Page 45 of Six
Ollie doesn’t know it yet, but this is only the beginning. I’ll never let him leave. I will protect whatever thisincrediblething is between us with my life.
Chapter 8
OLIVER
The warm water is cascading down my body in the ridiculously large shower. My muscles ache after spending an entire morning knocking down walls and cleaning up the mess. But I feel good.
I’m used to the physical labor at the recycling plant, but that’s a repetitive job, while working with Rague is actually interesting and diversified. He taught me how to use a crowbar on wall surfaces—poking a hole with the round side, then ripping it down with the hook. He showed me where to expect the wiring and plumbing, and how to avoid doing any real damage.
I really enjoyed being part of Rague’s library café project. Listening to him describe his plans has been kind of exciting. So much so that I couldn’t stop asking him about it. I almost suggested a couple of ideas for the upper floors, but stopped myself. The fact that we fucked doesn’t automatically make us pals. Right?
But boy, can the man give a spectacular pounding to both my holes. The perfect feel of pleasure and pain. One word from him, and I’ll be ready, bent over the nearest surface, waiting for him to rail me. My hardening dick is totally on board with it, and although very sore, my ass keeps clenching around nothing. But I do like to feel the burn, it reminds me how it came to be.
Still can’t believe I begged him to fuck me. I mean, I’m obviously attracted to him, but I’ve never needed to be taken so badly before. Something in me just snapped. One minute, I was deeply enjoying making holes in a wall, and the next, it was my father I saw under the hammer. Him and his disgusting friends and all the things they forced me to witness. It was like going down the fucking rabbit hole. I just couldn’t stop hitting them, giving them what they deserve and more. When my arms couldn’t hold the heavy hammer anymore, I turned and saw Rague staring at me. There was no judgment in his eyes, only utter understanding. And I felt the sudden urge to let him use me, to let him break me even more. To forget who I was for a few minutes. I needed him to fuck all those dark emotions out of me. To purge me of my sins with his huge cock.
And he fucking delivered.
A shudder runs down my spine at the memory. I turn off the water, and getting out of the stall, I start drying myself. The towel moves over the small Band-Aid on the inside of my forearm where the syringe made a small hole. In the afternoon, we went to a clinic to get tested—just as Rague wanted. We got the results pretty fast—he knows someone who works there.
Both negative. Another shudder. Which means that next time, I’ll feel his cum splashing inside me, filling me to the brim. He was surprised I didn’t make a fuss about going to the clinic. I snorted. Of course, I fucking didn’t, since I’ve turned into a cockslut for him. He gave me the best fuck of my life; I can’t even imagine how amazing it will be with nothing between us.
I put on a pair of briefs and the long-sleeve shirt Rague left on the bed in the guest room—my room, but for how long? Every time I’ve suggested leaving, he’s growled and muttered that I need to rest more. But I’m fully recovered now. Rague only made me work a half-day, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have fucked me if I wasn’t.
I need to go back to Dick’s at some point. He’s sending me a text everyday with the countdown of the days left to the fight against Scorpion. My brother will be back soon, and I have no other choice but to do Dick’s bidding once again. Even though the thought makes my stomach lurch.
It would be so nice to stay here indefinitely. I briefly envision sleepy mornings with wild, rough sex, going to work together, and then falling asleep with Rague’s melodic voice every single night. Maybe even sharing the same bed. A warm pressure coils in my chest at the thought of having such a nice life. A damn fucking fairy tale. And those don’t exist. Not for me, a good-for-nothing from the slums.
I let the dream go while I make my way to the kitchen, rolling the too-long sleeves up my arms. My legs are bare from my knees down, but I’m fine. This house is always warm.
Rustic-modern on the inside as well as the outside, the place oozes peace. It’s a real home. There’s a stone fireplace in the living room. A brown, well-worn leather sofa, which would be a perfect reading spot—I can clearly see Sully all curled up and comfy while I watch a movie on the TV on the long sideboard. The soft, colorful quilt laying on the ottoman, delicate watercolor paintings on the walls, and nice tablecloth on the dining table hint at a feminine touch. Cliché, I know. A man or even Rague himself could actually be into all those things, but from what I know about him, it’s unlikely. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, mainly because I don’t fucking like the idea of an ex choosing stuff for his house.
