“Like? Their music has been running in my veins since I knew what music is all about. Attending their concerts is always the highlight of my year.”
“Do you by any chance have a collection of their merch?” I always wished to own music-themed merchandise, but that was forbidden in my house.
“I collected a lot of T-shirts, jackets, hoodies, and other Metallica-themed merch in my teenage years. I even had a pair of headphones with the name of the band engraved on it. I kind of dropped endless hints about wanting it so Dad could get it for my birthday. They’re back in England and my sister always threatens to destroy them when I don’t do things her way.”
I can’t help the smile that curves my lips at how carefree he speaks about Metallica and his sister. It’s the first time I’ve witnessed this easygoing part of him.
He’s always been intense in some way or another, but now, it’s dulled down.
“Your sister seems fun.”
“No, she’s usually a pain in the arse. Headstrong and has a no-nonsense personality.”
“I get along with that type. My cousin is that way and we’re close…” I trail off as a tendril of sadness splashes inside me. “Were close.”
“I assume you left her behind, too?”
“I didn’t leave her behind. We’re just…on different sides of the battle.”
“Battle. Interesting terminology.”
I clear my throat, needing to derail his attention. He’s like a cat with a mouse, once he sees a chance to strike, he won’t hesitate to use it. “Do you listen to anything aside from Metallica?”
“I used to listen to Slipknot, Megadeth, and Iron Maiden when I was a teenager. Dad used to be fussy because I went to sleep and woke up with loud metal music in my ears.”
“You don’t do that anymore?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“In law school, I didn’t really listen to much music and it just extended to after I passed the bar and started working.”
“I don’t understand how someone can move on from music. It’s what helps me concentrate better.”
“I know that.”
“You do?”
“You usually have earbuds in when you’re working. I also know you listen to vintage music.”
“Are you a stalker?”
“I prefer professional watcher, just like you.”
“M-me?”
“Yeah, beautiful. I know you come to watch me sometimes.”
My cheeks are burning hot. “I do not.”
“We have glass walls, in case you haven’t noticed, and that means I can see you through them.”
I stare down at my lap. “I…wasn’t there for you.”
“Uh-huh. Your denial is adorable.”
I glare at him. “Don’t call me adorable.”
“Well, you are. Deal with it.” He motions at my phone. “Why do you like vintage music?”
“I’m an old soul that way. I like historical novels, music from decades ago, and everything vintage.”
“But you’re in IT.”
“An old soul with a futuristic mindset.”
The corners of his lips curve in a smile before it spreads all over his face. “I like that.”
My breath catches and it takes me a few tries to swallow it down. Hearing him say he likes that while smiling makes me think that maybe he likes me.
And that’s just stupid.
If there’s anything Knox has proved thus far, it’s that whatever is between us is only sexual, so I better kill that small voice whispering inside me.
“What’s your favorite band?” he asks.
“I don’t really have one.”
“Come on, everyone does.”
“Guns N’ Roses, I guess. They make me feel powerful.”
“You mean their music does.”
“What’s the difference?”
He’s poker-faced as he says, “There’s one. It’s their music, not the men in the band.”
“No clue about the logic in that, but whatever.”
We continue eating in silence, listening to the music and stealing peeks at each other. Or I am, anyway. Knox watches me openly, periodically narrowing his eyes on me and pursing his lips as if he disapproves of something.
“What?” I ask when he continues doing it.
“I want to see your real eyes.”
“W-what?”
“The blue ones. And don’t even dare say these are real. Without the glasses, they look fake as fuck.”
“I…can’t.”
“Why not? I already know your real name and what you look like.”
“Just…no.”
“Why?”
“Because…I don’t like it. Just like you don’t like looking into my eyes during sex. Do you see me asking about that?”
“Who told you I don’t like looking at your eyes?”
“Well, you’ve always fucked me or touched me from behind. Isn’t that indication enough?”
“I prefer that position.”
“And I prefer having these eyes.”
A muscle tics in his jaw and I expect him to insist, but he does something entirely different.
His voice lowers when he speaks. “I don’t like fucking from the front. It makes me feel less in control and brings back dark shadows from a past I like to keep buried.”
I’m suddenly hyperaware of the tension floating between us, as if he summoned it and its sole purpose is to suffocate us both.
“What type of past?” I ask in a murmur.
He shakes his head slowly. “You don’t get to ask that when you’re hiding yours.”
“I told you about my mom.”
“She’s not what you’re hiding from, so that doesn’t count.”
I purse my lips and attack another slice of pizza.
He just leans back on his palms, watching me with a grin. The asshole. “That’s what I thought.”
“I want my butterfly back,” I blurt out of nowhere.
He’s still grinning and I’m considering the best way to wipe it off his face, aside from the obvious option—murder.
“What makes you think I have it?”
“You mentioned it the other day, so that means you do.”
“Maybe if you show me your real eyes.”
“I will not.”
“Then I don’t have it.”
“Knox! That butterfly is important to me.”
“Apparently not enough, because you refuse to compromise.”
But it’s not a compromise. He’s demanding to see a part of me that will make me vulnerable and I refuse to play that game. “Are you always an asshole or only with me?”
“A little bit of both.” His grin widens.
“I hate you right now.”
“We have all the time in the world, so I’ll convince you otherwise.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Of course we do.” His voice drops when he says the words that make me shiver, “I’m not even close to being done with you, beautiful.”
20
KNOX
“Are you sure you’re only chopping the potatoes and not murdering them?”
Anastasia stares up at me from behind the kitchen counter, a delicate frown appearing between her brows.
She’s wearing a hoodie that barely reaches mid-thigh and keeps flashing me her lace panties every time she bends over or reaches up.
Needless to say, my dick has been twitching non-stop at the view. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to let her help me make dinner, despite the fact that she’s absolutely helpless when it comes to cooking.
However, she’s taking it seriously. Way too seriously, considering the concentration that’s written all over her delicate face, accentuated by the light hanging from the ceiling.
“I am chopping,” she says matter-of-factly, motioning at the potatoes with the knife.
“They look murdered to me.”
“But I did it slowly like you told me.”
“It’s still not right.”
Her shoulders hunch as if she’s failed something monumental. “Whatever. You do it.”
“Let’s do it together.”
“How—”
I wrap my arms around her from behind and she goes still, the word she was about to say remaining stuck in the air between us.
A full-body shudder goes through her and I can’t help inhaling deeply, breathing in her orange blossom perfume mixed with her delicate natural scent.
Everything about her is delicate. Whether it’s her tiny features, her small frame, or her pale skin that can be bruised with a single press of my thumb against it.
For some reason, her softness always drags out the primal part of me, the part that needs to claim her every second of the day, then repeat it all over again.