“Do you plan to tell me the real reason you came looking for me?”
Surprise flashes on her face, and she slides forward until she wraps her sweet little body around mine. Her ass on the step brings her to the perfect position for me to slide into her when she is wrapped around me, and I do just that. Her head drops back, but her hands stay glued to me.
“No. Not at all,” she says. It’s then I notice marks on her neck. My hand touches the bruises, and she flinches but doesn’t stop moving, sliding up and down my cock. Rochelle leans forward, her head coming into the crook of my neck, so I can no longer see her bruises, and she holds onto me tightly.
I grip on, lifting her and letting her move. She needs this more than I do right now. Usually, it’s me needy with lust for her, but tonight it’s all about her.
“You can have me,” I tell her.
She shifts her hand to cover my mouth and doesn’t stop moving. I can see her eyes vividly now, and hurt is evident in them, as she leans forward and bites her hand that covers my mouth as she comes. Then she slides off of me, and slides backward, putting distance between us.
“I can’t really have you, though, can I?” Rochelle stands and walks back to the house, closing the door behind her. Getting out quickly, I follow her. She’s already in my bed when I step into the room, her eyes are open as she lays there.
“What?” I ask her.
“I had another man’s hands around my throat today. He told me I would taste sweeter than Tanika. How would he know that?”
I freeze at her words. What the fuck!
“Rochelle.”
“Why are you calling me that?” Her eyebrows are pinched together.
“It’s your name.”
“Not for you, it isn’t.” And she’s right, but I don’t tell her that.
“Do you know this man?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“How?”
Rochelle moves and pulls the blanket up to her chin. “He’s a client. A private one of Martin’s who I bumped into.” She pauses. “I don’t want to talk about this. I want to go to sleep.”
“I have to work tonight, Rochelle.”
“I’ll just go to sleep, then.” And she does, turning to give me her back and closing her eyes.
Walking out of the bedroom, I get dressed and go straight back to Blaze.
“Rochelle knows who he is,” I tell him.
Blaze pauses his hand, which is up some girl’s skirt, and turns to me. “What?”
“He threatened Rochelle. Told her she would taste sweeter than Tanika.”
Blaze stands fast, the girl on his lap falling to the floor.
“Who the fuck is he?” he growls.
I smirk. “We’re about to find out.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rochelle
Marcus doesn’t come back, and my sleep is awful. On and off I doze, never falling into a deep sleep. Those frightening eyes of Dave’s stare at me, scare me, and then there’s the dreams which consume me of that bastard touching her, of him hurting her.
When I pull myself out of bed, I feel worse than when I climbed into it. And Marcus isn’t here to help me.
I should have said something to him last night, about the blonde. But I realized I needed him more than knowing what happened between them. So, I took him to remind him he has me, and I lost myself in his touch as I always do.
I love him based on kisses and lies.
Climbing out of his bed, I go into his closet, it’s neat just like everything else in his house. He’s always so clean. Everything’s always so perfect. My hands grip on a neat pile of clothes, and I tear them down, tearing and ripping until it’s not so perfect anymore. Not everything can be perfect. Sometimes you have to tear things down to build them back up.
“Do you plan on redecorating my whole room?” I jump, startled by his voice, and turn to find him and Blaze standing in the doorway. All I have on is a tank top and panties, but I don’t care.
“Maybe,” I say, looking between them.
“We have someone we want you to meet,” Blaze says, then walks away.
Marcus continues to stand there, eyeing me. “You need to get dressed first and tie your hair up in a bun.”
“Why?”
“Do the hair first, so it doesn’t get on anything.”
I sigh and do as he says—I’m on autopilot. A part of me knows the old me wouldn’t take orders from Marcus like this, but I can’t help myself. Once my hair’s in a bun, I reach for my clothes, pulling them on.
“Is there a reason you were tearing my closet apart?”
It’s been months now, months since we’ve been together, and I haven’t asked for more.
He hasn’t offered it either.
We are stagnant, going nowhere fast.
“No,” I lie.
“Okay,” he says, taking my answer as he usually does. There are times when he questions me, but it’s never for too long, and then he gives up or doesn’t care. I don’t know which one is worse.