Page 88 of Bound By Words

Technically, the last one wasn’t true; we’d only made out on the kitchen island, but I was enjoying the shock factor.

“Such a naughty girl,” Nathan laughed as he pocketed my phone, reaching down to help me out of the driver’s seat. “But you shouldn’t lie to people. Even if it is funny.”

“Well, in my imagination, you pushed me up against the island with your knife against my neck and fucked the life out of me during that storm, so it wasn’t completely a lie. It was just a blurring of the lines between fiction and reality.”

His eyes widened as he pulled me closer, growling in my ear. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about this fantasy of yours while we were there?”

I pushed back with my hand in the center of his chest. “Because the box of supplies distracted me, then you made me come so hard I forgot until now.”

“Fuck,” he sighed, rubbing his hand down his face before he leaned forward, kissing me firmly, one hand pressing into the center of my back.

“That’s the idea,” I whispered as I pushed up to my toes once he broke the kiss, nipping at his earlobe. He groaned, spinning me away from the car and slamming the door, picking me up, carrying me to the back of the vehicle, and setting me on the trunk.

“What are you doing?” I giggled, running my hands through his hair as his palms settled on either side of my thighs.

“Fighting the urge to bend you over this car and rip off those pink panties I saw you wiggle into this morning.”

He kissed me again, plunging his tongue into my mouth.

“Take me home,” I whispered against his lips as I pushed him back, hopping off the back of the car.

He helped me transfer my bags to the Bronco double-parked behind Evan’s car and insisted on escorting me up to the condo to return the extra key. I wasn’t sure I’d see my brother before I left Boston, so I didn’t want him to freak out, thinking I had lost his precious car key.

Nathan was quiet as he drove across the city, pulling into a parking garage attached to what looked like an old refurbished brick factory. The architecture was similar to what I was surrounded by in Chicago, tall skyscrapers mixed with older industrial buildings, but there was something palpably different about it. The buildings here were older, the history ran deeper, and I felt melancholy that I’d leave in a few weeks.

“You ready?” he asked as he shouldered his duffel bag, pulling the larger of my suitcases behind him into the old industrial elevator next to the parking structure. He pulled down the metal cage, pushed a few buttons on the vintage control panel, and the pulley system engaged. We ascended, and I kissed his shoulder as he grasped my hand, squeezing tightly before the elevator stopped.

Somehow, I’d pictured him in a place like this. Old architecture, rustic building. It just fit him. I couldn’t see him in a modern high-rise or a condo like mine. As his arms flexed while he was pulling up the gate, leaning backward to yank the heavy metal door to the hallway open, I watched him, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders.

“Thank you for showing me your home,” I murmured as he led me into the hallway, stopping at a large wooden door.

“You’ll always be welcome here,” he responded, kissing my cheek as he reached into his pocket for his keys.

My nerves resurfaced as he unlocked the door, pushing it open and wheeling my suitcase inside. He dropped his duffel on the floor next to it and extended his hand toward where I was frozen in the doorway.

This moment felt significant, somehow, like he was inviting me inside his world, and my fingers shook as I reached for him, clasping his hand tightly. How could I ever think about leaving him to return to my real life? Being with him felt more real than going home to an empty condo and a career in shambles.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked as he led me into the open-plan apartment, the walls a dark red rustic brick mixed with wood elements I somehow instinctively knew he’d put in place himself.

A small U-shaped kitchen with a tiny island was off to the right, and a single barstool was pushed beneath the countertop’s overhang.

“Yeah,” I cleared my throat.

“You nervous, sunshine?” he grinned as he walked toward me, leaning down to kiss the side of my neck as the sound of metal scraping against concrete sounded behind him. “Take a seat. I can make you a snack if you’re hungry.”

I perched myself on the stool, tapping my fingers on the repurposed wood countertop on the island, watching him move around his kitchen with ease. He pulled a bottle of wine from a rack mounted above the long wooden shelves that served as his non-traditional cabinet space.

Shaking my head, I responded. “No. I’m good, but you go ahead if you want to.” The week we’d spent in Connecticut had halted my stress drinking habit, and I didn’t want to revert to old vices. Despite how scared I was with the threats hanging over my head, I wanted to enjoy the time left with Nathan. Going back to Chicago and facing things there was pushed to the back of my mind, along with Trent’s volatile behavior. Nathan made me feel safe, so I would focus on that instead.

Drinking would diminish my senses, and I wanted to remember my time here with vivid clarity. Commit every little detail to memory so I could picture him here when we were apart.

“Water? Sports drink?” he asked as he opened the refrigerator. “You need to rehydrate after all that coffee you drank this morning.”

“Coffee has water in it,” I laughed, watching as he turned his head and scowled at me.

“Don’t start with me on that bullshit,” he growled. “If you want me to give you orgasms, you need to stay hydrated.”

“You’ll withhold orgasms if I don’t drink water?” I laughed as he thrust a bottle in my direction.

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