His blue eyes burned. “You want more?”
I nodded fast.
“I don’t have a condom with me, Story,” he said, sounding suspicious, but more than that, greedy.
“What about the one in your wallet you’ve had since you were twelve?” I asked. “You know, just in case you got lucky?”
Something dark flashed in his eyes, and I was sure I was dead.
“Jokes?” He growled, pushing more. “You’re fucking joking?” But he didn’t sound mad. He sounded as desperate as I was.
I should’ve pushed him off right then. I wasn’t on birth control, after all. “More.”
He groaned, a broken, rocky sound.
“When I fuck you, Story—really fuck you—you’re mine.” His voice was rough, darker than anything I’d ever heard. “I’m not letting you go. Ever.”
“What?” I gasped, face contracting. “But…that wasn’t…you said you would let me go.”
He shoved me off. My legs were weak, and I stumbled into the wall, letting myself fall to the floor. He towered above me, looking every bit the mythical man magazines and blogs made him out to be. His dick jutted out from his tuxedo pants, thick, veiny, beautiful. Loosely unbuttoned dress shirt giving me a view of abs carved with slick sweat.
The boy. The legend. The god.
Through it all, his eyes blazed—on me. Darting back and forth from my face to between my legs. I moved to close my thighs, but a single twerk of his jaw stopped me.
I must have looked a mess, clothes ripped and naked, but the way he watched me had me feeling like a goddess. He bent down between my legs with that casual, entitled grace I’d come to expect from Grayson.
Close your legs, idiot, some distant self-preservation screamed in my head.
“You said you would let me go…You said all you needed was sex. You said—”
I broke off on a jagged, rocky sound, as he pressed two fingers between my legs, cleaning up all the wetness, all of us. His eyes focused on mine. Then he stood.
Licked his fingers. “Game’s changed.”
He left, leaving me to ruminate on the fact that he’d said not if I fuck you, but when.
Thirty-Nine
STORY
* * *
I’d always read that soulmates were beautiful, pretty things. They fixed you, made you whole. But that doesn’t make sense to me. Souls are ugly, twisted, and dark.
It makes sense when you finally found yours, the torture is equal to what lurks inside.
“Storybook,” my uncle’s voice lifted me from the floor, the very same spot I haven’t moved from since last night. In a panic, I scrambled to find clothes and change out of the dress Grayson had ripped and ruined.
“Storybook, are you still here?” His voice grew closer.
“I…uh…yeah, one second.” I grabbed one of Grayson’s sweatshirts and a pair of sweats, hoping he didn’t notice, hoping I could change before Grayson got back. I wasn’t sure where Grayson was, but he wasn’t there when I woke, and he didn’t come to me in the night.
“There you are.” My uncle’s bright, smiling face appeared. In his one-toned gray suit and closely cropped white curls. “Want to help me clean? Like old times?”
“Sure…” His kindness was off-putting. He’s been sure to be cold, like everyone else. To let me know how little he approves of what I’m doing.
We cleaned in silence, dusting Grayson’s sparse furniture, polishing what needed to be polished. I keep waiting for a lecture, something.