Chapter 11

Even though I'm fully clothed with no intention to swim, I sit in a lounge chair next to the indoor pool because I needed a change of scenery as I draw in my sketchbook. Or attempt to anyway. My brain is stuck playing a repeat of when Hudson kissed me last night.

And the huge bulge under the fabric of his pants, pressing into my body, begging for my touch.

Putting the pencil down, I wave the book in front of my face because it's suddenly hotter when I think about Hudson and what he's packing below the belt.

Hudson, Rossi, as well as a few other guards, have been randomly passing by the door, always peering in to check that I'm still here. I feel like a small child who is supposed to have floaties or a life jacket on, whose parents can't leave them next to the pool area, unattended.

Perhaps I should feign drowning in hopes that Hudson would give me mouth-to-mouth.

Shaking my head at myself, I toss my sketchbook next to my side and force myself to take a bite of my peanut butter sandwich, chewing it slowly before setting it back down before relaxing back in my chair. The chef asked what I wanted for lunch, and when I rattled that off, he frowned. He almost wouldn't make it because he felt ashamed. I assured him it was what I wanted, and finally, he agreed.

As a kid, I ate more peanut butter sandwiches than I care to admit. Sometimes, we'd run out of bread, and I'd just eat spoonfuls of peanut butter to fill my belly. Other times, we'd run out of peanut butter, so carb paradise it was. When I left Sunset Drive, I swore I'd never eat another peanut butter sandwich again. Because for so much of my childhood, it was all I had. But when I woke up today, I longed to be back in that grungy, old, rat-infested house instead of this palace, surrounded by people who don't give a shit about me.

My childhood was painful and undoubtedly far from perfect, but at least I knew I was loved. It also made me the person I am today. So many times, I've heard people crying about the most insignificant things. I don't sweat the small stuff because, to be honest, what's the point?

My mind continues to go back to the kiss. Over and over again. Being here has clearly made me go crazy enough that I keep thinking about my killer bodyguard, who's probably going to murder me one of these days.

The sex though … would probably be totally worth it.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head at myself. "Jesus Christ, would you listen to yourself?" I whisper. "This place is making me go insane."

The buzz of my phone saves me from myself and my deranged thoughts, and when I see Walker's name on the screen, I smile. Ever since I broke the news to him that I was in Italy, we haven't spoken. I miss him. And a part of me—a big part—wishes I could tell him to come get me. To beg him to find a way to get me the hell out of here.

"Walker!" I answer, unable to stop the excitement in my voice because my baby brother called me. And not really caring to either. "Hi!"

"How's Italy?" he mutters, clearly still pissed at me. "Married yet?"

My heart sinks, and I wonder how he knows that.

"Yeah, Beckett told me," he mutters. "I'm disappointed. And mad. But that's not why I'm calling." He sighs, pausing. "Van is dead."

My heart stops, and I sit up straight in my chair. "Wh-what?" I breathe the word out, hoping I didn't hear him correctly.

"Yeah. He overdosed yesterday," he says, and even though my brother isn't an overly emotional guy, I can tell he's hurting.

Van is Poppy's twin brother, and both are Walker's age. The three of them were best friends for years.

"Poppy had to identify him last night," he utters quietly.

I put my hand on my chest, which suddenly aches. "Oh, Poppy," I cry, tears gathering in my eyes because my friend has already been through enough pain in her life. And now this? How is she supposed to go on?

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Anyway, I just figured you might want to know. You know, in case you want to actually come back here and be there for Poppy." He stops. "She needs us, Briar. You know how many people she's let into her life. It isn't a lot, and she just lost one of them."

Of course, in a perfect world, I'd be on the first flight out of here. I'd be there for my friend the way we were always there for each other, growing up. And my brother too. I'd comfort him, even if he tried to act tough.

But what's the use in lying, telling my brother I'll be there when I know I won't be?

"Walker, I … I don't know if I can come home right now." I swallow back the thick lump that's lodged itself at the top of my throat, burning like a bitch. "I'll try. But—"

"Yeah, I get it. Don't worry," he snaps. "You can stay over in Italy, B. It's clear family and friends don't mean a fucking thing to you anymore!" he roars into the phone before the line goes dead.

Bringing the phone down, I stare straight ahead. I could feel bad for myself, but why would I deserve that? I squeeze my eyes shut as the tears drip down my cheeks. I try to keep it in the best I can, just like I always have. With Walker being younger, I never wanted him to know how truly shitty things at home were for us. I'm sure he knew. How could he not? But I just wanted him to have at least one family member who was stable enough to take care of us.

