But Rath just gives me this look, mouth tipped into a loose, crooked, and decidedly post-coital grin. “Not even.”
Well, that’s fucking baffling. “Then why?”
He reaches up to rub the skin above it, a thoughtless gesture. “Territorial pissing. Same reason we like seeing it on her.” He watches me take this in, rolling his eyes at my shocked expression. “I don’t know why you think she’s so different from us. You ever wonder why this whole thing works? Fuck, man, the four of us basically made each other. My advice? Tell her about that tattoo on your arm sometime.” He goes to walk away, but pauses, doubling back. “Or if you want some really freaky sex, you could let her think it’s some other girl’s face for a while. When it comes to you, she never can see what’s right in front of her.”
He disappears into the bathroom, leaving me to process that. A moment later, I hear the shower turn on. Now that Story and I are alone, I fight the urge to climb into bed with her, to replace Rath’s warmth with my own. There are two reasons I don’t, one being that, even though this might be Rath’s room, it’s still breaking the spirit of our agreement. The second is a lot more complicated, but it involves me not being able to trust myself.
I slink away and lounge back on the couch instead, considering that I could sleep here. Rath wouldn’t mind. Chances are they’ll get up to some morning sex, and that could be fun to watch. It’s more action than Tristian’s sorry ass is getting, anyway.
I haven’t considered what to do when she wakes, which is inconvenient, because she does. Rath is still in the shower when she suddenly stirs, likely feeling his empty side of the bed. I don’t move, glued to my spot, watching as she sits up, hair messy. At first, her expression is serene. She’s obviously been well-fucked. But when she sees the empty bed, it morphs to a deep, troubled frown. She spends so long considering Rath’s absence that I almost give myself away to reassure her.
Idly, I wonder how they did it. Did he bend her over? Did he curl into her from behind, mid-cuddle? Did he climb over her, between her legs? Did he eat her pussy first, make her come before sliding his dick inside? Was it slow and intense, or was it like Tristian said: a psycho rage-fuck?
She stretches her arms over her head, giving me a perfect view of her tits. She doesn’t see me, barely even looks my way before bending to snag a black hoodie off the floor. With a glance to the bathroom, she shrugs her arms into each sleeve, zipping it as she stands. I wait for her to notice me, to sense me as she so often has, to catch me in the dark doing the one thing she’s forbidden me to do.
It never happens.
Her eyes go to the bathroom door, but she doesn’t follow him inside like I expect her to. Instead, she crosses the room, padding barefoot across the clean hardwoods and stopping in front of the closet door. A moment later, warm yellow light spills from inside. My suspicions pique. The last time she went into my closet, she roofied me, fucked with my stuff, strapped me to the bed, and then fucked me. Sure, that was before. Before our agreements. Before we let her go. Before she chose to return, under her own terms and conditions.
But Rath made a point before.
Sometimes it feels like I barely know her at all.
Impatient and curious, I leave my hiding place and occupy the closet door. She’s down on her knees, poking through a cardboard box on the floor. It’s the Dimitri Rathbone equivalent to a reinforced steel vault. Boy keeps everything in there.
Or he did, when he had something to keep.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorjamb. “It’s not there.”
She jumps a mile, yelp caught in the back of her throat as she whirls around. She shudders a long exhale when she sees me, eyes dropping closed in relief. “Jesus Christ, big brother. Wear a fucking bell around your neck.” She wraps her arms around her body, looking small in his sweater. “How long have you been in here?”
“Long enough to see the tag you left on Rath’s chest.”
“That’s between us,” she says, her voice still shaky from the surprise. That’s bullshit anyway. What happened in the funhouse was between the three of us. We all carved her up. Why is this any different? She looks me up and down, adding, “Just like anything else that happens in this room.”
Oh yeah, she’s pissed.
Join the club.
Her comment is pointed and I choose to deflect, glancing down at the open box on the floor. “Find what you needed?”
“I was just looking for his weed. He had a headache earlier, so I was going to—” I raise an eyebrow, and she looks back down, frowning as it dawns on her. “Where’s his piano money?”