Wandering in a house that isn’t yours at night time is a strange experience. Night already distorts everything, and not knowing where everything is just makes it feel like wandering about a magic fun house in the dark.
I make it to the kitchen; it’s a giant expanse of drawers, appliances, and ovens and stoves. I haven’t seen Matthias cook here once, but maybe when he’s not busy chaperoning me at the club, he cooks up a storm for himself and… whoever else.
Tar fills my stomach.
I hate the thought that he’s with someone else. I fucking hate it.
And I shouldn’t, but I do.
How I fell into this predicament I don’t know.
Matthias is smooth, too smooth, everything he says comes with a smirk behind it. What made me think it was any different with me? Who the fuck do I think I am?
My stomach rumbles in the silence and I shuffle over to the fridge, opening it to see a full fridge with ingredients for sandwiches or simple meals.
Great.
Except I can’t cook for shit.
Maybe a glass of warm milk, then?
I grab the jug of milk and go looking for a mug.
I’m impressed by the layout of the kitchen; everything is stored intuitively. Everything is exactly where you think it should be.
I find the drink ware cupboard and pick a porcelain cup with a pretty wildflower pattern on it. I press a minute on the microwave and watch my milk make its first turn on the glass plate.
Despite the not-yet-feeling-like-home surroundings, the small domestic task warms me, and I hum under my breath as I walk back to the fridge to put the milk away, a little swing in my step.
But when I turn back to the fridge to put the milk jug away, a dark figure emerges out of the shadows.
“Hi, Clarissa.”
Chapter 21
MATTHIAS
H
er scream pierces my eardrum and I wince as she freezes, the milk jug slipping out of her hands. We both watch as it falls in slow motion, crashing on the floor, the thick white liquid
spreading all over the floor.
“Nice,” I say.
She clasps her chest and takes a few deep breaths before she gasps, “What-”
“-am I doing here?” I feel the corners of my mouth twitch. “Really? Even in my house?”
Her eyes narrow, a coldness creeping in that wasn’t there before. It makes me instantly regretful that I’d scared her. I just hadn’t been able to wait any longer. I’d just walked into my apartment when I saw her come down the stairs and watched as she’d wandered around my kitchen, seeing her slowly relax, feeling more at home. The soft humming had been my undoing.
The humming, the little sway of her ass, it was all the reason I’d come back.
To see her, to hear her…
To feel her.
Taste her.
It takes everything I have not to grab her and take her right now. It might seem like a natural end to three torturous days of missing her, of fantasizing about her, of deciding that I was going to say ‘fuck it’ to all the things I think I should feel for her, but I have no idea where her feelings are.
The coldness grows into a scowl that stretches over the entirety of her face. It seems like an overreaction to scaring her.
“Oh, it’s your house now?” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I thought it was just somewhere you stashed your fake fiancee.”
She pushes past me, her body warm through the silk robe she’s wearing. My mouth waters, wondering if she’s naked underneath. And arousal rushes down to my groin.
My hand grabs around her forearm, holding her in place.
“What are you talking about? Why are you mad at me, Rissie?” My voice is low as I lean in to whisper against her ear. “What did I do now?”
Her jaw tightens, her cheeks twitching with anger. Under my touch, her arm flexes, ripples. “I guess we didn’t make a rule about you fucking around. I just thought you could act like a fucking human.”
I feel the molten arousal ice over, temporarily held back from erupting over and consuming us both in a fiery inferno from which neither of us will emerge in one piece.
“You’re going to need to be clearer; what are you implying?” My voice is tinged with an undercurrent of warning. I don’t take kindly to be accused of something I haven’t done. That’s why I live as brutally honestly as I can. People aren’t used to the truth, having been living in a fog of lies their whole lives.
That’s not me. If she wants to blame me for something, she better tell me what it is she thinks I’ve done.
She shrugs, like she doesn’t know that she’s skirting dangerously close to crossing the line with me. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to take the first plane to fuck knows where, if you want to have a ‘guest’ here. I would’ve happily gone somewhere else, you’re the one who wanted me to move here, remember?”
“What. Guest? Spit it out, Clarissa.”
She squares her shoulders and stares me down. “I’m talking about you. Fucking. Next. Door. To. Your. Fiancee’s. Bedroom.” She’s fucking mad.
“When do you think I did that? Because it’s news to me, Clarissa.”
For the first time, she stumbles. Maybe she expected me to confess to this imagined slight against her, but I’m not taking any flack for something I didn’t do.
“The other night. Before you left. When I knocked on your door, you took a while to answer and when you finally did, you were panting, and you barely opened the door.” Hurt taints her voice, and I want to clasp my hands over my ears. This is not how I want to hear her.
“I was naked, Rissie!” I shout.