So, that's what I became. I became the grown-up, never having time to simply rest. I did the laundry, scrounged for food, and forged signatures on permission slips just so that Walker and I could go places with our classes.

I was his rock. And now … he thinks I don't give a shit about him. Or about Poppy.

That couldn't be further from the truth.

My whole life, I've tried to be everyone else's sunshine, sometimes to the point that, on the inside, it seemed pitch-black. And empty. I've always tried to save my tears because it would make other people sad to see them fall. When Walker and the other kids on Sunset Drive looked on the bad side, I reminded them of the silver lining, even if I made the entire thing up. I had to be strong for them so that they believed it was all going to be fine.

Right now, I don't feel like being strong.

And right now … I don't think anything is going to be fine.

Crying into my hands, I let every ounce of sadness, anger, and fear out of my body before I grab my sketchbook and bring it against my chest, continuing to sob. Eventually, my brain goes numb, and my body is too exhausted to even move.

It's not polite to stare. This I know. Not to mention, it makes me look like a fucking creeper, which she likely already thinks I am.

But, goddamn, her face makes it hard not to do.

She's been asleep next to the pool for over an hour. I could leave her, but I'm afraid she'll somehow roll off the lounge chair and end up in the pool. So, instead, I lean down, slide my hands under her back, and lift her up. The way her neck is crammed to the side makes her look uncomfortable as hell. I see nothing inappropriate with putting her in her bed.

Slowly, I push myself back up to stand and head toward the door. As long as I stay out of the main living area, no cameras will pick me up carrying her.

Quickly, I turn toward the hallway where her room is when Rossi's voice stops me in my tracks.

"I'm not sure carrying Ms. James is in your job description, man," he says thoughtfully, giving me a damn heart attack.

Slowly, I half turn. "Yeah, well, she was asleep next to the pool, and I figured Enzo wouldn't want to risk her rolling into the water and drowning—not yet anyway."

Giving me a strange look, he raises his eyebrows a bit. "Careful, Hercules. Careful," he says before turning and walking in the opposite direction that I'm headed.

The look he gave me was a small warning. One that tells me I'm playing with fire. No, fucking dynamite.

I already know that. Yet here I am, sparking a lighter close to the fuse.

Quickly heading to her room, I push the door open and walk toward her bed. I hold her tightly in one arm before gently setting her down. Once she's down, I look around, seeing a throw blanket on the chaise lounge by the window, and grab it. But before I throw it on her, I see the small book she has tucked under her arm, safe and secure, even in her sleep.

I know I shouldn't look at whatever is inside of it. It's her personal property. And the girl has already lost enough of herself here that she doesn't need me snooping through her shit. But I can't walk out of here without knowing what's inside this book. There's not enough willpower inside of me to do that.

Carefully, I slide it from her hold and make sure she stays asleep before I flip it open. The first few pages are sketches that I know right away are from our outing in Rome the other day. I fight a smile, seeing the incredibly realistic drawing of the Colosseum, which somehow looks even more beautiful in Dove's sketch. But the third … there's no denying that one is of me.

I run my fingers over the pencil marks, imagining what she looked like as she sketched this. Was she happy? Pissed off? Did she draw me because she wanted to, or was she actually just sketching me so she'll have evidence to show the police who was here when she finally makes it back to the States?

She might have come willingly at first, but now … she's being kept here.

I continue flipping through page after page of random yet incredible drawings. Some of butterflies, flowers. Others of poor people in the streets or in what appear to be wastelands. And that's when I flip to a page that sends a jolt right to my dick and makes my breath hitch in my throat. A piece of artwork so detailed that I feel guilty for even staring at it, but I can't stop.

A picture of a girl sprawled out on a huge desk. Her mouth hangs open, and her eyes look pained with need as a man stands over her, looking down at her body.

But that's not why my cock is quickly hardening in my pants. No … it's that the girl is nearly naked.

And the dude is undoing his belt, getting ready to take what's his.

And it's not hard to tell by the tattoos on the man … it's me. And that the desk … well, it's the one in Enzo's office.

I stare too long, so badly wanting to pull my jeans down and stroke my aching cock, just knowing she drew this.

No, she fucking thought this.

Swallowing harshly, I flip the page, knowing that I shouldn't be looking at it. I can't fuck this girl. Hell, even being in here right now could get me killed. Sticking my cock in her? Yeah, consider me a dead man walking.

I continue to flip through some blank pages, but when I get to the end … there are no more drawings. No. Her sketchbook quickly switches to writing. Information. Intel.

