Page 56 of Chad's Chase
Climbing into the warm tub, I kicked back and allowed myself to soak and relax without a care or worry for a steady, undisturbed twenty minutes before draining the water from the tub, and going over to the rain shower. After another fifteen minutes under the rain shower, I blow-dried my hair, caught it back in a ponytail and went back into the bedroom.
On the bed Vivian had laid out black lace underwear with matching bra and a flirty white dress. Almost barfing at the thing, I went to the closet and chose black leggings and a white, sleeveless turtleneck that clung to me like a second skin.
Scary enough, the apparels were all a perfect fit. No idea how he knew what sizes to get.
Chad was a very peculiar man. And repulsively arrogant.
Fluffing my ponytail, I trekked out the bedroom, intent on taking liberties. Mainly because hunger was seriously starting to do a number on me.
When I got to the end of the hall leading out into the open-floor-plan penthouse, I halted, just for a second, to admire my captor.
In dark denims and an extra-slim fit navy blue button shirt tucked inside his denims, held up by a dark brown Emporio Armani leather belt, he was sitting on a bar stool at the breakfast bar, hunched over the morning paper while stuffing a strawberry in his mouth.
There was something about the way he wore his clothes that gave him this irresistible allure. More than the average man, his clothes were always extra-slim-fitted. And because he was lean built instead of heavily muscular, it just worked. On anyone else, the close-fitting style would probably come off as queer, but not Chad.
Chad owned it. Owned his style, owned his body, owned his appeal.
Just like no one wears a suit better than Matt Bomer, no one did tight-fitting semi-formal better than Chadrick Niiveux.
His dirty blond hair was damp and finger-combed backwards, the length a little too far down his neck than I preferred. One leg stretched out to the ground, the other propped up on the stool leg, his attention given solely to the newspaper on the counter in front of him.
Why did it please me this much to see him? To stare at him? I was supposed to hate this man for ruining my life. Not get hot and bothered for him, or beg him to kiss me, or dream of him making sweet, passionate love to my body.
He was not a good man. He could not be trusted. He was a liar, a manipulator, and a murderer. Not that I was any better. I was all of those things, too. But this particular man, Chadrick Niiveux, was not supposed to be trusted. Period.
Yet I did.
It was like that horrible episode from twelve years ago never happened.That’swhat happened whenever I looked at Chad: I saw nothing, I remembered nothing, and I thought of nothing…but him.
How did he do that? I didn’t know.
But frighteningly enough, Ilikedthat he did that to me. That he made me forget things. Made me forget purpose and reason. That he made me feel ineffable things. Things that made me believe there could be a better ending to my story.
This was sick, and fucked up.
Then again, my whole life had been sick and fucked up, so maybe sick and fucked up just had a certain appeal to me because I knew no better.
Chad’s brand of sick and fucked up, I liked it, I wanted it, I craved it.
After a year and three decades of standing and staring at him, I resumed walking, going to sit next to him at the breakfast bar.
The morning paper still held his attention. I wasn’t worthy of it.
I reached over and tugged his overgrown hair down his nape. “You need a haircut.”
Biting into his strawberry, Chad slowly turned his head to share his attention, and his eyes narrowed in on my face, seemingly assessing the mild damage caused by his own hand the night before. As a glimpse of remorse flickered over his features. He dragged his gaze from my face and swept it down my body before saying, “I see I got the sizes right.”
“To a T,” I agreed.
Vivian materialized, asking, “Coffee or tea, Miss?”
“Coffee.”
Vivian portioned me a decent breakfast—a dish loaded with something from each food group, poured me a cup of coffee and then disappeared.
Alone with Chad again, I turned to fire up a conversation, but he was already on his feet, closing the paper and readying to leave.
“Where are you going?”
