Page 35 of Six
Big arms slide under my back and knees, and I’m suddenly airborne. I find myself on a warm lap. Rague’s lap; his musky scent fills my nose. He covers us with a soft blanket. His hands stroke my arm and back, but the coldness won’t go away. I try to fold my legs against my chest to create more warmth, to no avail.
After another endless, agonizing moment, Rague shifts us and lays me sideways, tucking me against his body. He wraps his arms around me, and I automatically slide my legs between his.
I blindly find his fingers on my hip and lace them with mine to keep him next to me, to assure myself that he’s here with me.
“I’m trying to give you my body heat,” he whispers into my hair. Whatever he’s doing is working. Under the blanket this close to Rague, I’m getting warm. My shivers slowly abate, and I start taking real notice of the position of our bodies. My head on his bare bicep, my back to his wide chest. His thigh pushing heavily on mine, legs intertwined. My butt cradled by his hips.
Rague starts softly humming while tracing warm patterns on the back of my hand with his thumb. At the touch, a spot in the center of my chest grows warmer.
We just lay there. And the last thought crossing my exhausted mind is that I don’t want this to ever end.
The light shakes me out of my slumber. I blink a couple of times to adjust my vision. A yawn leaves my lips, and I stroke a hand down my face. I just woke up, but I feel tired. My body is weak. So, I lay still and frown at the pure white ceiling. My gaze flicks around it. Where’s the wet, leaking spot? The mold? The cobwebs?
Fuck, I’m not in my bedroom in Dick’s house. Where am I? Memories bombard my mind, and I remember Rague finding me on the street and taking care of me.
I look down. There’s a door to a bathroom on my left and a high wooden dresser next to it, white curtains framing a window. I push myself up on my elbows to check what’s outside when movement out of the corner of my eye gets my attention.
Rague is silently standing in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The grey sweats ride low on his trim hips and the cotton shirt wraps his wide chest like a second skin. Despite his relaxed posture, his eyes are as sharp as ever as they stay fixed on me. Studying me.
“How do you feel?” he asks, his thoughts hiding under that blank expression. Did my mind make up his worried voice while I was sick?
I’m about to reply when I realize I’m not wearing my tank top or jeans. I’m freeballing under a huge t-shirt that smells like Rague. Did he change me? I should feel violated, seeing that I was out of it, but for some reason, I trust him. And even if he took a peek, I’d actually like it. But then, the thought of all the inconvenience I put him through makes me feel embarrassed and self-conscious. He must be counting down the minutes before I get out of his hair.
“I feel better.” I give him a nervous smile. “Sorry, I’ll go now. I’m sure you have…things to do.”
I pull myself up, pushing my weak body into a sitting position. But Rague closes the distance to the bed and positions two pillows behind my back before gently forcing me to lay on them.
“Not going anywhere,” he grunts and then disappears behind the door on my right.
I take that time to go to the bathroom. It’s not easy to stand up, but I manage awkwardly. My legs are shaking under my weight like I haven’t used them in weeks. The wooden floor is cold under my feet, and I use the wall to hold myself up all the way to the bathroom. I relieve myself—going commando strangely ignites a sense of freedom—and then stop in front of the sink. My reflection in the mirror scares the shit out of me. My long hair is a messy, frizzy nest, dirty locks pointing in every direction. The black shadows under my eyes and the huge bruise on my jaw are more noticeable against the paleness of my skin. I look like a sickly ghost—if that’s even a thing.
I wash my hands, face, and mouth, and then look around at the nicest and largest bathroom I’ve ever been in. I’m searching for a brush when I hear noises from the bedroom. Rague suddenly appears on the threshold, and like a swooning damn damsel at the sight of her hero, my legs buckle. I’d have hit the edge of the sink if Rague hadn’t come to my rescue and fucking lifted me up bridal style. Even though I feel like everything is spinning around me I let him know my indignation.
“Put me down, you beast!”
He ignores my words and takes me to bed. And gently, so gently in contrast to his size and strength, he lays me on the mattress and covers my bare legs with the blanket. He puts a tray on my legs.
“Eat. You need to get stronger again,” he tells me, crossing his arms like he’s expecting me to fight him on this. But he doesn’t know me, because I never say no to free food. The fragrant smell of chicken soup tickles my nostrils, and I suddenly realize how hungry I am. I start gulping it down, moaning when I try one of the small pieces of bread floating on the warm soup surface.
Rague stays quiet, sitting in the armchair near the bed. I can feel his piercing eyes on me, following every small movement I make, every emotion appearing on my face.
He must be fucking amazing in bed. Imagine all that intensity on me as his big cock slides inside. He’d know when to go harder, faster, when to go wild and hurt me, when to stop deep inside and grind his heavy balls against my ass, stretching my inner walls with his thickness. How hard to tighten his hand around my throat. He would detect every small change in my gasps, know how badly I want him to grab my ass, spank it, pin me to the mattress, arms over my head, wrists cuffed by his long fingers, his mouth sucking my neck. I enjoy my dirty daydream fantasy so much that the chub under my shirt throbs. Unfortunately, the tray hides it. Or maybe that’s good, since I look like Edward Scissorhands. Rague would probably jerk back if he could read my dirty thoughts right now. Maybe he can.
“Is it some kind of technique to extract information?” I ask cockily.
He just raises an eyebrow.
“Your stare.”
“Guess it’s a family trait,” he responds cryptically.
“Big family?” I don’t know much about him and find myself wanting to.
“Foster family. Six brothers. Two mothers,” he replies with few words, but they say a lot. His biological parents aren’t in the picture. I wish I had the same luck.
“Do you ever get confused when calling your brothers?” I ask curiously. I sometimes confuse Sully with Pink and vice versa. It’s kind of hilarious.
“No.”
