Page 32 of The Butcher's Wife
Did Annetta do this? The only other person who visits the apartment is the house cleaner but she doesn’t come for a couple of days.
“Dom?” a soft, timid voice calls from inside the room. She sounds terrified.
I rap on the door, my blood pressure spiking. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
The door handle jiggles, and then the door swings open.
“Fuck,” I say aloud before my brain can make me shut up.
She’s wearing nothing but one of my shirts. Heat zips to my groin at the sight of my young wife’s nipples poking against the white cotton and her smooth, slender legs stretching out from under the hem.
The room reeks of wine. She gazes at me hazily from under her long eyelashes, wavering on her feet, and her hair is messed up. I’ve never seen her like this.
“Why was the door locked?” I demand, although I should just be walking away. Nothing good comes from a drunk girl with no pants.
She leans against the doorjamb and exhales a soft breath. “The elevator door opened.”
I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms. “And?”
Her gaze dips over my forearms—I resist the urge to flex—then it slides back up to me. Her mouth is flushed a deep pink. She darts out a tongue to wet her lower lip. “And there was no one inside.”
“So you locked yourself into my room and got drunk because the elevator’s on the fritz?”
Even though I’m almost sure this is a half-baked scheme to get in my pants again, on the off-chance she’s telling the truth, I make a note to talk to Turi about it tomorrow.
“It makes me feel safe.”
She must be plastered. I’ll be surprised if I get into my room and there’s not vomit on the bed. Yet another reminder that a relationship with this woman would lead to disaster—less than a month in and she’s already getting blackout drunk. I’m not trying to play babysitter for a twenty-year-old who is discovering alcohol.
She blinks, and it looks like it costs her serious effort. I’m half-impressed she’s still standing.
“It makes me feel safe to touch your things,” she says. “You smell really good.”
“That’d be the wine talking,” I say, although I’m already turning to hide my growing erection and give her space to walk past me. I place a light touch against her lower back to guide her out of my room. “Come on, you’d better sleep this off.”
Instead of moving pliantly like I expect, she digs her heels in and juts her chin up at me. “It’s not the wine. I’ve been in your bed for the past week. When are you going to fuck me?”
I grit my teeth and push her forward, even as she presses her slender back into my palm. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“Shit like what?” She laughs a little breathlessly as I lift her a few inches in the air. My fingertips bite into her tiny ribs. She’s so fucking light. “That I like when you touch me? Like how I used to make excuses to bring food to everyone when you’d visit because it meant I could see you?”
I force myself to ignore what she said, throw open her bedroom door, and sling her inside. Except I misjudge my strength and have to lunge forward to catch her by the upper arm when she stumbles forward, so she doesn’t crack her head against the nightstand. She wheels herself into me with a graceful turn—she’s a dancer, I remember belatedly—and presses her hands against my chest.
Her feet are between mine. We fit well together.
She clutches my shirt like she did at that fucking church, and I pray to every known and unknown god that she doesn’t see the raging fucking erection in my jeans as I force her to her bed.
“You make me so mad,” she murmurs.
That, along with a jerk of her little wrists, knocks me off balance. I throw out an arm to catch us at the last moment, my hand sinking into the mattress, and hold her against me to ease her onto the bed. Her legs swing up to lock around my hips at the same moment, her hair fanning out on the bed. Her small, pouty mouth flushes, and a delighted look crosses her face.
My brain grinds to a fucking halt as all the blood rushes to my groin.
I don’t give a fuck what my dick is telling me—she’s too goddamn drunk.
“I’m not gonna fuck you.”Not tonight, anyway.And if I were as wise as I think I am, not ever—not after this display.
But as her heels dig into my lower back and she wrenches at my shirt, my body screams at me to give in.
