop my salad with the ferocity of a serial killer. Am I imagining Archie’s dick? Maybe. I wish I could imagine it without murder coming to mind after our little humping session. And the worst thing is that I’m only angry with myself. Does he annoy me? Yes, he does. But I’m an intruder and a provoker, so this one is on me.
Digging into the stocked cabinets, I realize, to my utter horror, that I brought cans upon cans of beans. What else would you bring to eat while staying in a remote location alone? Beans. They’re safe. They’re nutritious. But I didn’t plan on having a roommate. Now, beans are a horrible option, as I don’t want to be walking around bloated. Torturing the man is on my priority list, and I can’t do that if I’m not feeling sexy. Because no matter what other people say, I truly believe that if you see yourself as desired and sexy, others will see you the same. And no one feels sexy when they’re gassy, let’s be honest.
I let out a loud sigh and move to the fridge. Liar, liar, pants on fire has some frozen meat. Pulling it out of the freezer, I pray that it was indeed purchased by Archie and not left here from Kayla and Justin’s escapade; otherwise, our dinner might turn into a very sad one. I can chop some simplified ratatouille since I brought so many veggies and cook it with meat.
After more digging, I discover a big pot that might be good for stewing, and I fill it with the needed ingredients. We’ll be able to eat for a couple of days.
The water in the bathroom stops. I stop too.
A few minutes later the door opens, followed by a gush of steam, and he steps out.
Shirtless.
Steps out of the bathroom shirtless. In a towel. A towel wrapped around his hips. Shirtless. Towel. Hips.
The chain with two dog tags is hanging from his corded neck, making his tattoos pop even more.
I always laughed at women who lost their ability to think when they saw a hot body.
Well, I am those women now. My brain completely checks out, and I swallow a very dry lump in my throat. An arid one. I’m suddenly very thirsty.
“Hey. Have you seen my bag?”
“Your bag?” I blink like a dummy, my eyes fixated on his torso.
“Yes,” he repeats slowly, “a bag. I had a bag this size,” he spreads his arms wide, “in the bathroom,” then he points at the cloud of steam, “over there.”
“Oh! The bag!” I smack my forehead a little too forcefully. “Ouch!” I exclaim. It brings me back to reality, and a low chuckle reminds me that I’m not alone in the room. “Yeah, bag.” I feel my cheeks heating up. “I moved it to the closet. Sorry. When I went to use the bathroom, I nearly fell over it, so I just, you know, moved it. Over there.” I point at the door. “In the closet.”
“Alright. You moved it? Where?”
“To the closet.” I point at the door again. “In the closet.”
“Over there?” He points the same way, and his right, very developed pectoralis jerks in response, making the dog tags click.
His nipple jerks too, and my eyes catch on the little rays of sunshine on his tattooed chest. Because yes, Archie has pierced nipples. Two shiny, golden rings. And yes, it is a dragon with its tail adorning his neck. It wraps around his front, hugged by dozens of other artful tattoos, the meaning of each I hope to find out.
His abdominal muscles are taut and ripped. It’s like someone painted those little grooves with a brush, so they’d look more pronounced.
“Leila, are you there?” His voice is low, and the chuckle at the end lets me know he’s having fun with this.
“Yes.” I blink twice again. “What?”
“Where did you move my bag?” he repeats and bites his lower lip. Specs of laughter twinkle in his dark eyes.
“In the closet,” I respond quietly, tucking my hair behind my ear and looking down, embarrassed.
“Over there?” He points again, clearly knowing exactly what he’s doing to me, and I narrow my eyes at the jerk, aware of the game he’s playing.
“No, over there.” I flip him off and march to the bathroom. My stew will be fine for a few minutes without me while I, myself, stew in my anger.
Loud laughter follows me, and I flip him off with my other hand too. Okay, now we’ve established that I’m a thirsty fuck around this man, and he knows it. We’re stuck here, and he just made it harder on the both of us. Well, I’ll make sure to make it harder on him too.
I turn the shower on, and…Dang it, are there any towels in here? I look under the vanity and don’t find any. They might be in the closet, because I haven’t seen any specially dedicated areas for linen.
I march back out and straight into the tiny closet.
And one person is already there. Standing naked. The towel pooled around his feet. His legs are almost fully inked, a humongous phoenix graces his back, wings spread over his shoulders. It touches the dragon’s tail, entwining together. I know for a fact that phoenix is Kayla’s design and is probably much newer than the dragon. It’s such a beautiful and tasteful piece of art, that I just stand there, admiring the view.
