Page 66 of Lethal Torture
I don’t know what I was expecting.
A man cave full of black leather, maybe?
A sports bro kind of vibe?
Whatever expectations I might have subconsciously formed, Luke’s apartment fits none of them.
It’s peaceful. Sparse, yes, but tasteful and surprisingly elegant. Hardwood floors, with plants and rugs that wouldn’t look out of place in my own apartment. Books instead of a TV. A chair on the balcony set just far enough back that I can imagine Luke with his long legs resting up on the railing, contemplating the river over a drink. It’s an oddly endearing thought.
One chair.I’m secretly relieved there’s no evidence of a Mrs. McTasty in the apartment.
I have to stop calling him that.
He clearly uses the kitchen, given the overflowing fresh fruit bowl, multiple appliances, and an entire window box of very healthy-looking herbs. There’s something delicious about imagining him here, cooking. Perhaps it’s because of the way I felt when he was in the kitchen of my own apartment.
As if he belonged there.
I can picture him here, too.
Walking around in sweats.
Bare chested.
Jesus, Zin. Get a grip.
Somehow my explorations have led to the bedroom.
Not somehow. I think I was always headed here.
The bed is huge.
Not surprising, really. If I was Luke’s size, I’d want a decent bed, too, especially after years of army camps. The scent of him lingers in here, fresh as an ocean breeze. I find myself smiling. I can imagine him walking out of the rain shower, toweling himself off.
I can imagine myself waiting for him on the white Egyptian cotton sheets.
A bolt of heat hits me between the legs.
Luke, hard as an iron bar, his rock-solid bulk looming over my naked body.
I’m instantly wet. I stare at the vast, neatly made bed, unable to think of anything but Luke taking me on it until I can’t fucking breathe.
I need to get out of here.
I’m turning to leave when a photograph in a silver frame on the bedside table catches my eye.
Luke is standing with his arm around a smiling pretty woman with dark hair who leans her head on his shoulder. She has her hands clasped over the chest of a young boy standing in front of her. Another, younger boy is sitting up on Luke’s shoulders, his ankles held by Luke’s huge hands. They’re all sporting deep outdoor tans and grinning like maniacs. Going by the white sand, surfboards, and deep blue sea in the background, the picture was taken on a beach somewhere in Australia. It’s the most wholesome, happy family snap I’ve ever seen.
It makes me want to kill something. Or throw up. Or both.
He’s got a family.
I don’t know why that should surprise me. It’s not like I asked Mak for a personal deep dive on the man before hiring him. I was more interested in Luke’s professional capabilities than his private life.
But it still upsets me far more than it should.
I pick up the photograph, scrutinizing it closely. Luke is wearing a wet suit that is peeled down low on his hips, exposing the length of his torso.
He’s a fucking machine.
