Imperfect Bastard (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

Drew had apparently mapped out what the rest of the day entailed, even when I was in dire need to use the restroom. The moment I mentioned I had to go, he didn’t even give me a chance to object; he simply took me to the powder room located between the kitchen and living room—which wasn’t a far journey—and then he took it upon himself to make sure I was the least inconvenienced. He even went as far as to absurdly offer to sit me down, which I vehemently rejected. I mean, I had to learn how to use the bathroom all by myself sometime. Besides, after last night’s one-sided intimate encounter, I wasn’t ready for another close call. My heart and sanity could only handle so much.

The afternoon was anything but productive. We ended up spending it lounging in the living room, going through half of the first season of
The Originals
. I wasn’t big on vampire romance nor was he, but we somehow ended up watching the first episode and couldn’t seem to quit Niklaus Mikaelson and his crazy vampire family. Talk about eccentric, manic, narcissistic personalities with a dash of forbidden love, danger, sex, blood, and witchcraft. It was an enthralling recipe. Hell, it sure beat watching any of those scripted reality franchises with squabbling women who made me feel like the sanest person alive.

As the time stuck five-thirty, I was surprised when someone buzzed the doorbell. When Drew came back from checking who it was, he had a massive paper bag in his hand with a Mastro’s logo emblazoned on it.

“Dinner’s here, he announced before setting the contents on the coffee table in front of us.

I wasn’t going to lie; I salivated like no other at the smell of perfectly charred steak and the thought of lobster mashed potatoes and creamed corn.

“You weren’t joking when you said a full meal. You really go all out by getting my favorites, knowing t I won’t be able to say no.”

He responded with a smug smile. “Oh, yeah, I’m bringing out the big guns, woman.”

There was no doubt that he was. I wasn’t even sure the restaurants did delivery, but he had somehow managed it.

“You’re bent on making me fat.”

“I’m bent on making sure you enjoy the simplest things in life—the power of taste,” he emphasized. “It’s good to indulge once in a while.”

The power of taste, my chunky ass. I smirked at him, irritatingly amused by him. Whatever. I was beyond delighted that he had chosen to feed me nothing but the best. He sure did enjoy spoiling me in his own way. It was a reminder of how things had been between us before. His thoughtfulness never failed to make my heart skip a few beats.

“I’ll go ahead and get some utensils. What can I get you to drink?”

“Diet coke. I’ll need to burp after all this.”

“You bet.”

He came back with my soda and a beer for himself.

“Can I press play now?” I glanced at him, hoping we could watch and eat at the same time. There was no way I could properly eat without my mind running back to the Mikaelson. When I got obsessed with a new show, there was no stopping me, like with everything else in my life. It wasn’t a shocker, really.

“Nice try. Like I could really stop you from pressing that button, babe, but thanks for asking.” He smirked before taking a big gulp of his drink.

Without hesitation, I pressed the button on the remote, resuming where we had left off. Not that I was consumed by being cozy with Drew since the show was beyond entertaining, but when our hands crossed paths while forking a side dish, I couldn’t help blushing deeply. It was idiotic, yet it felt like home … and that last bit of revelation taunted me each and every time our gazes connected. It was as disconcerting as it was heartwarming.

There was nothing left on my plate, not even a streak of lobster mash. I was half-expecting him to joke about my newfound appetite, but he didn’t seem to care.

Once we set aside the empty containers, Drew decided to take my good foot and place it on his thigh, mindlessly massaging it with his thumbs.

Okay, as interesting as the show was, my attention solely shifted back to the man. How could it not? He had been extra touchy since last night. I supposed touchy wasn’t the perfect term to describe it, because the bathroom scene had gone past “touchy” and more like a one-sided foreplay. Was it so wrong that a mere foot massage could ramp up a sex-starved woman like me? Hell, all right, I fucking wanted the man to just put me out of my misery. Instead, he was keen on these gradual brushes, gazes. and massages.

If his intentions were to make me pant like a rabid dog, well say no more. I was panting, gasping, and gagging for it. I wanted to openly beg for more yet didn’t want to come off as desperate.

Sure, I acted like quite the bitch when the mood struck me, but begging for sex was out of my forte, let alone trying to seduce a man. Considering my lack of sexual experience, how did one go about it without coming off tacky?

“Drew …” I drawled, not knowing what to say next.

“Hmm?” He barely glanced at me, his eyes trained on the screen.

His side profile was a work of art. I admired it with a certain longing. My hands itched to touch it, trace it, caress it with my fingers… with my lips. I wanted to worship him, show him how good I could make him feel if he only gave me the chance. But last night had proved just how much he liked to be in control of the situation, so I somehow doubted I would ever know how it would feel to kiss him like I had often pictured in my head. That one night I had spent with him … He had kissed me everywhere, but never did he dare kiss me like he had with the women I had seen him with. Even that woman he had screwed in his bedroom, he had kissed her like no one’s business while he fucked her until the bed shook to the point of almost collapsing.

“What is it?” he murmured, squeezing my foot.

Why didn’t you ever kiss me like that?
I wanted to demand answers, but something made me bite my tongue. It was partly because I feared his response would hurt me.

“I’m curious about something …” I began, seeing him raise his brow and cock his head toward me. “You know … about last night. Why did you do that?”

If he says he felt sorry for me, I’m seriously going to kick him in the balls.

He considered me with those penetrating eyes, locking them with mine, delving into my depths. “There’s something about the way you moan my name … I can’t resist it,” he said, unblinking, holding me prisoner. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you again.”

Well, that was beyond unexpected.

“Oh.” My mind went blank.

“I’m sure you’ve been told a lot, but I’m saying it again … Your body’s made to make a man lose his mind.”