Facts.

Written in pen is information about the Romanos—height, suspected weight, eye color, hair color, personality traits, etc. My eyes read through it all, and there's something written about every crew member and guard here at the complex, including Rossi and me.

Hudson Hercules.

At least six foot five.

Two hundred pounds.

Blue eyes.

Dirty-blond hair.

Very, very muscular.

Quiet. Grumpy?

Tattoos: far too many to count. But angel wings spread across his chest.

Favorite food: steak. Used to be chicken Alfredo.

I'm so engrossed in reading about myself—facts like what I eat for breakfast, when I work out, how I dress—that I don't hear her sneak up on me until she leaps in front of me and attempts to shove me backward.

"See something you like, asshole?" she hisses, pulling the sketchbook toward her, but I keep hold of it.

I smirk at her effort, knowing damn well I could toss her over my shoulder right now and all of this would be over.

"No, sweetheart." I narrow my eyes at her, grinning slightly. "But judging by a certain page in your book, I'd say you did."

Her eyes widen, and her cheeks turn red. Though I'm not sure if it's from embarrassment or if she's just incredibly angry with me. Somehow, I think it might be the latter.

"Yeah, well, if you think I'm going to die here and not leave behind evidence to show everyone that you were somehow involved, you're wrong."

The fact that she blurts the words out proves to me she doesn't actually think I'm going to hurt her. If she did, why the fuck would she show me her cards?

Letting go of her sketchbook, I cause her to stumble backward, landing in the chaise lounge. I walk across the room, close the door, and turn the lock. As I approach her, she scurries to sit up straighter on the chaise, shooting harsh glares at me.

"Go away," she hisses. "Get out of here before I start screaming!"

Standing before her, I stare down. "And who do you think would come help you?" I let my eyes roam over her body. "Perhaps the man whose desk you were imagining me fucking you on?"

This time, I know the redness in her cheeks is strictly shame.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's okay, sweetheart. I've thought about fucking you on his desk before too." I jerk my head to the side. "Shit, I've imagined fucking you while he watches."

"Shut up," she utters.

I know I should stop before this goes any further. I made a promise to another woman. A woman who isn't this one before me. But I'm so fucking lonely. And for whatever reason, she's all I want right now.

"That ache, Briar … the one between your legs when you imagine fucking your bodyguard on your fiancé's desk? Tell me, how do you make it stop?"

"I don't …" she breathes out, her eyes glazed over. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Show me, Dove. Show me how you fuck yourself when you imagine it's my cock inside of you."

She continues to stare at me, biting down on her bottom lip. "N-no."

"I won't touch you. I promise you that," I murmur, knowing I don't have it inside of me to touch another woman. But this … this will be different. "But I'd love to see you fucking soak your fingers. I know you want to." I nod toward her legs. "Pull those leggings down. Panties too."

It's written all over her face that she doesn't know if she should, but a part of her—a big part—wants to. After a minute or two, she reaches down, tugging off her bottoms, along with her panties, letting them fall to the floor.

"Good girl," I utter gruffly. "Top too. Let's see you play with those perfect tits. The ones I've pictured blowing my cum all over."

Sitting forward, she pulls her tank top over her head and throws it on the floor.

"No bra?" I groan. "Fuck, it's like you were begging for this to happen."

She's nervous, but not as nervous as most women would be in this position. She is brave. Strong.

Needy.

"Part those legs, Dove. Let me look at you." When she does as she was told, I suck in a breath, completely captivated by the work of art before me. "Fuck, baby. You're already glistening, and you haven't even touched yourself yet."

Slowly, she moves her hands so that they run over her beautiful tits, causing her pretty pink nipples to pebble below her touch. The sight of that huge fucking ring on her finger pisses me off, and I know right then that even though I won't be touching her … she is going to touch me.

Just once.

Reaching down, I unclasp my belt, followed by the button on my pants. I pull them and my briefs down just enough. I bring my hard, aching cock out, which only gets harder when her eyes land on it and she moans.

I palm myself, wrapping my hand around my cock before moving it back and forth a few times, letting my brain take mental pictures of her pretty pussy getting wetter with every glide of my fist.

"You like to watch me jerk my cock, Dove?" I say, keeping my voice low. Watching her hand move down her stomach before sliding between her thighs causes a deep moan to come from my throat. "Other hand," I growl with a shake of my head. "The last thing I want to see is that fucking ring inside of that perfect pussy."

Quickly, she pulls her left hand away and replaces it with her right.

