“Ribs are good. And Dr. Pepper if you have it, please.”
“That will be a full rack for you, Hunter, and half for the lady?”
Presumptuous. “No, full for both,” he corrects. Brownie points for the fake boyfriend being able to figure out what his fake girlfriend wants.
She nods, her eyes lingering on Hunter for a second longer than what is appropriate for professional staff, then saunters away, putting a little extra sway in her hips and making her tiny skirt ride dangerously close to revealing all the goods. My gaze snaps to Hunter’s, and he still hasn’t looked away from me. I’m not even sure he’s blinked.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “You are dressed like my every fucking fantasy come to life, and you want to know why I am looking at you? The more pertinent question would be why wouldn’t I be?”
I glance down at the outfit I threw on in a rush because my mind was focused on ribs and nothing else. High waisted ripped dark jeans, an unassuming black belt, and a white shirt that ties in a knot at my belly button. There’s a little cleavage on show, but nothing that shouts sex appeal, and certainly nothing warranting the carnal look Hunter’s giving me right now.
“You aren’t a fan of the tiny skirts and shirts?” I quip, lifting a brow.
“I’m a fan of anything and everything you are wearing or not wearing. Ideally, all of your clothes should be in a chaotic pile on my bedroom floor.”
I snort a laugh, then jump. I don’t laugh often, but it seems Hunter manages it on a daily basis.
“We should touch,” he declares.
“What?”
My brain is still focused on the bedroom floor comment.
His lips twitch, and he slides his hands forward until they wrap around my wrists, dragging them closer to him before encompassing my fists inside of his. “Touch, Ellie, it’s what couples do.”
“I’m not big on PDA,” I breathe. That’s an understatement. I hate it. But given my relationships are normally confined to one night of physicality behind closed doors, it’s fair to say I haven’t really experienced it.
“Relax,” he mutters, his thumbs brushing against my skin.
“Easy for you to say.”
Growing up, I was taught the things a husband and wife did together only happen in private. Sure, the women had to submit to their husbands, kneeling at their feet while he read the scriptures, waiting to cater to his every whim. But affection? If there was any happening—which I doubted—was restricted to the bedroom. Not that I got that far… a saving grace. But even before our wedding night, we were never permitted pleasure.Sex was something to be endured, part of Jonathan’s ongoing torment to keep everyone in their place.
He shakes his head and lifts my hands before nipping the tip of my index finger. I jolt, the little zip of pain breaking me out of my thoughts. “Stay with me,” he demands softly.
I swallow the bubbling panic of breaking more of Jonathan’s rules, which I should have long ago hammered out of my psyche. Hating the monster still had such a hold over me. I once read it takes years to deprogram someone from a cult, and that was for people who at least knew of a life before they’d gotten caught up in the sticky web of their leaders. It’s the same kind of theory that holds true for victims of domestic violence; it can take years after someone leaves to accept and understand that they were a victim at all. That’s where the law is fucked up in this country. The statute of limitations protects the abuser. We have made positive moves in some states, but there is still so much work to do.
“Ellie,” he admonishes. I give my head a shake. I got lost again. It’s easy to do when I’m away from the multiple screens and data streams demanding so much of my brain I can’t let the demons in. I know it’s not a healthy coping mechanism, but I keep being told murder is wrong—so it’s at least healthy for everyone around me.
“Sorry. I need a distraction.” My heart stutters in my chest. I’ve never admitted that to someone. Hunter is breaking through so many of my carefully constructed barriers it’s making me dizzy.
“Let’s share some things couples would know.”
Twenty questions? Wonderful. He’s about to find out how shallow I am.
He keeps a grip on my hands and stares at me like he’s waiting for me to wimp out. Fat chance. Even baring my barrensoul is preferable to sinking into the despair of my childhood. “Okay, you start.”
He blinks in surprise, which makes me a little happy. I expect he’ll go for something sexual.
“Favorite color?”
Well, consider me corrected. “Peach.” It’s calming but bright, and goes against every rule we had at the compound. Many of my favorites and choices are the antithesis of that drab existence. “You?”
“Blue.”
“What kind of blue?”