Until he bends over.
Then I get another view, but not less exciting. Archie is ginormous in more places than one. I can’t take my eyes off of him as I imagine his balls slapping against my ass with every thrust he makes, and I clear my throat because it’s suddenly the Sahara. No one could blame me for it.
He slowly turns to face me, his eyes finding mine. Soft, gray pants in hand, one brow arched in silent question. He’s not ashamed to be on full display. Why would he be? With a body and art like that? I’d be walking around Little Hope naked every day if I looked like him.
Naturally, my eyes dart down, but he covers the goods with his pants.
“Did you forget to look at something else?” he asks mockingly. His tongue pokes inside his cheek before a boyish grin stretches across his face.
I step forward, and his eyes widen. I stretch my arm toward him, and his throat moves in a rough swallow. I take another step, and he licks his lips. I grab a towel from the shelf beside his shoulder and walk backward.
“I’ve seen enough.” I give him a once over and click my tongue in disappointment before turning and retreating to the bathroom. A bark of laughter behind me warms my already heated heart.
I forgot my clothes in the closet. I took a towel, but no clothes. Just great. He’ll think I’m playing his game, but my copycat move makes me look stupid. I don’t have a choice, though; I’m not putting my dirty clothes back on, especially after our not so dry, dry humping session.
I wrap the towel around my torso, fluff my hair and throw it over my shoulder so it looks artfully disheveled, and step outside.
Archie sits on the sofa, his arms across his lap. Gray sweats and a black T-shirt cover most of his art, but his full sleeves are still on full display. Now that I know he has nipple piercings, I can clearly envision those golden rings under the thin material. His head leans against the back of the couch, and his one leg rests on the tiny coffee table.
His cheeks look sunken, his brows furrowed, and I instantly drop the idea of torturing him back—he looks too tired to deal with anything right now. So, I quietly slip into the closet, get my stuff, and move to the bathroom. He hasn’t opened his eyes in a moment, and his chest moves in a steady rhythm. I think he’s sleeping.
I sigh deeply, get dressed, and go to the kitchen. His eyes are still closed; he doesn’t stir. I check on the stew—it still has a good thirty minutes to go—so I grab my phone and go to the chair by the fireplace. No internet or Wi-Fi—I could use a good electronic detox—so I put the phone on the table, curl my feet under me, and focus my attention on the sleeping man in front of me.
He’s not having a pleasant dream, that I can tell for sure. His eyes move left and right with crazy speed under his eyelids, and his fist squeezes at his side. I consider waking him, but I don’t want him to know that I’m witnessing this—I remember Freya told me that Alex used to be embarrassed of his nightmares, and I don’t want Archie to feel the same, especially when he doesn’t have anywhere to go here.
But then his jaw shuts so tight, I’m sure he broke a tooth, and I can’t take it anymore. I jump from the chair and call his name, “Archie.”
No reaction. I repeat it louder, “Archie!”
Nothing.
I walk over to him and carefully touch his tight fist. His eyes fly open, and he propels forward so fast, pushing me back with so much force that I stumble back, barely catching myself in time to land on the coffee table and not the floor behind it.
“Leila?” he asks groggily. “Fuck, Leila! I’m sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry!”
His voice takes the British turn—he’s been taken by surprise, unsettled.
“That’s okay.” I force a smile, attempting to reassure him that it’s okay. Of course, it’s all fruitless considering he’s intent on finding reasons for self-loathing. He’s just like my brother who loves doing that. I can see clear similarities.
“Okay?” he asks quietly. “Okay?” Louder this time. “It’s not fuckin’ okay! I knocked you down!”
“But you didn’t. I’m sitting on the table. I’m fine.” I give him a genuine smile because he will sense anything else.
“For fuck’s sake, Leila. Stop doing that. Please.”
“What?”
“This.” His hands come out in front of him. “Stop fuckin’ explaining everything I do. I knocked you down, and who the fuck knows what else I could have done to you.” He grabs his hair, pulling it. “I gotta fuckin’ go.”
He moves from the couch to the door, and I sprint after him, grabbing his hand as he’s nearly outside.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I pull on his arm, drawing his attention.
“Out of here. You’re not safe with me here.” He looks anywhere but at me.