On the left, the view of silent nature from the sliding glass doors that leads outside is breathtaking—there’s an outdoor fire pit, which I’m dying to use. During the day, the sunlight floods the entire room, showing the high ceilings and wooden beams and the airy kitchen, which is open to the living area.
It smells so good. Calming. An earthy scent, mixed with Rague’s musk, wind, and rain. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs and reluctantly letting the exquisite scent go.
Rague is nowhere to be seen, probably taking one of his work calls in his office. I learned he’s the sole owner of his company and has quite a few people working for him. He also doesn’t like to delegate, but he did a bit of that while I was sick, and I’m grateful. For everything he’s done so far, really.
That’s why I want to pay him back somehow. Money is out of the question. I don’t have much, and I need every last penny I’ve got. So, dinner it is. I’m not very experienced with cooking. But Lori’s grandma taught me a couple of dishes growing up, and I think I can recreate them. I check his fridge and cupboard. I need to make tortillas from scratch, but I think Rague would enjoy a hot, fragrant platter of enchiladas and a small strawberry cheesecake.
I wash my hands at the deep sink in the kitchen, which is a chef’s dream. The expensive-looking appliances are plentiful and spread around on the vast gleaming marble counter, all of them either chrome or black, including the massive stainless fridge and the coffee machine. The cabinets are sleek and modern in various shades of grey. Pots hang on a wooden rack over the large island in the middle of the red cotto-tile floor. Over the space, a warm glow spreads from a trio of pendent lights hanging above the island. A little on the left, there’s a large enough table to seat six people—maybe five comfortably.
An hour and a half later, the cheesecake is in the fridge and I’m sliding the tray of enchiladas into the oven. Taking the timer with me, I go looking for Rague. His office is empty. A laptop is recharging on his desk.
I turn back to the hallway and still, trying to detect any kind of sound. There, from the last door on the left—the gym. The sight that awaits me comes straight from one of my filthiest dreams.
Rague is standing in the middle of the room, lifting weights. His sweatpants are hanging dangerously low on his waist, showing off his ripped stomach and the drool-worthy, perfect vee of his muscles. Dark hair peeks above the waistband—no manscaping for the beastie; he’s lucky I like the wildness of it. Swallowing the saliva that fills my mouth, my eyes trail down to the mouthwatering shape of his soft, but still huge dick through his sweats. I sucked that beauty a few hours ago, the burning corners of my mouth are solid proof of that, and yet, I crave the taste of it filling my mouth again.
My gaze moves up to ogle his muscular chest, gleaming with sweat. The shiny smattering of dark hair looks soft; I wish he’d let me touch it. His pecs flex and biceps bulge every time he bends his arms toward his chest. He has perfectly round dark nipples I want to suck and bite, a strong neck and jaw. The silky, curly hair on his head softens those large lips and big, important nose. The man is gorgeous. He doesn’t even have to dress to impress. Actually, in his case, less is more.
The filth my mind suggests is like a tsunami, impossible to stop no matter how much I try. Not that I try that much.
The man lets out a low grunt of effort as he lifts the weights one last time before placing them on the rack.
“Will you train at some point or are you going to keep watching?” He doesn’t sound bothered by my gawking. And I don’t care he caught me staring since I made it very clear I want him.
I feign pondering, tapping my finger to the reddened skin on my chin caused by his rough stubble. His eyes zero in on it. He likes to see his marks on me; I know because I found him peering at them more than once today.
I feel an inner evil and very slutty smile coming out while I decide to tempt him more. I trail my hand down my neck where faint bruises are visible, made by his fingers when they tightened and pressed against the skin. His gaze darkens even more, but also a small frown appears on his face.
