Monster in His Eyes(30)

"Sure, whatever." He sits down on the arm of the couch beside me and  offers a small smile. The sight of it, although strained, lightens the  air. He might be mad, but he's not mad at me. "You look beautiful  tonight. I feel bad not taking you out. I should be showing you off."

"It's okay." I set my phone aside and shift my body to face him. "I don't mind staying in. I like being here."

"Good, because I like you being here." He reaches out and cups my chin,  running his thumb across my bottom lip. I think he's going to kiss me,  and my breath hitches in anticipation, but he switches focus instead.  "So, how's school going?"

"Uh, okay." We've mentioned school before, but it's the first time he's  outwardly asked me about it like this. "Most of my classes are going  well."

"How's philosophy?"

"Terrible."

"Huh." He pulls his hand away from my face. "If it gets too bad, let me know and I'll take care of it."

"You going to take my tests for me? Do my homework?"

"Whatever you want me to do."

A loud chime echoes through the house, and suddenly he's tense again,  his back stiffening and shoulders squaring. He sits freakishly still,  like he's been turned to stone by Medusa's stare, as the chime rings yet  again.

"Pretty sure that's probably the pizza dude at the door," I say.

He cuts his eyes at me as he stands up, mumbling "stay here" before  stalking out. I stay where I am, twiddling my thumbs, until he returns  with the food. He sets the pizza box on the table with two smaller  containers on top of it. Nosey, I pop them open, seeing it's chocolate  mousse and tiramisu.

"You like chocolate," he says, waving toward it as if to explain. He got  them for me. "Eat up. I need to make a few calls and handle some  things."

"You're not going to eat?"

"Not right now."

"Afraid it's poisoned? Because the way you talked to the guy on the phone, I might be a little worried, too."                       
       
           



       

He laughs as he turns on the TV, turning the volume up, before dropping  the remote on the couch cushion beside me. "It's safe. I'll be back in a  bit."

He walks out, leaving me in the den alone again.

I eat and flip through channels, eat some more and flip some more, going  again and again until I'm stuffed and I've been through every show a  few times, settling on some reality program I'm not really paying  attention to. I tinker with my phone some more before getting up and  strolling around the den, once more migrating to his bookshelves.

I don't know how much time passes-fifteen minutes, maybe thirty-before  he strolls in, catching me as I pull an old, worn book off the shelf.  Crime & Punishment.

"Good book," he says, sitting down in his chair behind his desk, setting his phone in front of him. "Ever read it?"

"No."

I'm suddenly regretting everything I said to Melody earlier this  afternoon. I want to read the damn book just so I don't look like an  idiot to him. "Huh."

I return the book to the shelf, my fingertips skimming the spines of  those near it. "You have enough philosophy books I think you probably  could do my work for me."

"It's an interesting subject," he says. "When you don't overthink it, anyway."

I turn to him curiously. "Do you believe in the death penalty?"

"Yes."

He doesn't even have to think about it.

"Do you think murder is wrong?"

I expect another emphatic answer, an outright yes, but this time he  hesitates. "That's too broad of a question. Are you excluding  justifiable homicide?"

"Is killing ever justifiable?"

"Of course it is." He gazes at me, and he looks like he wants to say  more, but he hesitates again. "Have you heard of the Plank of Carneades?  Santino teach you it?"

"No."

"Let's say we're shipwrecked, and we both see a plank floating in the water, but it's only big enough to hold one of us."

"This sounds eerily like the end of Titanic."

He laughs and continues. "You get to the plank first, but knowing I'm  going to drown if I don't do something, I shove you off and steal it for  myself. Because of that, you die. Was that murder?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

His question makes me pause. "You killed me for the plank."

"Or did I just defend my own life?" he asks. "It's kill or be killed, so yes, Karissa, sometimes killing is justifiable."

"But I wasn't threatening you."

"Maybe not, but you were still a threat."

He stares at me pointedly. I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what to think.

"It's irrelevant in this case, though," he says. "I'd give you the plank."

"Because you couldn't kill?"

"Because I couldn't kill you."

Those words should freak me out, and I do feel a tingle creep down my  spine, but I get a strange thrill at the protectiveness in his voice.  Every girl wants her very own Jack Dawson.

Slowly, I stroll over to him and climb onto his lap, straddling him in  the chair. I wrap my arms around his neck, gazing into his eyes,  drinking in the hint of emotion I find.

He's a whirlpool of darkness, and I feel myself getting sucked deeper and deeper into the depths of his abyss.

I'm drowning in him.

His hands run up my back as he pulls me to him for a kiss. I can feel  him hardening, straining the crotch of his pants, heat rushing through  me at the sensation. To know I have the same effect on him that he has  on me is intoxicating. My fingertips tingle with the urge to touch him.

My hands drift down between us. I reach for his belt, fumbling with the  buckle for a second before he restrains me. I pull back and start to  pout when he undoes his belt, making work of his button and zipper,  before pulling me back to him for another kiss.

I don't waste my chance. The second he lets go, my hand slips into his  pants and wraps around his cock. I pull it out between us, stroking it  as I kiss him back with everything in me.

He's warm, so damn warm. I can feel him growing in my palm, hardening  like concrete. My thumb grazes the head, feeling the bead of wetness. I  suddenly want to taste it, run my tongue along the slit and take him in  my mouth, but he doesn't give me the chance.

He grasps my hips, pulling me toward him, grinding himself against me. "Let me inside of you."

The words make me shiver.

I don't undress, slipping the skimpy fabric of my thong aside, grateful I  wore this damn dress, after all. I lift up and sink down onto him, my  eyes rolling in the back of my head.

I shift my hips, kissing him deeply, savoring every second he's inside  of me. It's unlike any other time, a stolen moment of passion, no  rushing for the finish line or desperately jumping hurdles, merely  enjoying being in the race. My hands seek out his, our fingers  entwining, as he presses them against his chest.                       
       
           



       

It's the most intimate thing I've ever experienced. Fully clothed, I  somehow feel completely exposed, sliced open and vulnerable, yet so, so  valuable. The man could snap me like a twig, but he holds onto me like  I'm the strong plank, like I'm that lifeline in the water, his means of  survival, his only chance of rescue. He holds my hands so tightly my  fingers ache, but his face looks relaxed, like he's not worried at all  about drifting away.

He breaks the kiss as he tilts his head back, his eyes closed, his lips  parted as he lets out a shaky breath. I kiss his mouth, his cheek, his  scruffy chin, my lips traveling all over his face, exploring his skin.  He doesn't move, doesn't do anything but squeeze my hands tighter,  pressing them against him harder. It's like he's pulling me inside of  him, and I can feel his pulse, his strong heartbeat, pounding in his  chest.

He's a tornado of emotion I can't begin to understand, but I love it. I  love him. And I know it when I look at him, seeing such serenity in his  expression. I want every cell of him in every cell of me, because when  he's inside of me, I feel beautiful. I feel strong. I feel like I know  what love means.

Love means seeing the beauty in the ugly, the light in the dark, and  accepting that even if the lights are off, and I can't see what's in  front of me, there will be something there to guide my way. Love means  turning yourself inside out, handing yourself over to somebody else, and  trusting them …  trusting them to touch you, to handle you, to bend you,  but never, ever break what you give them.

And I love him.

Fuck, I love him.

"I love you." The words tumble from my lips as a strained whisper, a  shuddering breath forced from me as the butterflies take flight in my  stomach, constricting my chest until I can't fucking breathe.