"Fuck … me," I pant as she slips her fingers into herself.

"Show me how you'd like it if it were my fingers inside of you instead of your own," I command, tightening my grip on myself. "Go on, sweetheart. Fuck yourself. Make that pussy squeeze those fingers of yours."

"Hudson," she whispers, her eyelids beginning to look heavier. "Fuck …"

I lean forward, releasing myself, and hold my palm out before her mouth. "Spit, Dove. Give me something that'll make me feel like I'm fucking that wet pussy instead of my hand."

Bringing my hand closer to her lips, she gets my palm nice and wet, and I take it back to my length and jerk myself harder and faster. With my feet shoulder width apart, I watch her move her fingers in and out, her thighs beginning to shake.

"Come on those fingers, sweetheart. Drench yourself," I grunt, feeling my balls begin to tingle. "I might have said I won't touch you … but this is what I think about you wearing that ring on your finger," I growl out before grabbing her free hand and brushing it against the tip of my cock.

As my seed spills onto her fingers, I make sure it covers her ring with white. And she moans loudly, watching me come on her hand. She squeezes her eyes shut as her back arches, and she continues to whimper and hiss out a slur of words that I can't make out as she comes undone before me.

All the pain, the tension, the anger on her beautiful face is gone for a moment, and she fucking glows, her cheeks a deep red and her pussy so fucking pretty and pink.

I know I shouldn't be in here. I'll get us both killed. But, Jesus fucking Christ … I can't help myself.

As she pulls her hand from between her legs, her eyes flutter open, and right away, the panic is evident. Holding the hand that I've completely covered away from her, she rushes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her quickly.

While she's gone, I fix my pants and briefs, button my jeans, and adjust my belt before taking a seat on the edge of her bed. And then I wait until she's ready to face me.

After fifteen minutes, I poke my head out to find Hudson still on the edge of my bed.

His eyes find mine, and he shrugs. "I mean, it could be worse, right?"

The slight smirk that teases on his lips makes me want to grab my lamp and throw it at his head. But then he'd be dead, and I'd be no better than the rest of the people living in this house of insanity.

Besides, jail really doesn't sound fun.

I caught this man looking through my sketchbook—a total invasion of privacy.

And then he was all, like, Fuck your fingers in front of me , and I was, like, Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Why not?!

And then he covered my engagement ring in his jizz.

And I freaking liked it.

No. I loved it. It was the driving force behind my orgasm hitting so fast.

I'm losing my mind.

"How could this be worse?" I pace around, balling my hands at my sides. "I just let you—the same dude who wouldn't let me escape the other night, even though you know damn well they are going to kill me once they get what they want from Beckett—do whatever the hell we just did—"

"You fucked yourself in front of me and let me blow my load on your fingers," he mutters in that same unimpressed tone he always uses. The man sounds like a grumpy asshole ninety-nine percent of the time. "That's what we did. Quite simple really."

"Fuck you!" I hiss at him. "You don't get it! I need to get out of here. My brother needs me. My friend Poppy needs me! Her brother overdosed. I need to go home and be there for them!" I throw my hands into my hair, dragging them through it with aggravation. "My brother has been through enough in his life. Now, he's going to lose me. The only family member he has left."

Standing quickly, he takes a few large strides toward me, tilting my head up with his fingers on my chin. "Dove, you should know by now that I would never let anybody hurt you." His expression is serious as can be. "I'd burn this entire fucking country down before I let someone kill you."

"Then, why won't you let me leave?" I whisper, tears gathering in my eyes. "Just let me go!"

"What do you think was going to happen that night if I let you take off?" he snaps. "You really think that Enzo wouldn't have had people on every fucking corner and every street looking for you?"

"He doesn't even want me," I whisper, my lips trembling.

"No, he doesn't. And for that, he's fucking crazy," his deep voice rasps. "But I'm really happy that he doesn't."

"I don't understand you," I say, sighing.

"Just trust that I won't let anything happen to you," he answers, his eyes roaming my face. "I need to go before the others come looking. I'll figure out a way to get you home. Till then, please, for the love of fuck, just lie low."

I study his face, looking for any sign that this is a trap. I know I can't trust him. I shouldn't anyway. But right now, what other choice do I have?

So, reluctantly, I nod. "All right."

"Good girl," he utters, brushing his thumb on my bottom lip before slowly dropping his hand and walking out of the room.

Once he's gone, I collapse on the bed, putting my hand on my forehead. Because what the hell did I just do?

And why do I already want to do it again? Only this time … with his fingers inside of me instead of my own.

Among other things.