“Yeah?” he asks wickedly, running his lips along my cheek, pausing just before they reach mine. “Do I need to give you a taste of your other option first? I’d hate to release you just for you to run. I can’t promise I’ll be so forgiving once I catch you.”
Dammit.
That’s exactly what I hoped to do.
As much as I loathe to admit it, if there’s one thing Dread knows very well, it’s me. I’ve been fighting with him for four years now, and, unfortunately for him, I know him very well, too.
Nothing I do surprises him anymore. He’s the type of person who absorbs the world around him like a fucking sponge. Countless times, I've noticed him watching me with vulture eyes.
“I said I’ll fuck you,” I snap, glowering at him.
He hums, taking his time studying me before dropping his stare to my mouth again, like he can’t seem to help himself.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to kiss me. His eyes linger for a few moments, but when he lifts them back up to mine, a small, amused smile quirks his lips. Then, he pushes off me and stands, allowing me to take a breath for what feels like the first time in several long minutes.
I scramble away from the edge of the pool, quickly standing and putting several feet of distance between me and the water. My chest loosens with each inch, and the relief of it is almost dizzying.
But when I turn my attention to Dread, the relief dissipates like smoke, and his namesake fills my gut instead.
The tension is as thick as the smell of chlorine as he watches me. Blue light dances across his face from the pool water, startling againstthe sharp cut of his jawline, the thin scar cutting through the arch of his thick brow, his straight nose. The silver hoops in his ears and nose glint, and it’s criminal how well he pulls it off.
He could break me in fucking half with ease, and I’m terrified he may just do that. Whether it’s with his hands or…
God,I don’t even want to think about it, to be honest. I’m not a virgin by any means, but I don't have a large body count, either.
I dated one guy, Matthew, my sophomore year. It lasted seven months before it ended, primarily because of Dread. His bullying created tension between us, considering Matthew was always having to defend me and constantly getting into fights with Dread. It wore him down over time. At one point, Matt was even convinced we’d fucked, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Aside from him, I slept with a few others. Over summer breaks, I’d choose one state to explore and would usually come across a guy or two to take the edge off. None of them were memorable as far as sex went, but it was enough to familiarize myself with what to do and not to do.
Still, standing here before Dread, who I’m sure has been with many women, my stomach tightens with apprehension.
Even worse, the men I've been with were all pretty average-sized. I have only felt the imprint of Dread, and it's fucking daunting, to say the least.
That amused smirk widens, and with one last heated, lingering look, he turns and walks away. I take the opportunity to inhale as deeply as I can before my breath whooshes out in a shuddery exhale. Then, I follow him, not entirely sure where we’re going but thankful it’s away from the pool.
He leads me toward a blue-painted steel door and pushes it open to reveal a locker room.
If my life were on the line and I had sixty seconds to locate exactly where my heart is, I’d end up dead. It seems to have vacated the premises, and instead of it beating in just one central part, it feels like my entire body is thumping.
I step into the room but stop at the entrance as the door slowly closes behind me, the softsnicksounding more like a bomb detonating.
After toeing off his shoes and socks, he grabs the back of his gray hoodie and pulls it over his head, the white T-shirt beneath lifting to reveal an expansive, tattooed, muscled back before dropping again. Iclasp my sweaty hands together, twisting my fingers as he approaches a long bench off to the left side of the room, swings his leg over, and sits down.
Those long, black strands fall over his eyes, and when he lifts them up to mine, I struggle to maintain my critical thinking skills. They’re filled with a white-hot heat, releasing plumes of tension into the air like smoke until we’re engulfed in a dense fog. There doesn’t seem to be an atom of oxygen left in the room outside of it.
I cross my arms, uncaring if it makes me look uncomfortable. Iamuncomfortable.
“Do you have a condom? I get enough shit from you. I don’t need STDs on top of it.”
I was hoping my question would offend him, but there’s no change in his impassive expression.
“Can’t say I do,” he replies simply. “But I can say I’ve never fucked without one before.”
I arch a brow. Instinctively, I want to doubt that, but with his status as an Olympic legend—and likely with a very decent-sized bank account because of it—I also don’t doubt Dread is very careful with getting STDs or knocking someone up.
“What ifIhave an STD?”
“Do you?”
