Page 45 of Obey

I know Harry’s type. I bet she graduated with something fru-fru from college just to say she has a degree and is taking time out to find herself, to Eat, Pray, Love herself all on Dad’s dime.

Girls like her don’t get together with guys like me.

And even if they did, I don’t do vanilla.

Except... Maybe I had forgotten what really good vanilla tastes like. The pure stuff, the quality stuff, made from the most exceptional vanilla beans planet earth has to offer. And now, fuck. Vanilla might be my favorite flavor of them all.

We’re both quiet during dinner. It’s not abnormal for me, but the fact Ms. Chatterbox is quiet concerns me. Is she having regrets? Is she dropping? Is there a tug of shame in her veins for having done something “dirty”?

As we head back up to the bedroom in the elevator, the air is thick with tension and unspoken words. My gut tells me she wants space, but it’s contradicting everything in my body to pick her up and hold her until whatever’s going through her mind slows down and fucks all-the-way off.

It feels like longer than a day since we met on the plane, it feels like weeks. I’m not used to someone being in my space like this, or feelings escaping from the box of the great beyond I’ve kept well-guarded in my chest. And for good reason. Having feelings is dangerous, and as much as I don’t mind being grumpy and mysterious, I don’t tend to take unnecessary risks.

Talia is an unnecessary risk. And while she’s currently full of that liberated feeling of fierce independence, Harry always gets what he wants. And from the sounds of that phone call, he wants her. He won’t let up until he gets her.

Clearing my throat seems to startle her from her thoughts. She jumps as she turns to me.

“You need anything?”

She shakes her head, curling her arms across her body. “I’m good. Thanks.”

It doesn’t feel good, but if she says she’s good, I need to be able to trust her. Communication is key in kink, and if she says she’s fine, I need to believe it.

“I’m going to do some reading then turn in for the night.” I gesture at the sofa which is probably half my size. It’s comical,but after our scene earlier, she needs her rest and she won’t get that tossing and turning on a beat up old sofa-bed.

I open my backpack, but my book isn’t there. It’s not in the living space, or next to the bed, it’s not next to the now empty bottles of water. Where the fuck is it?

It appears in my periphery, attached to the daintiest little hand compared to my enormous ones. “You left it in the bathroom.” She says this like she’s been picking up after me for years, there’s a weary sarcasm leveling her tone that almost makes me smile. Almost.

She changes into her grandpa pjs and climbs into bed leaving the lamp on. She rolls on her side to face the wall. There’s plenty of space in the bed, and I can almost hear her teeth chattering from across the wall, but I’m not violating her airspace without permission. No matter how badly I want to.

I don’t know how long I’m lost in my book, but a slap on the bedspread draws my attention back to the bed.

“Oh!” Her indignation seems to deflate like the puffy blanket she pummeled. “You wear glasses?”

That much is clear by the fact they’re sitting on my face.

“Of course you do, that’s why you’re wearing them.”

I arch an eyebrow. If I wasn’t needed for this conversation she could have left me to my book.

“The couch is creaky. You’re making so much noise I can’t sleep.”

To be honest, I’d tuned it out when I got sucked into this police procedural. But I guess now that she’s mentioned it, even when I breathe the damn thing makes a squeak under my ass.

I slide off the edge onto the floor. It’ll probably be more comfortable down here anyway.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Not making noise?”

She huffs out an audible breath, throwing back the covers. “That’s not what I meant.” She shuffles around the bed to me and thrusts her hand out.

I look at her hand, then at her adorable scowly face. She won’t be able to pull me up from down here. I’m twice her size. But she’s being sweet so I let her try.

“What did you mean?”

She sweeps her hand at the bed. “There’s a whole half a bed over here.” She’s right, there is. But I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.

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