Corrupt - Douglas Penelope - Страница 50
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I smiled, walking over and arching up on my tiptoes, trying to pinch the bag between my fingers and grab it.
But then an arm reached out over me, snatching the bag, and I jerked my hand down, sucking in a quick breath.
“I thought you were tired,” Michael said, holding out the bag to me.
I swallowed to wet my dry mouth and turned, peering up at him. He was dressed in black lounge pants with no shirt, and his hair looked wet, probably from a shower.
I wanted to groan at the ache between my legs. God, he drove me crazy.
With everything that had happened tonight, I hadn’t had a chance to slow down enough for it to occur to me, but…
The last time I saw Michael was in the pool cave. I tensed my thighs, the little pulse in my clit suddenly beating harder at the memory and wanting a whole lot more of whatever he did to me in there.
Thankfully, he hadn’t mentioned it.
After we’d arrived home from Sticks, we’d both gone our separate ways. I went to my room and hurriedly dialed the number for the satellite phone he’d finally given to me in the car ride home, unfortunately not getting an answer.
After calling a few more times with no luck, I decided to try again in the morning. She was fine. Damon had just scared me with the threat, which was probably all he was trying to do to begin with.
I then crawled into a hot bath and slipped into some pajama shorts and a white cami. But I was no longer tired. Since I hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning at my apartment, I went downstairs in search of food.
Brushing past Michael, I left the pantry and set the provisions down on the island, trying to get away from him.
No such luck.
He came to my side and stood next to me, grabbing the loaf of bread and taking out two slices for me and two for himself.
Guess he was hungry, too.
I let out a frustrated breath and spun around, sliding two plates out of the cabinet while he opened the refrigerator and dug in one of the drawers for something.
We didn’t speak as we busied ourselves making sandwiches. I dug into the marshmallow bag for a handful and poured them onto the peanut butter I’d already spread while he unscrewed a pickle jar. I stopped what I was doing, twisting up my lips as he laid slices across his peanut-butter sandwich.
Gross.
“That makes you so much less attractive,” I said, wincing.
He snorted, and I watched as he replaced the top slice of bread and picked up the sandwich, bringing it to his mouth.
“Don’t knock ‘til you try it.” And he took a huge bite, grabbing his plate and walking around me.
I shook my head, amused.
“Let’s watch a movie,” he said as he left the kitchen.
I popped my head up. A movie?
“And grab a couple of waters before you come,” he shouted from the hallway.
I cocked an eyebrow. The only time Michael and I had ever watched movies together was when Trevor was in the room, too. Otherwise I was too scared to invade Michael’s space.
I exhaled a sigh and turned around, taking two bottles of water out of the fridge. Grabbing the rest of my food, I left the kitchen, my arms full.
The media room was dark, lit only by the light of the seventy-inch flat screen hanging on the rock wall ahead of me.
As beautiful as the house was, it was this room I liked best.
There were no windows, as it was buried in the center of the house, and all the walls were made of stacked stone. It gave the room a cave-like feel, and it was usually the one Michael and his friends hung out in when he lived here.
In the center of the room sat a three-sided brown suede couch. Huge and comfortable, it had throw pillows and a large matching ottoman sitting in the empty space in the middle.
Michael carried his plate to the couch and tossed the remote down, sitting down with his back to me.
My blood started to heat, and my hand with the plate shook. It almost felt easy. Like just a relaxing night watching TV.
Too easy. I couldn’t relax around him. I knew better.
I walked into the room and rounded the couch, tossing his bottle of water on the seat next to him and taking the right side of the sofa, perpendicular to him.
I sat cross-legged, facing the television and eating while he surfed.
“That looks good,” I spoke up, seeing Alien vs. Predator.
“That looks good?” he mocked in my voice, and I turned my head toward him.
He was slouched back on the couch with his left arm tucked behind his head and his long, tight torso looking so smooth and beautiful. I once saw a girl straddle him as he sat like that, and I turned away, feeling the ever-present longing I wished would go away.
“You’ve already seen it, Rika,” he argued. “I saw you in here watching that movie back in high school. At least twice.”
Twenty-one times, actually.
I liked horror movies, but I also enjoyed sci-fi, so the Alien and Predator franchises were a big hit for me.
And then when they combined them and made Alien vs. Predator? Holy shit.
“Fine by me,” Michael allowed, clicking on the channel, the movie starting just as the team of archeologists had gotten to Antarctica.
The hair on my arms stood up, and my toes curled. I held the sandwich with both hands, taking small bites as I watched the screen. I could hear Michael biting into his sandwich and uncapping his water, and by the time the Alien queen had started laying eggs, I had spread out on my stomach, leaning up on my elbows as I held the sandwich and chewed.
My stomach tightened, hearing the alien queen’s heavy breathing. Her hissing echoed through the surround sound, and when the team of scientists entered the sacrificial chamber, unaware of all the alien eggs in the room that were about to hatch, I put down my sandwich and pushed it away. Grabbing a throw pillow, I crouched down behind it, peeking over the top.
And locking my ankles in the air, I winced as the eggs began to open.
Long legs crawled out of the opening, the music got faster, and the creature lurched, flying through the air toward a woman’s face.
I shot my head down, burying it in the pillow as the shot cut to a new scene.
I twisted my face to the side, laughing as I peeked over at him. “That part always freaks me out.”
But he wasn’t paying attention to the TV. His eyes were on my legs.
I immediately warmed. Had he been watching the movie at all?
He still sat back on the couch, relaxing, but his eyes were trained on my body, and I could only imagine what he was thinking.
And then, as if realizing I’d just spoken, he finally raised his eyes, meeting mine, and then shot his gaze back to the screen, ignoring me.
I slowly turned back, too, and even though I wondered if he was still looking at me, I made no move to sit up or grab a blanket.
Over the next hour I continued to hug my pillow as the Predators hunted the Aliens and slowly all of the archeologists became collateral damage. I felt Michael’s eyes on me from time to time, but I didn’t know if it was real or just my imagination.
But every time a Predator lurked in the dark or an alien crept out of a corner I could feel the heat of his stare, and I gripped the pillow tighter and tighter until, by the end of the movie, my fingers ached.
“You like to be scared, don’t you?” I heard his voice behind me. “That’s your kink.”
I twisted my head to the side, narrowing my eyes as the credits started to roll.
Like to be scared? I enjoyed scary movies, but it wasn’t kink.
He placed his palms on his thighs, leaning his head back and watching me. “Your toes curled every time the Aliens and Predators came on the screen.”
I dropped my eyes, lowering my legs and slowly sitting up.
All the movies that I enjoyed the most came to mind—the slasher flicks, like Halloween and Friday the 13th—and I noticed how tight my stomach muscles were. I took a deep breath, forcing them to relax.
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