Page 60 of Ruling Scar
Lennie
I’m not sleeping naked in Elijah’s bed. But he really doesn’t believe in comfy clothes. I rummage through his dresser, everything perfectly folded, until I finally find a gigantic gray T-shirt and shrug it on.
My options for underwear are limited. I’m not interested in putting on a pair of his briefs and there aren’t sleep shorts or sweatpants.
I brush my teeth, lock the bedroom door again, and slip into the left side of the bed which looks like the spot less used.
The TV plays in the next room, but I shove my face into a pillow catching a hint of cinnamon and cloves.
A while later, the bastard works the lock. The door rams into something and Albert’s nails click against the floor as he pads inside.
“Really? You moved the chair in front of the door.” Elijah shoves his way in and passes into the bathroom where I have the pleasure of listening to him pee and brush his teeth.
Clothes rustle and I hide in the covers when he walks back in.
“Elijah!” I squeak.
“What?” he asks innocently. “I told you this is a pajama free household.”
I swear he takes his time, walking around the bed, before pushing the duvet back and sliding in.
I scoot toward the edge.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he promises in the dark.
I shove a pillow in between us.
“You know one of these days you’ll ask me to touch you.”
“In your dreams.”
“Those are constant.”
I whack him with a pillow.
“I’m guessing you’re uninterested in a goodnight kiss?”
“Very.”
“What are your opinions on somnophilia?”
I’m thankful the dark hides my face. I’m painfully untouched, but I’ll admit I’ve always been curious about certain kinks. But still, “I’m thinking that’s a no for right now.”
He chuckles, the covers shifting. “Let me know when that changes.”
I put an alarm on my phone for the morning, but I wonder about his schedule. The place creaks in an unfamiliar way.
“I really like your place,” I admit, my voice quiet in the night. “What made you buy it?”
“I liked it.” He cradles his head with one arm, staring up at the ceiling.
“It’s an empty warehouse.” That’s not accurate, though. “How long did it take you to renovate this place?”
“A couple years,” he admits.
He’s always played the long game, plotting out a thousand steps, but I can’t picture him tinkering away with home renovations.
A cold, bare castle is where I pictured him. Something aristocratic, harking back to his mother’s British roots. Especially after he came home from Oxford with honors.
