I push myself up on one arm and lean back on my elbow, thinking I’ll go sit in the desk chair and put my feet on the floor so I can feel more grounded. As I slide off the bed, I notice that the door between my room and his is cracked. Because his boot is propped in it.
What the what?
Did he do that because I told him I didn’t like closed doors? When did he come do it?
I’m walking around the bed to examine the setup when I see a square of light glowing on a chair beside the boot-propped door. Hmm. Looks like…my phone? I scoop it up and find the screen is glowing pink.
PINK NOISE, the screen says. So this is where that loud hum is coming from. I didn’t think I remembered the air conditioner being so loud.
I don’t have a noise-maker app. I do have a passcode on my phone.
The password is the date we were set free.
My breathing quickens a little. I feel slightly dizzy. Slightly sick.
Tears fill my eyes and overflow as I clutch my phone to my bare chest. Why did he do this: the goodies, the boot in the door, the white noise app? Why is he acting like he cares for me but saying he doesn’t?
I press the base of my palm against my forehead and let my shoulders shake as I start sobbing. I sink down into the chair, naked and exhausted, and let myself just go at it. The room is dark and slightly warm; I worry briefly about the diseases I’m exposing my backside to, sitting in a hotel chair, but mostly I just cry. And then, after a little while, I stop.
When my eyes are doubly puffy and my nose is so stuffy, I have to wipe it on my sheet, I tell myself I’m just emotional because of where we’re going tomorrow.
And because of him. Just…him.
I had a lot of specific expectations of him. Isn’t that what my therapist would say?
People change.
They do.
Just look at me.
I walk into his room knowing it’s a bad idea. Knowing that he asked me not to do this very thing.
I walk very slowly past a light-rimmed door, probably to the bathroom, and then tip-toe around a corner with my breath held. The room comes into view, dominated by two double beds with tall, spindly posts. I feel a slap of cold air humming out the wall unit underneath the curtain-cloaked window.
My pulse quickens as I see a long lump on the bed farthest from where I’m standing.
For just a moment, I think I hear him talking in his sleep.
For just a moment, I think of sliding into bed with him, just to enjoy the irony. We’re sleeping with a wall between us tonight, but instead of a hole in the wall, there’s a door. One he left propped open.
But he said he didn’t want your company.
I exercise my will power and tip-toe slowly around the bed, so I’m standing right beside his sleeping form.
At least I think he’s sleeping.
His cheek is pressed against the pillow, and his unhurt hand is curled into a fist up near his chin.
I’m fighting the urge to touch him, battling the forbidden desire to lean down close enough so I can brush my lips over his damp hair. From where I’m standing, I can smell the shampoo he used. It’s so fruity; sweet. It’s so at odds with his big, rugged body. As if to make me want him more, he shifts his hips a little, and the sheet covering his chest slips down, revealing huge shoulders, smooth, hard pecs, and the upper portion of his holy washboard Batman abs.
Oh my.
That’s a lot of muscle there.
I take a step back, feeling exhilarated because he’s beautiful, and I’m a bad, bad girl for sneaking in to watch him sleep.
That’s when his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
I let out a little cry as he jerks me toward the bed. Then he’s sitting up. His hands close around my waist and I’m dragged atop his sheet-covered lap. He strokes up from my hips, over my sides, and over my bare shoulders, tickling my neck before he gets a firm grip on my face.
“What did I tell you,” he hisses, “about coming into my room?”
Excitement sings through me. I’m in Hansel’s lap. He shifts his legs, still pinning my gaze with his dark one, and I can feel him hardening beneath me; his length springs up against me, pushing against my bare pussy from beneath the sheet.
He rocks it into me, and I feel a gush of warmth and need.
“What did I tell you, Leah?” He releases my face, then leans down and sucks one of my nipples. His tongue and teeth are merciless, twisting and nipping and sucking until I’m grinding against his dick. I just can’t help myself. I sink my hands into his hair and start to pant.
He pulls his long, thick shaft up so it tents beneath the sheet, and I start to rub him through the fabric.
“What a naughty girl you are, Gretel.”
“Hansel,” I sigh. My hands explore the firm ridge of his head, then drag down his thick, firm shaft. I try to pull the covers off him, and when he notices my intention, he snatches them off and tosses them behind him, exposing his big, delicious length. “Edgar is a bullshit name,” I whisper, leaning down to kiss his head.