Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(60)

Slowly, I pull myself away from Lenny, crossing my arms over my chest. Her soft green eyes are unflinching as she tips her head back, meeting my gaze, and for a moment I expect tears.

A little lubrication to make swallowing her pride easier.

She drags a hand through her golden-brown locks, twisting the ends around her fingers, and draws in a shaky breath. I tense, waiting for the onslaught of emotion, prepared to reject it.

Instead, I get nothing, and for some reason, the sudden silence irks me more.

“You’re sorry,” I repeat, prodding her along.

“I am.”

“Okay.” Pausing, I wait for more, but the little puppet just continues staring. “Well, I don’t accept.”

Confusion knits through her brows. “Why not?”

“Why should I? The simple act of regurgitating a sentiment is hardly enough to make me believe you. If you’re sorry, prove it.”

Her mouth parts, and there’s a dark shift in the air. Something unnatural that pulses between us, an undercurrent of despair I haven’t felt in her presence before. It’s like the calm before a storm, when everything becomes very quiet and very still, and you know disaster is imminent.

Reaching up, I cover her lips with my palm and give a shake of my head. “I don’t mean some sort of spiel you’ve rehearsed. You give me the truth, or…”

She mumbles something against me, the vibrations tickling my skin. I pull back just enough for her to speak. “Or?”

Shrugging, I resist the urge to press her against the island and kiss her until neither of us remembers the word sorry. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, wanting nothing more than to apologize and take responsibility for her, just so I can spread her out on the counter and feast on her flesh.

Jesus Christ, Jonas. Get a hold of yourself, you wanker.

The image of her standing on the side of the road with her knobhead of an ex flashes across my mind, pressing against the sore spot on the back of my skull, and I remind myself that I can’t do it.

“You’re an artist,” I tell her, tapping her nose with my pinkie. “I’m confident you’ll think of something.”

Pulling back, I untangle myself from her warmth and walk over to the office door. Scooping the tablet up, I smirk when I see that not even the screen is cracked, and I turn it back on, heading out to the back porch to continue surfing through hours of footage.

With my legs propped up on the railing, I rock on the wooden swing, scrubbing back to over a month ago as I try to figure out who’s been lurking.

I’m not sure what the purpose of my new security system was if they can’t even pick up a simple intruder, and I don’t particularly like the idea of Lenny being completely defenseless in the event of an invasion.

Now, I’m regretting not just bringing her to my house in the first place. At least it has an underground bunker and more than just one official bedroom.

A futon is no place for a man of my size, and yet since moving Lenny in I’ve been sleeping on one, too stubborn to face the consequences of joining her at night.

Especially now that I’ve tasted her, albeit briefly, and I know what she looks like swallowing my cum. There’s no way I’d be able to sleep beside the little puppet and not wind up fucking her like some kind of drug addict.

Something in my chest pinches, and I reach up to rub the spot.

Is that what I am now?

Addicted to a girl I barely know?

Perhaps that’s why I crave her repentance so eagerly, because if she feels bad about our situation, I don’t have to.

The glass door leading to the kitchen slides open behind me, and Lenny steps out onto the porch a moment later, hugging her biceps.

“I’m not used to this, okay?”

Balancing the tablet on my knee, I sit back, looking up at her. With the sun shining in the sky, its warm rays extending through the clouds, she looks like an angel.

Though I know her to be anything but.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Ah, but you do. I’ve explicitly told you what I wanted to hear.”

Her face flushes crimson, matching the shade of the low-cut blouse she has on. “You want my truths.”

“What’s that old saying? A confession for a concussion.”

“That’s not a saying.”

My legs drop to the ground. “No, but I believe it’s a fair trade-off.”

Throat bobbing on a swallow, she turns her head and looks out at the ocean. She’s silent for several beats, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve lost her. Pushed too hard, so she’s slipped from the life preserver and into the bottomless sea.

“Did I really give you a concussion?” she asks quietly.

Setting the tablet aside, I reach up and rub the scabbed spot on my scalp. “Possibly. I didn’t check. I’m a grown lad, and I’ve had much worse.”

“Lots of people die from head trauma.”

“Your father didn’t.”

Whipping her head around, she presses her lips together. Swallows. Wrings her paint-stained fingers together like she’s tweaking, or perhaps nervous. Despondency colors her face, flushing her tan skin, and I lean forward, grabbing her hips and pulling her between my spread legs.

Sitting back, I prop my hands behind my head and wait.

I haven’t a bloody clue what I’m waiting for, but her discomfort scrapes at the dead edges of my soul. Begs for patience.