Page 95 of Wallflower

The book Rose insisted I read on the plane is tucked safely into my carry-on. She claims it’s a quick and fucked up tale I’m sure to enjoy. Something about a girls trip in the forest gone wrong. I don’t know for sure. She was so excited babbling about it, the only words I caught were donuts, screwdrivers, and primal play. Which, if I’m being honest, was intriguing as fuck. What the hell is she reading? I want to know, so I bent to her wish.

Rose’s infectious excitement pushed away the thoughts of Shantel, and the rage I felt whenever my mind would be dragged back to that hotel room. Until the only thing in my mind was her—my flower, my escape— how good she makes me feel, and the raging desire to make her feel the same.

Sex is easy most of the time, sharing is not. Navigating the minefield of my past is not for the faint of heart. But she sat with me. Let me confess what I was comfortable with without any prying questions. Her soft smile, and the openness with which she greets my darkness, had me pressing my lips to hers again. Trying once more to satiate the way I yearn for her, even when she’s right in front of me. Needing to convey what her companionship means to me when I’m so fucking lonely I ache. I let my body speak the words I don’t know. Hoping she feels what I do. The blankness in my mind. The quiet. The silencing of my monsters. I know it’s impossible for her to pick up on that, but I can dream that maybe it’s not.

She has to feel what I do. Even if it’s just a flicker, a cast-off spark from the inferno raging inside of me. She couldn’t possibly beg so perfectly for my fingers to stop teasing, pitch her voice like a melody when I snap my hips, or plead for me to ruin her for anyone else, if she felt nothing.

And I so willingly fucking obliged.

Used her gorgeous body to chase away my living nightmares, burying myself so deep inside her that her light infiltrated every hidden crevice of my porous soul.

I don’t need to command her like my previous partners. She presents her wrists to be bound, craves the special kind of hurt only I provide. Rose wants to feel me every time she moves for the duration I’m away. Her desire for me, for the darkness others claim to want but shy away from, feeds something deep within me that’s been starved for the entirety of my existence.

Acceptance.

Rose takes me for who I am, and I’ve found her wrapped so tightly around my chest, I couldn’t pry her loose if I tried. Not that I want to. My obsession with her grows faster than I can contain it. Every newly discovered sharp piece of her fitting perfectly into a jagged, empty part of me.

“Boarding pass and ID,” the airport worker says as I approach the boarding bridge, slipping my cell into the bag hanging from my shoulder. I hand her my ticket and passport. She assesses them, eyes flicking between the information and my face. I refuse to let nerves get the better of me. Just because the passport is new—it had to be, I have a whole new face—doesn’t mean it’s fraudulent. “Do you have another form of identification, sir?” she asks, and I nod. Stepping to the side, I allow her to assist other passengers while I work to get my drivers license out of the stupid plastic viewing window of my wallet.

When I finally pull it free, another card flutters to the floor. I pass my ID to the lady, then retrieve the business card I had completely forgotten about from the carpet.Patrick Melborne - Accountantis typed across the black card in metallic font. It’s tooover the topfor an accountant.

“You may proceed, Mr. Morgan. Thank you for your patience and enjoy your flight.” I nod to the woman, and make my way onto the plane. Rose’s father’s phone number burning a hole in my pocket the entire way to my seat.

The mattress shifts, attempting to pull me from a blissful slumber. Every inch of my body is deliciously tender from Rip’s passionate touch, and I feel it any which way I move. “Did you come back to say goodbye?” I murmur, wondering if he’s as obsessed with me as I’m becoming with him.

There’s a gruff mumble of a response as hands pull away the sheet, and a hot, naked body climbs atop the back of my thighs.

“Better make this quick, you don’t want to miss your flight,” I say, content to reside in that half-awake half-asleep state where everything is dreamy.

His cock presses between my thighs, and I arch into the feeling, allowing him more access. He slowly descends into me, relishing in the feeling, letting loose a quiet masculine groan.

I’m swollen, sore, and so fucking wet for him it’s pathetic.

“Oh, fuck, Rip,” I garble into the pillow beneath my cheek.

His fingers weave into my hair, coiling tight, pulling me up. He pins me there, impaled on his cock, forcing my back to arch almost painfully. “What did you just say?”

“Ripley, you feel so good. Fuck me, please, this is torturous.”

The hand in my hair yanks my head back farther, before slamming it into the solid wooden headboard. Pain explodes above my eye, dazing my already sleepy brain.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Rosie?” the man behind me snarls, fucking me harder. My ears are ringing, agony throbbing through the right side of my face. But it’s then I realize that Ripley isn’t the one in my room.

It’s Sam.

He snaps his hips, plowing into me with unrestrained rage, and I don’t know how to deescalate the situation.

“Do you fucking like him now, Rosie?” Sam’s hand shoves my head into the pillow, cutting off my air supply. “What about me? What about our plans? All I’m doing for you—us.” He pulls me back, and I gasp for air. Leaning down, he growls into my ear, rutting into me with every pent up emotion he has. “Sticking my neck out on the chopping block, trying to figure out how to save you before Mr. Rich-fucking-business-man whisks you away to fuck knows where.”

“I’m s-sorry, S-sam.” His savagery causes my stammering, and any drop of arousal I had dries up. “I just assumed it was him. You haven’t been back to see me.”

Roughly he flips me over, slamming back into me as he pins my wrists beneath one of his hands. “I was trying…” he huffs, attempting to rein in his anger, “to not raise suspicion.”

He pulls out, stroking himself as his release shoots across my stomach. “Then why are you here? Is it time to go?” Trepidation mounts as I wait for his answer. Am I ready to run? To risk my life at escape? What about Chelsea? Did he secure a spot in his plan for her too?

Hanging his head, Sam tries to catch his breath. “No. I couldn’t stay away any longer. It’s killing me, not being with you.”

Feeling’s not mutual, asshole.