Page 54 of Where's Molly

I don't know why I feel safe with him, just that I do. And if there's one thing I've gotten really good at over the years, it's trusting my gut.

“It’s fine,” I force out. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“How old are you?” I ask, though my voice is breathless with awe as my stare bounces around his home.

“Twenty-seven,” he answers instantly.

I’ve never seen a twenty-seven-year-old own a house like this. It’sbeautiful.

The interior is a combination of black stone, veneer wooden panels, and cream walls. Plant life is scattered throughout the open floor plan, complementing the earthy-toned furniture.

The living room is sunken in from the kitchen, two rounded steps leading down to where a massive, circular black couch sits in front of a fireplace, a huge TV mounted above it.

To my left is a sleek kitchen with a huge island in the middle. There, Cage lays the cardboard stack of pizza boxes, left over from a few hours ago. The supreme was my favorite, and I found the cheese too boring. To Silas's dismay, I didn't mind the pineapple on the pizza, though it wouldn't be something I'd order for myself.

“You can have more if you're still hungry,” Cage offers, nodding toward the food.

“I'm full,” I protest. I've never eaten so much in my life, even if it was only four slices.

I grew up eating ketchup sandwiches on stale bread and soup when I was with Francesca. Greasy, fried foods were a luxury I never knew.

His stare slides down my form slowly before returning to mine. By the time he's finished, I'm on fire and shifting on my feet, my thighs clenching from the pulse between them.

“You'll be hungry again soon enough.”

I don't know what that means. But the way his voice roughened has me shifting once again.

“We'll see,” I retort, feeling as if I just issued a challenge. His darkening eyes seem to confirm that.

Ialmost expect him to shatter the pretense that this is an innocent sleepover and strip me down where I stand. Instead, he turns away and gestures for me to follow him.

I can't decipher why I feel disappointed by that, just that I do.

“The guest bedroom is this way,” he calls. It takes an extra second to unglue my feet from the wooden floor and follow him. “Do you need to shower?”

That question nearly stops me in my tracks again. I had a shower at the motel I stayed in last night, but the water pressure was comparable to a yard sprinkler, the drain was clogged, and the tub held more rust and grime than soap.

A shower in a place like this just might be the closest to heaven I'll ever get.

“Y-yeah, if you don’t mind,” I manage. However, the second the words leave my mouth, I wonder if I’m being incredibly stupid. Or rather, stupid-er.Showering in a stranger’s home, naked and vulnerable. Not that I’m much more protected with a scrappy t-shirt and torn jeans, but at least I’d die with a bit of dignity.

“I have a towel and washcloth for you. A spare toothbrush, too, if you need it. Even razors.”

I chew my bottom lip, feeling a small burst of excitement. Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I’ve had the luxury of shaving my legs.

“All of it,” I rush out, then instantly flush with embarrassment over my clear desperation for a decent shower. Clearing my throat, I tack on, “Please.”

I can’t see his face, but I know he’s grinning.

He leads me into a spacious hallway, where an ornate gothic stone bench is placed on the left side, an array of different plantscovering it, and beautiful artwork surrounding it. We veer off to the left and enter through double doors that open into a massive bedroom.

“This is the guest bedroom?” I ask incredulously, taking in the biggest bed I’ve ever seen covered in soft black sheets, the crackling fireplace on the opposite wall, and the white ceiling with beautiful black wooden beams lining across it.

“One of them, yeah.”

“I can’t imagine what the master looks like then,” I mumble, a funny look passing over my face.

He turns, a devilish look on his face as he asks, “Would you like to see it?”

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