Page 26 of Keep Me

“Goddamn,” comes a hushed curse along with the soft rustle of fabric. I listen to his receding footsteps next, sinking back into my bed, but there’s a lingering, nagging sense of restlessness. Like the game ended but I don’t know the final score.

I don’t let myself overthink, slipping out of bed and throwing on an oversized sleeping shirt. I walk out to the kitchen, passing Roan on the couch. He’s lying with his back to me, but there’s an unnatural stiffness to how he’s positioned under a blanket, like he’s trying to be as still as possible to convince me he’s sleeping, but instead it just makes him seem more alert. Not that I’d believe he’d fallen asleep in the two minutes since he left my door.

I grab a cup from the cabinet and then press the ice machine on the fridge door. The loud clattering of ice into glass prattles into the quiet space, and I see Roan shift out of the corner of my eye.

“Do you mind? Some of us are sleeping,” he grumbles, his voice scratchy and thick.

“No you’re not.” I smirk to myself, then continue to fill up my glass with water. If he has a snarky comeback for that, he keeps it to himself.

I shuffle back past him toward my room, chuckling while saying softly under my breath, “Goodnight, mentiroso.”

Roan

Mentiroso.

The little menace knew exactly what she was doing. Playing with me, teasing me, getting off on how far she could push me. I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and when I was done, I heard the unmistakable vibrating sound. I told myself I was checking on her safety as I crept toward her door, that I needed to confirm what I thought it was. But the second I put my ear to the door and heard the intoxicating sound of her stifling a moan, I knew I wouldn’t be able to walk away. Especially with the hard-on that was now raging in my sweatpants. I’d have to get rid of it one way or another, so I stayed.

I listened to her work herself up, only for the vibrator to die. I knew because the groan she let out was not one of release but frustration. But then she started again, and the picture I imagined of her fucking herself on her fingers, keening, back arching, was like fireworks behind my eyelids. The best fucking show, and I couldn’t even see it.

Her moans were no longer clipped and bitten off. Instead she lets them pour out of her. Each one was a hit of the strongest drug. Her pleasure, her body, her fucking irritatingly fierce and stubborn attitude. I wanted to fuck it out of her as much as I wanted to fuck her because of it. I punched my hips, slamming my cock through the circle of my hand imagining it was her hot, dripping cunt.

I pictured my hand wrapping around her throat as I pounded into her, the rosary tattoo a sinful reminder of who’s really in control. Because the truth of it is, her no-touching rule only works because I allow it. If I wanted to, there is nothing that could stop me from fucking her bloody.

I suspected she knew I was there, and she confirmed it when she got a cup of water. Mentiroso. Liar.

And maybe I am. Because right now, as I’m cooking breakfast, I can’t stop envisioning her. Walking in, tousled from sleep, shoving her against the counter and taking what I’m owed. And fuck do I want her. It’s like fire in my veins.

I’m plating my eggs when she finally rolls out of bed. I hear her lazy shuffle down the hall and have to actively remind myself to release the tension her presence causes. She rounds the corner into the kitchen, and my grip tightens on my plate. “Go back in there and put on some fucking pants,” I bite out, her bare legs on display under an oversized black tee that doesn’t hang much past her hips.

“Why? Does it bother you?” She rests a hip on the butcher block, and unbidden memories of her bent over it flash in my mind. I bite my inner lip hard, hoping it will abate the swelling of my dick at the sight of all her bare skin. I can’t help but imagine what her thighs would look like with my fingerprints bruised into them.

My knuckles whiten around my plate. I’m going to smash it if I don’t set it down on the island next to her. So I do, then lean forward and grip the edge of the counter with both hands, needing something to hold and squeeze to stop myself from reaching for her, bending her over and finding out what she’s really wearing under that shirt. She plucks a piece of bacon off the plate and snaps it between her teeth. She cocks a brow at my lack of protest. When I don’t do anything but silently seethe, she picks up the whole plate with a smug smile. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Fine. It’s fine, I tell myself as I stomp over to the fridge and get all the ingredients back out. I crack four eggs into a bowl and start whisking them together with maybe a little too much vigor.

“Okay, Hulk, don’t go breaking my shit because you can’t control your emotions.” Reggie rotates in the dining chair to sneer at me. She’s goading me, I know she is, but that doesn’t make it any easier to ignore her taunt.

“Once I’m done making breakfast—again—we’re going to the farm so Finn can look at the phone.” I keep my back to her, focusing on the stove in front of me.

“What’s the farm?”

“Just be ready. That means pants.”

Her hand is out the window, rolling with the wind as we speed down the country roads, her fingers tapping air along with the music coming from the car’s stereo. I can’t help stealing glances at her under the cover of my sunglasses. I know we’re close when a patch of sunflowers breaks up the seemingly never-ending stretch of pastures.

“Your brother lives here?” she asks incredulously as we pull into the gravel lot past the sign welcoming us to Bartlett Farms. “He seems more like the evil lair type of guy than…” She takes in the big farmhouse and rustic barn complete with an old, rusty Chevy truck out front. “...This.” She doesn’t say it in a demeaning way, more like she’s intrigued and maybe even finds the place endearing.

I park by the truck, my car looking like a child’s Hot Wheels toy next to it. We get out, and I lead us to their barn-loft-turned-apartment. I let myself in and Reggie follows, looking around at the high, wooden beams and eclectic decor with appreciation.

“Finn?” I call out, but get no response. My hand instinctively goes to the gun in my waistband. She notices the movement and I see her tense, subtly angling herself behind me. And there’s something about the movement that makes my chest warm. Something I don’t quite understand, but it feels a little like pride. Or maybe gratitude that she’s finally seeing me as a protector, not an opponent.

“They’re probably in the studio.” There’s no signs of a break-in or conflict. That aside, my brother and his wife can handle themselves. She returned the last man that crossed her to her father, the Don, after Finn flayed the skin off his hand.

Reggie follows me back outside, her tension loosening the more she sees me unbothered. Effie’s painting studio is down a short path that winds through the woods surrounding the property. I don’t see them through the window as we approach, and I start to get irritated that Finn had me drive all the way out here when he isn’t even here. The fucker.

I push the door open just to confirm and—

“Jesus, fuck, Finn!” I shout, and Reggie giggles behind me as my brother and his wife scramble to cover themselves in the compromising position we found them in on a canvas laid out on the floor. I try not to look as I shove both of us back out the door, slamming it behind me. Unfortunately, it’s not before I see—against my will—paint in places it should never be.

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