11
Aria
I wishI knew what to think about him.
On the one hand, I know who he is, and I know what he’s capable of. I’ve seen it with my own eyes and should be terrified of him. I should cringe when he touches me.
On the other hand, I don’t cringe when he touches me. I want more. He sets me on fire without hardly having to try. He makes things I would never imagine doing seem like a normal, reasonable thing. Like fucking in an alley. Who does that? Since when do I?
So maybe it’s me I need to figure out, not Knox. He’s never pretended to be somebody he’s not. He’s never lied to me. What I see is what I get. And what I get is the most ridiculously hot sex anybody’s ever had.
No. It’s more than that. For the first time in my entire life, I get to feel like somebody wants me for me. He wants to protect me because he thinks I’m worth protecting. Not because I’ll win a championship. Not because if I keep working hard, I’ll earn a free ride to college. I don’t have to do anything or give him anything in exchange. I only have to be.
Which is completely fucking bizarre and almost impossible to believe.
“You’re all dirty,” he announces once we’re in the house, where everything’s just the way I left it before running out for the bus. Like he got here and immediately ran out again.
“Yeah. Somebody had me up against a dingy brick wall a little while ago.” And here I am, joking about it. Teasing. He’s unlocked something in me. Something that craves him—who he is, how he does things.
Which is why I don’t hesitate when he beckons me from the foot of the stairs. Why I follow him up with my heart pounding. It's not pounding in fear, though, more like anticipation. I know that no matter what, he won’t hurt me. Not really.
He leads me to the bathroom, where he turns on the taps before putting the stopper in place. He’s running a bath. When he turns to me, he’s gentle as he strips me of one piece of clothing at a time. There’s nothing sexual about it, not really, and I honestly don’t know if I’m glad of that or not. Now that I know how it feels to have him inside me, that’s all I want—to be joined with him that way, one person instead of two.
I’m either a degenerate sex maniac or a hopeless romantic. Either way, I think I need to get myself under control before Knox gets me into real trouble.
I slide into the tub once it’s half-filled, wincing at first at the heat of the water. It doesn’t take long to adjust to it, though, and by the time I’m settled back against the rear of the tub, my muscles have already loosened. Steam billows up around me, so thick it’s almost like a curtain between Knox and me.
Instead of leaving me alone the way he did last night, he kneels next to the tub. I watch him with my heart in my throat, biting my lip. What’s he going to do now? That uncertainty is a little scary, but even more so, it’s exciting—not being able to predict what he’s going to do.
He reaches for the washcloth he draped over the side of the tub, then dunks it into the water. I watch in fascination as he soaps the cloth up, making it sudsy, before lifting my arm by the wrist and sliding the cloth over it.
This is all he wants to do? To wash me? The way he approaches his work is enough to soften my heart even more. He’s so serious yet so gentle at the same time. Like this is important to him, and he wants to get it right. I can hardly believe anybody would be this good to me, but especially someone who’s practically a stranger.
Sure, we’ve had sex, but strangers can do that and still be strangers once they’re finished. The fact is, we’ve only known each other this well for twenty-four hours, no matter how much it feels otherwise.
Once my arm is washed, he moves to the other one. I only do as he asks, easing into the sensation of being cared for. Being cherished. Like I’m something special. Like he cares about me that much. Can that be possible? I want to ask, but I wouldn’t know how to get the words out. Besides, he’s all wrapped up in what he’s doing. I don’t want to distract him.
He doesn’t even get sexy when he moves between my legs, where I’m still sore from our fun in the alley. On second thought, I’m glad he doesn’t want more than this. Even though it was a lot of fun, I don’t know if I could handle him again this soon. Maybe in time, once I’m used to him—his size, his piercing, his roughness, all of it—I’ll be able to handle it more than once a night.
Holy shit, what am I thinking? Am I actually considering a future with him? Is that a smart thing to do? No, I don’t think he would ever hurt me, but what if somebody hurts him? He lives a dangerous life. I might end up getting hurt anyway, without him laying a hand on me.
Once he decides I’m clean enough, he helps me stand in the tub before getting a big, thick bath sheet to wrap around me. He even insists on drying me off with gentle, smooth strokes against my skin. It’s amazing how gentle he can be compared to the way he was when we were having sex. Again, I can’t help but think of him as having two personalities. I like this one better.
Though I sure liked the other one earlier, didn’t I? I came so hard, I saw stars.
“Are you hungry?” I nod eagerly, having not eaten since breakfast. “Why don’t you get dressed and meet me downstairs? I’ll fix us something.” I nod with a lump in my throat. He’s so sweet, so thoughtful. I’m starting to believe he really was worried about me when he got home and found me gone. It wasn’t only that I disobeyed him. He was genuinely afraid something bad might’ve happened.
That’s still running through my head as I get dressed and head downstairs. He’s already waiting for me in the living room with a plate of cheese, fruit, meats, and bread placed on the coffee table.
“I meant to compliment you on all the food in the fridge. You really know how to stock a kitchen.” I take a seat, pulling my legs under me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so cozy.
“I like to eat well. Why do you think I love going to Rigatoni’s so much?” He flashes a brief, warm smile. “When we’d have big family dinners, this was always my favorite part. I keep stuff around for when I want a quick meal. What would you like?”
“Some of that cheese would be nice. Is it cheddar?”
“Aged Irish cheddar.” He cuts off a small piece, but instead of handing it to me, he holds it up to my mouth. I realize he’s not joking, so I part my lips and let him slide the cheese between them. It’s delicious—smooth, creamy, nutty.
My eyes close as the flavors play over my tongue. “That’s incredible.”