Colson hoists me up onto my wobbly legs and then grabs me under my thighs, lifting me up to his waist. I drape my arms around his shoulders, resting my forehead against his temple as he carries me around the front of the Bronco.
He brushes his lips over my ear, sending a wave of butterflies through my stomach, “You are the best girl, you know that?” He ambles to the passenger side and opens the door, “Now, I’m going to take you home with me and see how many times I can get my name to come out of that dirty little mouth.”
I press my lips to Colson’s, drinking him in like I’m dying of thirst. He sets my feet back down to the gravel and slowly lowers me back onto the seat, his mouth still devouring mine. When he finally pulls away, he pauses to brush the stray hairs away from my eyes.
“I have to tell you something, Brett,” his eyes darken and suddenly he’s like a predator sizing up its prey, “I care about you more than you’ll ever know,” then he leans closer, his eyes deep blue and sinister, “but for the rest of the night, I’m going to fuck you like I don’t.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Brett
College
“Oh my god,” I exclaim as I slam my car door, “are you a drug dealer?”
When Colson said he lived on the river, I assumed he meant in one of the many apartment complexes or condos set far behind the road, like me. I was wrong.
My GPS directions take me past all the apartments and tract home subdivisions, into a neighborhood further north where the houses are custom built into the hillside and each backyard has a dock with private access to the river’s edge. This neighborhood is the kind that I drive by and wonder what the residents do for a living because there’s no way I’ll ever make enough money to live here.
I turn my Impreza into a hidden drive between a line of thick hedges and follow Colson’s Bronco down a steep driveway into a wide turnaround in front of a stunning riverfront home. The stone exterior shines bright in the floodlights lining the walkway to a massive oak and wrought iron door. Gazing around at the landscape, the strategically placed boulders and trees make it seem like the house just sprouted up in the middle of a forest.
I should be impressed, but suspicion gets the better of me. I don’t belong in this neighborhood, at a house like this, so how does Colson?
He strolls across the driveway and smiles when he sees me standing at the door of my car, gawking at the house with my mouth hanging half open.
“No, I’m not a drug dealer.”
I shoot him a side-eye, “Is your roommate?”
“Kind of,” he shrugs, “he’s a VP at some pharma company.”
“And why do you live with him?” I scrunch up my face in confusion, “You do live here, right?”
Colson pulls his hand out of his jacket pocket and jingles his keys, “I’m not a drug dealer, I don’t do drugs of any kind, I drink too much, I live with my cousin, he’s not a drug dealer—that I know of—but he and his family have money.”
I shift my gaze back and forth between him and the house that seems too fancy for either of us to be standing in front of, let alone go inside, “OK, fine,” I finally say with a shrug.
He motions to the door with a nod and I follow him up the walkway lined with boulders and foliage. As soon as I walk through the door, my jaw hits the floor. The walls are India ink blue framed with crown molding and square paneling. The hardwood floors are laid out in a herringbone design stained in light brown tones that pop against the walls. Through the foyer, to the left, is the dining room. The windows and walls stretch two stories high with an ornate chandelier that hangs above the 10-seat mahogany dining table.
So, this is what these houses look like on the inside...
I’m so distracted, I have to keep glancing ahead of me to make sure I haven’t lost Colson. I set my tote bag next to the coat rack near the front door and follow him down the hall into the kitchen, where I’m rendered speechless again. The walls are the same stone as the exterior out front, but it has a vaulted ceiling with black exposed wooden beams. Behind the island is an enormous gothic cathedral window that’s filled with nothing but trees. It’s nearly pitch-black right now, but I imagine it’s gorgeous in the daylight.
When Colson hangs his keys on the far wall, I notice he’s not wearing his jacket anymore. I was probably so gob smacked, I didn’t notice him hang it up at the front door. I start unzipping my fleece, still unsure whether I’m dreaming or not.
I glance over my shoulder as I head back toward the front hall, “You live here and you still party at Cade and Anderson’s hellhole?”
“I live here, it doesn’t mean I can party here,” Colson replies. “Can you imagine what those heathens would do if I let them loose in here? I’d end up homeless by morning, and probably murdered and dumped in the river.”
“Valid,” I concede, my voice echoing as it bounces off the high ceilings. “Where’s your cousin?”
“Dubai—I think. Or Munich. I don’t remember, he travels a lot.”
I come to an abrupt halt when I pass the living room. On my left, the house opens up to another wall of two-story windows that face more trees and the riverbank. The walls are painted the same India ink blue with the same crown molding and paneling. Black leather furniture and a white contrasting rug sit in front of a massive stone fireplace on the left side of the room with a TV mounted above it. There are also a lot of green fern-like plants in giant Victorian vases all over the house.
“When’s he coming back?” I fold up my fleece and tuck it inside my bag on the floor, then slip off my sneakers before returning to Colson.
This place is so immaculate, I’ll die of embarrassment if I track so much as a blade of grass across the floor.
“Next week,” he pauses, looking me up and down, “you can stay here as long as you want. He wouldn’t care.”
His offer catches me off-guard and I’m not sure whether to thank him or call him crazy.
“Want anything to drink?” Colson asks before I can respond. He strolls toward me, stopping when his chest is almost touching mine, “Water? Another one of your sandpaper smoothies?”
“No, thank you,” I grin up at him and then take another look around the giant living room that looks like it belongs in Bruce Wayne’s house rather than somewhere in greater Columbus.
An instant later, I let out a shriek as my legs are swept out from under me and I’m flipped upside down. My arms flail as Colson wraps his arm around my thighs and tosses me over his shoulder. Pushing away from his lower back, I lift my head and try to look around while the floor starts moving beneath me. When he starts up the staircase, all I can see are more dark floorboards as I bob up and down with each step he takes.
“Ow!” I wince when I feel a sharp pinch on my backside, “Did you just bite my ass?”
“It’s right here, I just wanted a taste,” he calls back to me.
Even from upside down, the second-floor looks just as impressive as the rest of the house, with the same walls, herringbone floors, and gothic sconces lighting the way. Colson continues to the end of the hall and steps into a dark room, swinging the door shut behind him. He flips a switch next to the door and gently lowers me down. Once I get over the initial headrush, I realize it’s his bedroom lit by a single lamp on the dresser that casts a moody glow through the room.
Colson’s bedroom is shaped like an A-frame, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the left side—with actual books on them—and an entire wall of slanted windows on the right. Jagged, pitch-black silhouettes of pines and maples tower over us, making the entire room seem like a treehouse at the top of a forest.
And his bed—oh my god—his bed.
