Page 31 of Take Me to Church
I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard I should smile more. How many men have told me I shouldn’t look so sad, when they have no idea what the reality of my life is… That I’m terrified for my sister’s safety, and what she’s going through never leaves my mind.
They don’t realize, or more likely don’t care, that my smiles are an act. A calculated and carefully curated facade, because I understand how they work and what they can accomplish.
So I do it now. I smile. “It’s really fine.”
I expect Christian to be happy he’s getting what he wants—what all men want—but that dark, foreboding look on his face only intensifies as he crowds closer. “Don’t lie to me, Lydia.”
My smile barely falters and not because I’m scared.
When Christian is being careful with me, he’s every bit the way I remember him. But when he’s looking at me the way he is now, it’s clear I don’t know him nearly as well as I think. Because right now he’s looking at me the way I imagine the wolf looked at Little Red Riding Hood.
Like he’s more than willing to chase me down if I run. Like no matter how hard I try, there’s no escaping him. He will find me. Always.
I don’t hate the thought, but the rest of the story is a little trickier. Especially since the wolf was out to eat Little Red Riding Hood.
Except—
My thighs clench together involuntarily as my sheltered brain plays catch up, quickly filling in a much more debaucherous story. One that’s even more appealing than the thought of Christian hunting me down to keep me safe.
I can’t stop the strangled sound I make as visions of Christian’s mouth, hot and hungry between my thighs, embed themselves in my brain.
Christian closes his eyes, tipping his head back as he takes a deep breath. “I know you hate this, and I wish there was another way.” His head drops and his eyes level on me once again. “But there’s not.”
I swallow, hoping to form coherent words as heat thrums through my body, building into a pulse that throbs in my nipples and pussy. “It’s okay. I promise.”
This time I mean it, because now that I’m really thinking about it, maybe Little Red Riding Hood didn’t have it so bad after all.
Especially if her wolf was anything like Christian.
12
CHRISTIAN
MY HOUSE IS as quiet and dark as ever as I walk in through the back door. Everything inside is the same. The kitchen I painstakingly built using refurbished cabinetry my company removed from a five million dollar home last year. The adjoining great room, with its large sectional and big screen television. The slightly creaky reclaimed oak flooring and the lingering scent of cut wood and polyurethane from the refinished hutch I added along the back wall a few weeks ago.
Coming home tonight shouldn’t be any different than the hundreds of times I’ve done it before.
But it is.
Because tonight, for the first time, I’m not coming home alone.
“So this is where you live too?” Lydia comes into the space behind me, scanning the rooms as I flip on lights.
I nod, watching as she inspects the home I’ve painstakingly assembled over the past three years, wondering if she sees it the same way I do.
Lydia tucks her chin, lifting her brows as her eyes find their way back to my face. “So you just give strange people your home address and the code to your gate?” Her eyes drift away, slowly moving around the kitchen. “Aren’t you worried someone will come in and do something awful?”
I remain silent because I’m not sure I want to rehash tonight’s events by explaining just how unworried I am about that possibility.
When Lydia’s eyes jump back to mine, it becomes clear she didn’t need reminding. “Yeah. I guess not.
I flip the deadbolt on the back door and engage the security system, not because I’m concerned someone will come in and try to get me. Right now I’m equally worried one of Rodney’s cohorts will try to get at Lydia in retaliation, and that Lydia’s willingness to be here with me isn’t as genuine as she’s claiming it is. I don’t want to be yet another man she thinks she has to placate.
“The bedrooms are on the second floor.” I grab the suitcase we quickly packed at her apartment, rolling it down the hall.
As I haul it off the floor when we reach the stairs, the lightness of the luggage bothers me just as much as the sparseness of her belongings did while I waited for her to collect them. Lydia’s closet was practically empty, and most of the items in it looked like work clothes. She owns three pairs of shoes. About as many pairs of jeans and shorts. The majority of her wardrobe was shirts, probably because those are cheap and easy to rotate through.
It’s clear she hasn’t spent much of the money she’s made working at The Cellar, which has got to be a decent amount. She’s cute and sweet and exactly the kind of woman an inebriated man loves to throw tips at in the hope it will earn him a little attention.
