Page 64 of Twisted Little Game

My sleepiness rushes back in as the adrenaline fades.

Suddenly I feel sluggish, almost like I’m still being pulled back to slumber harder now, my bloodstream flooding with relief.

Tate paces quietly up the rest of the stairs.

He’s wearing a clean white tank top and blue shorts, and my body gravitates toward him as he gets near.

The memory of his words from earlier land in my mind for the hundredth time: let me kiss you. Fuck him for asking me that. For making it play on some fixated, compulsive loop in my mind now ever since.

He stands in front of me, taking a long sip of water and swallowing.

“I passed out the moment I lay down in your bed,” he says. “Sorry. I know you wanted to discuss more things.”

“No, no,” I tell him softly. “You needed sleep.”

“Did you crash, too? I meant it when I said you can come up to the bed, if the floor’s uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t sleep for a while. Was looking at the fucking rock. Searched for that symbol online, and can’t find anything to match. It seems like random lines and circles… I can’t understand the fucking thing.”

“Roman, we can figure it out later. You need sleep, too.”

I don’t tell him the rock isn’t the main reason I was up.

Or that I don’t sleep well half the nights of my life to begin with.

After I researched that fucking symbol, I spent even longer on top of the blankets on the ground, making myself come again because I couldn’t get the thought of his mouth out of my head. Because of him.

If he’d woken up from his deep, peaceful sleep, he would have looked down to see me, cock in hand on the floor, getting off because my mind wouldn’t shut up if I didn’t.

And then I did it again.

Ninety minutes later.

Because of him.

My cock was spent and done and ready for sleep but instead, my hand wandered beneath my shorts again and ten minutes later I was gripping harder and back in the obsessive mental loop, needing to fuck myself out of this intoxicating haze Tate puts me in.

After that time, I finally dozed to sleep.

Then I dreamed of someone kidnapping him, right from under my nose. In the dream I was murderous. Clawing at the attacker like I was possessed by some fucking demon, and when I got to him, I was going to tear him to shreds with my bare hands.

Bad.

Very bad.

If protecting you is my job… then why is it starting to feel like a drug?

“You’re allowed to go downstairs,” I tell Tate as we tread softly back down the hall to my room. “Obviously. But will you please take one of my knives with you?”

“You think I’m under threat here in Onyx House? Really?”

“Likely not. But you should be prepared at all times.”

He hums. “Okay. I’ll take a knife.”

“Thank you, beauty.”

The term of endearment slips from my mouth so easily. My skin heats a moment later in a delayed response, when I realize how it must have sounded.