Did he just …?
Oh, God.

My cheeks reddened while I felt goose bumps travel all over my body, and my heart palpitated from his words. If a man stated such notions, there
had
to be something there. When it came to sex and relationships, I would happily settle for the first option, testing the waters before leaping to the next step.

I was stuck in one of those now or never moments, and I knew I needed to get a move on if I planned on anything transpiring at all.

“Do you … um … plan to do something about it. I mean, after last night … and what you just said?”

He let out a heavy sigh. “Your brother will kill me if he found out I took something that wasn’t supposed to be mine.”

“I gave it to you.” He hadn’t stolen anything; he should know better than to label it as such. “I wanted you so much. I still do.” It was a moment of honesty, my guards down as I proudly let out what I had suppressed for so long.

“Chloe … I can’t,” he said with conviction, immediately drowning my hopes. “Not that I don’t want to, because I do. All I can think of right now is parting those legs and losing myself in you. It’s fucked up since you’re in pain, but that’s what’s been on my mind, but I can’t. I can’t betray Jackson and your family like that.”

Neither Jackson nor my family should hinder what was between us. Trying to broach that argument seemed like a moot point, though.

“This isn’t about them. It’s about
me
and
you,
and no one else.”

“I can’t lose any of you.” He raked a hand through his hair, conflicted. “This attraction will eventually pass, Chlo. Besides, I’m not the relationship type. You know that. You shouldn’t want me. I’d probably end up cheating on you or something, and I would never forgive myself if I ever hurt you like that.”

His fears were understandable, although how could he know if he was capable of being faithful or not if he wasn’t even willing to test it? One thing I knew was that no one could force a man to do something he vehemently didn’t want to be a part of.

Instead of dwelling upon what might have been, I was grateful he had given me a direct response.

“I understand your decision.” The tiny flicker of hope that had surfaced moments ago would never blossom into anything solid and beautiful.

Unceremoniously, he took hold of my hands, clasping them with his own before bringing them to his lips, giving a kiss on each then gazing up at me with a solemn expression. “Sorry, I really am.”

“I’m sorry, too, that I brought it up. It’s okay. If you’re worried about me after I admitted that I still want you after all this time, you shouldn’t. I’m young and living in New York, right? It’s the best place to have fun and explore. I’ll get over it in no time—just wait and see.”

He seemed chagrined. “I don’t want you breezing through men like that, Chlo. No, you’re far too good for that.”

Well, that thought might be exclusive to him. Besides, for him to preach that I was too good for anyone when I had surpassed his apparent meager standards, how did one consider it: a fault or a misfortune?

The answer eluded me, exactly like my love life. That should be remedied soon, or it would forever remain non-existent. Some would even recommend trying variety, dating someone who was definitely not your particular type. But, hey, whatever; I could only handle one problem at a time. Tomorrow was another day.

Stiffly shrugging, I immediately felt the burden of this ceaseless tragedy. My body felt beyond taxed and in dire need of sleep, preferably with those pain killers. Yeah, it was high time I retired for the night. Niklaus Mikaelson, Drew, and the rest of the stubborn, dominant men could wait for another day.

“Do you mind handing me the crutches? I think I’m going to hit the sack.”

It was moments like these that I needed to be alone to regroup, be reflective, stay appreciative. Even if things were presently shitty, there was still so much to be grateful for. Applying positivity could go a long way when it came to uplifting tattered confidence.

My momentary courage hit a pause when I found Drew’s face bewildered.

“Don’t be mad,” he pleaded.

Well, I hadn’t been pissed off before, but oddly enough, I was now. All the mental pep talks I’d had moments ago instantly vanished, replaced by something I couldn’t care to name. Oh, why did he have to open that mouth of his?

“I’m not mad,” I snapped, past caring that he might see more of me and what lay beneath my chipped armor. Nostrils flaring, I glared at him. “Just hand them to me … please. I’d reach them if I could, but it’s too far.”

He was holding the vertical devices hostage, and it was rubbing me the wrong way. If he didn’t want me to be pissed off, he had a funny way of showing it.

Unperturbed about my shift of mood, he chose remain stubborn by not granting me my request.

“I’m carrying you to your room. End of story,” he stonily stated as he got up.

Why did he always manage to get the last word?

I fumed, on the verge of screaming. I didn’t want him touching me again. Nevertheless, with little to no warning, he smoothly collected me in his arms, hoisting me up before heading toward my bedroom without missing a step. Upon entering my space, he then proceeded toward the bed before cautiously depositing me on the mattress. I had figured that he would leave me in peace, yet he had other thoughts in mind.

While sitting right on the edge of the bed, he unexpectedly cupped my face. “Chloe, what did I do wrong?” he softly asked. “I thought you said you understood. If this isn’t about that, then what is it?”

I did understand. What had happened in the living room was a result of hysteria and the inability to channel my emotions properly. One of the things I despised about myself was how I processed disappointment. It usually resulted in mood swings, vindictive and unsystematic spurts of hurt and anger. I was in the wrong, even if my emotions were justified. Regardless, forming apologies took longer to process, partly in fear I would get too impassioned. Therefore, the best solution was to mince my words effectively without appearing too invested in the subject.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, and I meant it when I said I understood your reasons behind the decisions you made.” There I was, halfway through; I could do this. Yay, mature version of me. “Honestly, I don’t blame you, not at all. This is all on me … for growing up thinking you’re the only man I’d ever be with since I was eight years old. It’s my fault for always holding out hope, so much so that it blinded me from the truth, from what’s really going on. And after all these years, that idea has been irrevocably crushed. So I need some time away to fully digest everything, but you’re reluctant to give me the headspace, and in return, I snapped.”