“Oh, c’mon!” I roll my eyes. “Fucking look at me already!” I tug on his arm with all the strength I can muster, and he turns just enough to look at me. “You stop with this bullshit. I’ve seen it all my life with my father, then my brother, then another brother, and then guess what? Another brother! So give me a damn break!” I nearly yell and instantly catch myself for being so hysterical for no reason—voice of logic my ass, I wish Kenneth could see me now—so I take a deep breath, drop his arm, and take a step back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me while I go and use the restroom. I’ll be back in a moment, and I expect you sitting over there,” I point to the kitchen table, “waiting for me. Because I cooked us dinner, and we will be eating it.”
I raise a brow, inviting him to question my demand, but his pupils dilate and he nods, agreeing with me without a fight. Huh, interesting.
A few minutes later, I come back to two place settings set up on the table and Archie perched on the stool. Good boy.
I fill his plate with three times more food than mine and place it in front of him. He takes the fork and carefully tastes it.
I see the exact moment it hits his taste buds because he digs into the stew with the intensity of a starving man. I push the bowl of salad toward him, and he lifts a hefty portion onto his plate. I smile inwardly, counting it as a small win—better this than a glass of bourbon. He can have that when I’m not here, but with me, he’ll get the right nutrition. Well, as much as I can get him from our small pantry.
When our plates are clean, Archie surprises the crap out of me by taking both of them to the sink and washing them before walking back to me and placing a kiss on the top of my head with a quiet “thank you.” And when I say “surprised the crap out of me,” I mean it—an unexpected tear escapes my usually dry eyes and sneaks down my cheek. I sniffle from the sudden burst of overwhelming emotion in my chest and go to get some water from the fridge just to make myself busy.
I think Archie is uncomfortable too, because he goes back to the small couch and sits. It’s not like we have a TV or the use of our phones for mindless games. I have my laptop with me, but I’d prefer not to use it—I kind of enjoy this rustic vibe going on. I’ve seen a few books on the small shelf by the bed, and I think it could be a good time to relax. So that’s what I do: I go to check what we have.
The shelf is practically on the floor, so I bend over to check the titles.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” comes a low, growly voice behind me.
I slowly rise and turn around. Archie stands behind me, a piece of wood in his hand. I bet he was ready to feed the fire as I decided to grab a book.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I look down at myself. I don’t know what got his panties in a twist. I’m wearing a big hoodie over a cami and shorts.
“This freakin’ thing.” He points at my shorts.
“This?” I look down again, just to make sure I’m not standing here in my underwear. “They are shorts.”
“They’re not!” His neck reddens a little as he grips the firewood tighter.
“They are,” I repeat stubbornly, blood boiling at his stupid antics.
“Don’t you have normal pants or something?”
“They’re shorts!”
“They’re fucking panties; they don’t even cover your ass.”
“Don’t look at my ass,” I nearly hiss, mad at him for being a hypocrite as he walks around, assets on full display.
“I can’t not look,” he takes two steps forward, now standing right in front of me, “when you’re flaunting it right into my face.”
“My ass was very far from your face. Maybe you’re just having a hard time staying away?” I take a step toward him, and now we’re a foot apart. I’m expecting a joke, but his eyes darken as he leans closer.
“Maybe I am.” His voice is a low grumble. And promising. Very promising.
“Is it really that hard?” I ask on an exhale.
“Very.” He swallows. “Very hard.”
“Then don’t.” I move, so we are flush against each other. “Don’t stay away.”
His face drops to mine, and he takes a deep breath. His mouth falls open like he’s enjoying the scent, and his lips land on my temple.
“Your skin is so soft.”
“Yeah” is all I can manage; I’m too focused on the anticipation of his next move. Archie is unpredictable. And I love that.
He gives my temple another gentle kiss and goes to step backward when I grab his shirt and lift to my tippytoes.
“Stop pussying around,” I whisper into his mouth. “We both know we’re gonna end up fucking here like rabbits. Why waste time?”
He pulls his head back and looks into my eyes. Really looks. Deep. Searching for something that will determine the course of the next few days.
“It would be a shame to waste it,” he finally says. His voice sounds predatory. Forewarning. Mouthwatering.
“We shouldn’t,” I agree quickly; I’ve been dreaming about this since the moment I met him—the mysterious, dangerous man on the bridge that night.
His face stretches in the broad grin of a cat who just ate the canary. Taking off his shirt, he drops it to the floor. My eyes move up his body, taking in his gray sweats that hide nothing, up to his tattooed chest and the dog tags he keeps on.
His smile turns wicked, and he lunges at me.
