27 Weeks by HJ Stallard

Author:HJ Stallard [Stallard, HJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-02-23T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Sitting sideways on the loveseat, my knees bent, my book was opened on my lap. Using the natural sunlight to see, I had barely read a single word, my focus zoned outside. The conversation in the kitchen earlier stuck on repeat, I couldn’t seem to get past it and think about anything else.

Was I in love with him? Rationally, my mind asked how I possibly could be. He held me at gunpoint, threatened to kill me numerous times, raped me, and admitted to murdering his girlfriend. Logically, no, there was nothing redeeming about Body O’Rourke that would have me falling in love.

Yet the way he looked at me, the way he touched me. Since the gun was taken out of the equation, I actually felt rather safe with him around. He talked to me, not at me. He picked up my triggers and calmed me down. When we worked around the house, we did so effortlessly together, as if we were in sync and shared thoughts. He even made me laugh a couple times.

There was a compassionate side to the man, I’d seen it more than I’d seen the vicious. He had redeeming qualities beneath the mistakes.

The side of my face lifted as I clucked my teeth, once more reminding myself I had no room to point fingers.

Still, could he be on to something? Was I mistaking infatuation for love? The first man who touched me intimately left a long-lasting mark of dread and sickness in my soul to the point when I finally did feel lust for once, I thought I was coming down with the flu. Body turned me on. He made me feel actual pleasure, showing me how to have my first orgasm.

Tugging at my bottom lip, I frowned, the confidence in my feelings sinking. We were trapped out here together. Was I simply trying to make the best of an awkward situation? Was I, indeed, misreading my emotions? If so, how the hell did I figure it out?

Body picked up the metal kettle from the stove and poured a cup of coffee, casting fleeting glimpses under his brooding scowl. He’d barely spoken to me since this morning, going out of his way to keep his distance. In a fifteen hundred square foot cabin that was snowed in, there wasn’t many places to go, yet, somehow, he managed to elude me every time I turned around.

My elbow propped on the back, I cleared my throat, twirled a wispy lock of hair, and bowed my chin to concentrate on the book. He returned to the kitchen, added milk and sugar, and slowly strolled into the living room. The spoon clanking against the mug, he handed me the drink.

Taken aback, I looked from it to him several times before accepting. “Thank you,” I muttered, taking a sip.

Backing up, he sat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. “You’ve had time to think. You ready to come to your senses?”

I pouted, swirling the spoon. “I mean, I can see your point of view.

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