Page 38 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Before, the words would have scared me or at least given me a pause, but now that I know him better—did I really just think “I know him” after spending a single day with him?

—I know he’s just teasing. “Maybe we can continue this tomorrow? I’m exhausted.

” Sex is great and all, but I’m ready to pass out for a few hours.

Or a few hundred hours. Then I hesitate.

Do wives even get to say no when their husbands want sex? “If…that’s okay with you?”

“Of course. Whatever you want, Amy. Honestly, I’m exhausted too.

” With one last peck on my nose, he rolls off me, my body feeling strangely empty without him inside.

Grabbing a random article of clothing we’ve hastily shed before, I clean myself a little before making my way to what I believe is the bathroom, only to discover a closet the size of my old bedroom.

Wow, how much clothing does Wyatt own to need a closet this big? And…are those wigs?

The light coming from the bedroom is too dim to make out details, but there definitely seems to be a row of wigs on the far side of the closet.

There’s also a vanity table with a large mirror and…

makeup? Does someone else live here with Wyatt?

Or did someone live here before he brought me in?

He’s obsessed with me now, yes, but who has he been obsessed with before and, more importantly, what happened to them?

“Amy?”

I startle at the sound of his voice. He’s still lying in bed, looking sexy as sin, unashamed of his nudity. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of.

He jerks his chin to a different door. “Bathroom is that way. I’ll make space for your things in the closet tomorrow.”

By throwing out his previous obsession’s things? God, why do I keep forgetting he’s a killer?

Picking up on the change in my mood, Wyatt sits up, his easy smile morphing into a frown. “What’s wrong?” When I just shake my head, he sighs. “Talk to me, please. I’d like to know what I did or said to scare you so that I won’t do it again.”

God! How can he be so thoughtful and caring?

It’s completely at odds with the ruthless killer I know he is.

Peering into the closet again, I consider my options.

Do I lie and pretend everything is fine even if he can clearly sense it isn’t?

Or do I ask the hard questions I might not like the answers to ?

Clearly, I’m not experienced in maintaining healthy relationships.

Most of what I know about relationships comes from TV.

I know that’s a terrible source of information, but it can’t all be wrong, can it?

Misunderstandings and miscommunication seem to be the bane of every relationship—and the plot point of nearly every romantic show or movie ever made.

Relationships should be built on trust and maintained by open communication.

I trust Wyatt, enough to have a very consensual sex with him.

Without a condom. Crap. I’m up to date with my birth control shots, so that shouldn’t be an issue, but I don’t know how many people he has slept with lately.

Successfully distracted from the scary implications of the closet’s contents, I look down on my thighs where our combined cum glistens.

Tracing my look, Wyatt’s eyes widen. “Fuck. Sorry. I got swept up in the moment and I forgot— Sorry. I’m clean and I’ve always used condoms before, but… I’ll go pick up something from the pharmacy for you if—”

“I’m on birth control,” I interrupt him. “But thanks for offering.” How many men would do that? “I should be clean, too. I mean, Craig,” I grimace as I say his name, “clearly slept around, but we’ve always used condoms so it should be fine. I think?”

“Good.” Slowly, as if he’s worried about scaring me, he comes over.

Taking my hand, he gently brushes his thumb over my knuckles before kissing them.

“I would very much prefer to continue without using condoms, but that choice is yours. I apologize again for forgetting. I know it’s such a ‘guy’ thing to say, but I wanted you too badly to think straight. ”

My heart thunders at his nearness and when he caresses my face, I melt into his touch. “I don’t mind you going bareback, but I’d feel better if I got tested, just in case.” I swear to God, if Craig gave me something from one of his hookups, I’ll dig up his body and kick his wayward cock.

“Alright,” Wyatt agrees easily. “The clinic in town is good. I’ll set up an appointment to get you registered there since you won’t be returning to Kansas City.”

Sweet and sinister at once. How does he manage that? “Okay. ”

“Was that what scared you, or is there something else?”

Hesitating, I look inside the closet again. There don’t seem to be any dresses or other female garments hanging from the closet rods. Perhaps I misunderstood this? Men like makeup, too. Its presence is no proof of anything.

I take a breath. Open communication. Damn, this is hard, especially since a part of me constantly expects to be laughed or yelled at.

But Wyatt wouldn’t do that. I hope. “I was wondering who all that makeup belongs to,” I say before I lose my courage.

“Since you don’t seem to wear any. I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you did.

I just thought that you had, like, a woman here before.

And that’s okay, too, I don’t mind. Wouldn’t mind, I mean.

I just, um, I wondered what, um, what happened to her. If there was a ‘her’. Or ‘him’. Or—”

“Amy.” Wyatt rescues me from my desperate blathering. “Look at me, Amy.”

Compelled to obey, I raise my eyes to his. He looks amused, but not in a mean way, so I allow myself to relax a little. The answer can’t be that bad if he’s smiling like this.

“You’re the first woman to ever step inside my bedroom, Amy.”

“Oh. Oh? But—” I don’t believe for a second he’s never had sex before. He’s like a damned sex god. He must have experience.

“I’ve slept with many women, but never here. All that,” he waves his hand inside the closet, “is mine.”

Okay, so he likes makeup. That’s great. Perhaps he’ll give me some pointers because my own skills suck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s only natural that you’re curious. Besides, it’s your closet now, too. I’ll move my work stuff somewhere else.”

I choke on a gasp. Work stuff? Does he mean—

“They’re disguises, in case you were wondering,” he explains. “I don’t wear makeup because I like it. I hate it, really. I admire people who have it on all the time. I get itchy after an hour and I have a terrible tendency to rub my eyes all the time. ”

I chuckle. “Yeah, I’m not a fan either. I’m sorry. I don’t know why my brain always jumps to the worst conclusions.”

“Because you’re an abuse survivor, because people have been shit to you, and because I’m a bad person. When it comes to me, the worst conclusions are usually the correct ones, but not every time. Never be afraid to ask me anything, okay?”

“I’ll try.” I want to kiss him but my bladder reminds me of different needs I need to take care of first. “Now, where’s the actual bathroom?”