Little Lies by Elena Reyes (ebook reader for laptop .TXT) 📗

to reach his chin. The man is tall, so tall, and I’m barely able to press a light kiss to his skin while taking his scent into my lungs. It happens so fast and I’m inside of the room before he can utter a single word, back pressed against the door while my chest rises and falls fast.

There’s no denying the shock of electricity that flows through me from the simple touch. The way my lips tingle and nipples stand at hard little peaks as I push off the structure and take in the room in detail this time, not the semi-high pass through I did before and after showering. Distract yourself. Don’t think about him.

Easier said than done. Especially when it seems as though his scent—that man and earth with a hint of woodsy spice, infiltrates my senses and weakens my knees.

“He’s a god in human form,” I whisper to the room before forcing myself to concentrate, to not seek him out and ask for a goodnight hug. Instead, I look around the room I’ll be sleeping in. At the center of the large space is a four-poster bed in wood that seems to have been burned to get that Shou Sugi Ban treatment, taking it to the point of being a step before charring so the grains would become more pronounced. Then, you have the matching nightstands and the feather-down black bedding, the thick fabric looking inviting—cozy—while the gothic pendants and chandelier give a romantic vibe. “This is beautiful.”

Further into the room is the bathroom and closet, both stunning and following the same scheme of the home with more wood and dark stone and expensive lighting. Definitely making use of that tub before I leave. It’s perfect for added decompression. My eyes continue their nosy sweep and land on a painting on the wall to the left of the bed, admiring the simplicity, yet the emotion behind the piece is there.

It’s the sole source of color within this room that is not the customary black throughout the home. The backdrop is a blood red while the silhouette of a naked woman with long hair, her back to the artist, is highlighted in white.

And I find myself drawn to it.

It speaks to the artist in me and signals eroticism within purity. Freedom and love.

I wonder who the artist is? There’s no signature that I can see, and while the curiosity kills me, I stay where I am and don’t investigate further. The last thing I need is to have it slip through my fingers and land on the floor if I go searching for a name on the back. “Bed it is, then...” nodding to myself, I walk back over “...before I get myself in trouble.” The comforter has already been turned down, and I don’t hesitate to slip between the cool sheets, grabbing the remote to my left that’s within reach and pressing the power button.

At once, a smile spreads across my lips when the screen clears and a Nat Geo special on the Amazon plays. It’s then that I relax. Give in to my exhaustion. Christ, this bed is heaven. Comfortable, I find myself sinking into the plushness as some wild bird caw caws from what seems like a great distance.

It becomes lower with each inhale and exhale.

So low I almost don’t hear it.

And when the jumbled words of the narrator start again, I hum before everything goes black.

The next time I come into awareness, there’s a low hissing sound near me, then that of crunching leaves, and a squeak in the distance that causes my eyes to snap open. Immediately, I fear the worst, almost shielding my face with both hands as yesterday morning’s encounter comes to mind and my body betrays me.

And yet, my reality is different. It’s nothing more than another animal documentary playing on the television, and this time, on venomous snakes.

On cobras, to be precise.

The narrator is busy explaining their ophiophagy tendencies while my heart races and palms sweat. His voice drones on in the background, giving off some fact or another that doesn’t compute in my head as I watch this predator eat its own kind after fighting to the death.

Her reason evades those responsible for the nature show as just moments ago she was bedded by the male counterpart. But then again, maybe this is nothing more than a show of survival instincts—a strike first without questioning his motives.

This moment on camera is cannibalism at its finest, and yet, her poise is unapologetic and majestic. There’s beauty in her strength, a command to her presence that I understand on a level that’s confusing, and more so is the sudden appearance of these beasts at every turn.

“Maybe I should be watching cooking shows instead? Baking seems innocent enough,” I say aloud a second before there’s a knock on the door. It’s gentle, three quick raps that are followed by a low call of my name. “Coming!”

“I’ll wait,” he says, then mutters something else that I don’t quite catch while I’m too busy scrambling off the bed and rushing over without caring what I look like. I also move too quickly and bump into the solid wood corner, my toe paying the price—the shooting pain nearly taking my breath away.

“Shit!” I cry out, hopping back and almost falling off the edge of the mattress when the door slams open and a worried Theodore finds my eyes. He’s beside me in four long strides and picking me up, cradling me against his bare chest while walking out without a single word.

His body’s so warm against mine. Feels so good, and it’s easier to pretend my whimper is one of pain and not this uncontrollable attraction.

Being in his arms overrides my senses, and I quickly forget why he’s carrying me in the first place. I forget about the hurt toe and that I’m only in his shirt, having kicked off the pants in the middle of the night when it got too