“There’s no going back. You said when you were done with me—”
I slammed my mouth over hers. Kissing her deep, harsh, brutal.
You’ll be ruined for everyone but me.
“Sweet girl,” I said, eyes still closed, lips still pressed. “I’m not even close to being done with you.”
Eighteen
ABIGAIL
I woke sore, rested, and happy for the first time in, I think, ever? Light filtered hazy through my curtains. The joint was dead and had burned the nightstand. I got a vicious glee thinking of how much it would piss off my mom if she ever cared enough to come in my wing.
I stretched my arms with a small groan, turned my head—and shot up.
Theo wasn’t in my bed; he wasn’t even in my room or at the doorway. I clasped my satin sheets to my chest, working the material beneath my fingers. Theo’s clothes were gone. Only the burned joint and the wine stain evidence anything had happened at all.
Beneath my fingers the stain had set; in the morning light, it was bolder, a deep burgundy.
Horrible, ugly, intrusive thoughts ran a mile a minute.
It meant nothing.
It was all just a game.
This was his plan all along—the door opened, cutting off my thoughts.
Theo.
He leaned against the frame, face unreadable. Wild, chocolate hair fell over one eye. His cheekbones were sharper in the shadow of the doorway, the muscle beneath dark and hollow. He folded his arms, back to his regular bodyguard uniform of a shirt and jeans, designed to blend in. Once again, that was a fool’s errand. He looked like a clandestine picture of a celebrity.
His shirt read: YOU’RE TOO CLOSE.
“Get up,” Theo said. “We have a plane to catch.”
He turned around, leaving the door open and empty in his wake. I could hardly breathe.
Did it really mean nothing to him?
I suddenly felt naked. So very naked.
We were in the air for an hour before Theo spoke to me. He was too close to me. His jeans rubbed against my bare thigh, and it was all I could think about. I was doing my best to act like I wasn’t bothered, and that meant I stared out the window.
For an hour.
I should’ve known he could see through me.
“Something wrong, Abigail?” His breath was against my ear, voice low and sultry like an intoxicating drug. I folded my arms.
Clouds. Focus on clouds.
“No.” The grumpiness in my tone must have been much too obvious, because he smirked.
He placed a hand on my bare thigh, and I nearly startled at the contact. When will I learn to wear pants? I looked around to see if anyone was watching—of course not, no one ever paid attention to me.
A sudden thought came to me. “Did you tell my mom anything?”
He was acting weird again, and paranoia was taking hold.