Tied (All Torn Up 2)

Warped is the only word that describes a child being raised by a television. How she isn’t completely fucked up is a miracle in itself. Yeah, she’s innocent and naïve in a lot of ways, but she’s got a good idea of what’s right and wrong, and she knows what she wants. The more I learn about her, the more I admire her.

And the more I want her.

“What is this?”

I rip my stare from the fireplace, which often mesmerizes me with unwanted memories of flames and burning flesh, to find her fingering a throw blanket draped over the chair she’s sitting in.

“It’s just a blanket.”

She lifts it and rubs it across her cheek, her eyes falling closed as she revels in the sensation, an act so intimate—almost sensual—that it makes my cock jump to a rock-hard state almost instantly.

What the fuck.

“It’s so soft!” She continues to torture me by rubbing it across the other side of her face, the fabric sliding across her lips. “It’s softer than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.”

“It’s plush or something,” I mumble, my brain short-circuiting as I watch her basically face-fuck a blanket my mother gave me.

“I love it.”

I stand uncomfortably and walk the few steps to the sink and put my mug in it, trying to distract myself from thoughts I shouldn’t be having about someone who is my only friend and I’d like to not lose or fuck up.

“I never had a blanket,” she says, her voice quavering with emotion. “I never had anything soft like this. I used my backpack as a pillow, and I had an old thin sheet. I didn’t know things like this…so incredibly soft and comforting existed…I don’t even have anything like this at my apartment, or at my parents’…”

I’m so glad I killed that douchebag.

And now I wish I was a blanket, my every fiber being slid over her body, taking in her warmth and curves, comforting her…

By the time I turn around, tears are falling down her cheeks and her hands are trembling, and it fucking guts me and fills me with guilt. I walk over and kneel in front of her and coax the dog out of her lap, and he immediately curls up at her feet. I grab the throw blanket, shake it open, and gently lay it over her.

“No crying here,” I say softly, reaching up to wipe her cheeks with the back of my tattooed hand. Not the badly scarred one. I won’t touch her beautiful face with my ugly flesh. I take her hand in mine and slide slowly it across the plush fabric of the blanket covering her leg. “Feel the fabric. They say texture helps ground you if you’re having an anxiety attack.”

Her eyes track our hands moving along the blanket, and she sniffs back her tears. “It does feel so good and soft.”

“This house…this is my only happy place,” I confess. “And it can be yours now, too.”

Nodding sleepily, she pulls the blanket up to her chin and leans her head back against the chair. “I need a happy place so bad, Ty. I love how soft and warm this is… it’s like magic,” she says as her eyes drift closed. “It makes me feel like you do… safe and weirdly good.”

She falls asleep snuggled up under the blanket, and I sit on the couch with her dog in my lap and try to pretend that having her in my house isn’t making me question my life of solitude.

I want her to be part of my groove.

She jolts awake when I open the door to let Boomer and Poppy outside and stares around in wide-eyed, open-mouthed confusion for a few seconds until she remembers where she is.

“Sorry,” I say when her eyes focus on me, still standing at the door waiting for the dogs to return. “Had to let them out.”

Sitting up straighter, she runs her hand through her hair. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. I’m so sorry. This blanket made me feel all woozy.” She rubs her eyes, looking so innocent and alluring that I just want to kiss her until our lips are numb. “I’m still trying to get used to only sleeping at night. Before…I slept whenever. My doctor says my inner clock might be confused for a while.”

My inner everything is confused. “You were comfy and sleepy. It’s okay to nap. Rest is good for mind and body, nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Isn’t it rude?” she asks. “To do it in someone else’s house?”

“Not at all. I want you to feel comfortable here.”

“I do. More than I do anywhere else. It really is my happy place.”

She may have been comfortable physically, but the way she twitched and whimpered during her nap made it clear she wasn’t comfortable mentally. Dreams were torturing her—maybe from her past, maybe from her present. I was equally tortured wondering how she would’ve reacted if I had carried her to the couch and let her nap in my arms, under the blanket together.