Chapter 17 - Clover

CHAPTER 17 - CLOVER

R iggs just stares at me for a moment. Like he's in the middle of some big existential crisis. Probably wondering how the hell we got here. Yesterday morning, we still hated each other. He was still blindfolding me. One day later and we're talking about a future where the two of us are together.

Not only that, we're naked and still wet from the shower. Where we had sex.

Really, really nice sex, actually.

Riggs starts shaking his head at me.

I can't read his mind so I don't really know what he's thinking. But it's something negative or why would he be shaking his head? So I'm guessing he's thinking this is never gonna work.

And I sort of agree. It's a stupid fantasy to think I might end up loving this man—this kidnapper—for the rest of my life.

So I just take his hand and turn, walking right over to the bed and getting in. Not asking if he wants to, or playing shy, or anything like that.

There's no time for that.

We get one day. So I'm gonna enjoy it.

He gets in bed, already reaching for me. The next thing I know, he's got me by the waist and he's pulling me on top of him. There is a moment of awkwardness until he's inside me, and then my hands come down on his hard abs and as I gaze down at this man between my legs, I let out a breath and start moving.

His eyes are bright and almost dancing with mischief as he grins up at me. His hands are sitting lightly on my hips. They slide up over the curve of my waist until finally, he's cupping my breasts.

A whirlwind of thoughts and feelings are twisting up inside me. If I was rational right now—still comfortably inside my own reality—I would have a thousand things to say to this man. A million questions that would need answering before I could give up my mind, or my heart, or my body.

But nothing about what is happening to me is rational, so why should my feelings be any different? "I must've hit my head pretty hard that first day," I say.

He's been staring at me this whole time, fondling my breasts and rocking us in a slow up-and-down rhythm. His smile falters, and then the next thing I know, he's flipping me over. A fluff of air tickles my cheeks as my head crashes into the soft pillow when we trade places. He nudges my knees open with his legs, settles down comfortably, resumes our carnal dance, and places his hands along the side of my face.

I'm expecting an answer here. I'm thinking he's gonna say something. Something profound about reality, maybe. Or trust, since that seems to be our theme.

But he just stares at me with those werewolf eyes of his for so many seconds, I start thinking that he'll never speak again and all my questions will remain unanswered.

This whole time, we're still moving. He's still fucking me. But it's agonizingly slow and borders on the sublime, adding merit to the idea that this must be a dream. I'm back there in my basement, starving and dying of thirst. Alone in the dark. Tied up and helpless.

It's all fake. A delusion comin' off as real because I'm on the edge of my own demise.

But then he speaks. And his voice is as gentle as his touch. "Reality provides us with facts so romantic that imagination itself could add nothing to them."

I smile, trying to play those words back in my head so I don't lose them.

"Do you know who said that, Clover?"

"You."

Which makes him laugh. And how did I not notice how sexy his laugh is? My God. It comes off as a rumble inside his chest, and if I were still a Disciple girl, I'd be writing poetry right now about the glory that comes after.

"No. I mean, yes, I did just say that. But I wasn't the first. It was Jules Verne."

I giggle over this revelation, which delights him further.

"It's all real, Clover." He plays with my hair for a moment, pushing it out of my face like he needs to see me better. "Who needs fiction when this is the world we actually live in?"

This doesn't explain anything, but I don't even care. There is something between us now. Something of a bond. Like synergy. Like loyalty. Like… trust . "I think I like you, Riggs."

But his reaction to my declaration is to press his lips together, which erases his smile. He wants to say something. Maybe… I like you too. Or maybe something more supportive, but also a fiction, like… It's all gonna work out. We're gonna be just fine.

Instead, he leans down and kisses me on the forehead. Which is a pity kiss, in my opinion. A gentle way of offering moral support. My heart is starting to crack and my frown is immediate as he does this because I'm convinced that we're cursed. This whole thing is pointless.

But when he lowers down, kissing each of my eyes, forcing them to close—forcing me to take a breath—the cracking stops. It doesn't mend, it just stops.

I lie there, his hips still moving. Still rocking me. Lulling me into a sense of calm easiness.

When he speaks, his words are a whisper. Just a feathery touch against my cheek. And they are neither lies, nor fantasy. "It's not gonna work out for us, Clover. We're doomed. But I'll take doomed over nothing. This one day with you as a free man is worth more than a hundred years as a slave."

Then his mouth finds my lips and no more words are spoken.

Because there is no time for words when you're doomed.

Every moment counts.

I don't want to let go. I'm not the kind of woman who plays life like a game, who lives every day like it's my last. Even though I plan weddings, I'm a worker, mainly. Not a romantic. I like coordinating things, obviously. I like checking things off lists, and problem-solving, and results.

I really, really like results.

So my first instinct is to protest and hash this out until I get my desired ending. The happily ever after, if you will. I mean, isn't that the whole point of a wedding?

But I don't feel much like myself right now.

In fact, I don't have the slightest idea of who I am.

So I drift into this new reality with him where we're some kind of Bonnie and Clyde couple. Racing through this day as if it's our last.

Our movements pick up and he leans on me a little harder. A little heavier. Still holding my face. Still kissing my mouth. And we just fuck. It becomes so intense, I find myself digging my fingernails into his shoulders, then scraping them down his back.

He bites me again. In the very same place, right on that muscle below my neck. We both come when he does that, his soft words, barely a whisper, floating into my ear. "There. You've got yourself a hickey."

Which makes it all end with a smile.

He rolls off me, but immediately pulls me in next to his chest. Even though it's morning, I have a heavy sense of fatigue and being so close together, I am warm and comfortable in way I don't ever think I'll feel again.

So I'm drifting off—it is a way to prolong the dream, after all—when his words tickle the back of my neck. "I'll come back for you, Clover. And then we'll have time."

"Time for what?" I sleepily ask.

"To fall in love, of course."

I don't know why this makes me happy because nothing has changed. Our doom is still very much preordained. But this promise, empty as it might be, is exactly what I needed to hear.

So I believe him.