Page 39

He steps ahead, guiding me toward a different corner of the diner, one near the back.

There’s a booth tucked in the shadows, far enough from prying eyes, with a perfect view of the entire room.

It’s one of those spots that people go to if they want to be left alone but still see everything happening around them.

He slides into the seat with ease, the worn vinyl creaking under his weight. “Better view,” he adds, his voice casual.

“So, this is your idea of a good spot?” I ask, still standing. Still needing the bathroom.

His smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “What’s not to like? Its cozy and secluded, so secluded that I could fuck you right here and no one would notice.”

“Is that your plan?” I asked, pissed off.

This makes him laugh, and it takes everything in me not to hit this table with my fist.

“Sit,” he demands.

I shake my head, and he glances between my legs like he knows why I won’t.

His voice drops to a whisper, “When I say sit––”

“ Sit ,” I mock.

The arrival of the waitress gratefully saves me from further demands.

“What can I get y’all to start with?” she asks, a pleasant smile on her face.

I was just about to leave for the bathroom because this would be the perfect time to, but witnessing how she’s eyeing Thatcher, I think I’ll stay.

Her eyes are solely on him with a familiar spark in them.

I can’t help but notice her uniform and the two top buttons of her blouse unbuttoned just enough to expose a little more skin than necessary.

I slide into the booth opposite of him, and the waitress leans forward just a touch too much, smiling just a little too brightly.

She’s flirting.

Thatcher, oblivious to her subtle advances, meets her gaze. “Coffee, black, one sugar and the family breakfast meal,” he says smoothly, his voice steady and casual as if he’s ordered this a million times, completely unaware of the way the waitress is leaning into his personal space.

The waitress beams at Thatcher, her smile widening as she jots down his order. “Coming right up,” she chirps, her tone overly sweet. She lingers for a second too long, her gaze flickering to his face as if hoping he’ll acknowledge her more directly.

But Thatcher’s attention shifts to me, his eyes sharp and calculating.

“And for you?” she finally asks, her voice hardening as she glares at me.

“She’ll have a small stack of pancakes with chocolate syrup and a cinnamon latte,” he says, cutting in before I can even open my mouth.

The waitress scribbles down my order, slightly thrown by his decisiveness, but quickly recovers and gives Thatcher a smile. “Okay. Coming right up.” Her tone sweet enough to make my teeth ache. She throws me a pointed glare before sauntering away, her hips swaying dramatically with each step.

I watch her retreat, my irritation bubbling over. “Seriously?” I hiss, turning my glare on Thatcher. “What was that?”

“What?” he says nonchalantly, leaning back in the booth and draping an arm over the backrest. “You like pancakes. And chocolate. And cinnamon lattes right?”

I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to let his casual demeanor deflect my irritation. “How do you fucking know that?”

Thatcher’s smirk widens, a flicker of mischief dancing in his green eyes. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers laced together. “I pay attention, Dove,” he says simply.

I stare at him, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “That’s… that’s creepy,” I manage, my voice trembling slightly.

He arches a brow, his smirk softening into something almost amused. “Creepy?” Before he can continue, the waitress arrives again with the coffee orders.

“One cinnamon latte,” she announces, setting the mug down a little too roughly in front of me, giving me a forced smile before turning to Thatcher. “And one black coffee with sugar,” she adds, placing his drink in front of him with a practiced careful ease, a wide smile in place.

He barely acknowledges her, his eyes locked on me as he lifts his coffee to his lips. The waitress hovers for a second longer, as if expecting something more, but when nothing comes, she heads off toward the counter.

I watch her go, a weird mix of annoyance and pity twisting in my gut. She obviously is attracted to Thatcher, and it’s painfully obvious how much she’s trying to get his attention. The way she lingered, the smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I turn my attention back to him, unable to shake the feeling of discomfort his indifference has caused. “Are you always this oblivious, or do you just enjoy watching people squirm?”

“What do you mean, Dove?” he asks, his tone laced with innocence, though the glint in his eyes betrays him.

I narrow my eyes, fighting the urge to call out his ignorance. “She wants you to fuck her.”

He hums thoughtfully, tilting his head to glance past me, probably toward the counter where the waitress is stationed. His expression remains unreadable as he looks back at me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“That’s something…” he says, his voice slow and deliberate as it drops lower. “But you’re the one filled with my come, Dove, and the only one I want to fuck.”

My breath catches at his words, and I can’t think of a single thing to say. Suddenly his come in my underwear feels like a statement, a reminder of what this is. Maybe even a prize. But I hate that he left my pussy throbbing, aching, screaming for him.

I shuffle quickly out of the booth, relieved that somehow, I have unspoken permission to clean myself. The acknowledgement was all I needed. But before I can fully walk away, his voice cuts through the moment, low and commanding.

“Where are you going, Dove?”

I freeze, my pulse hammering in my ears. I can feel his eyes on me, heavy and unyielding, pinning me in place. My fingers curl into fists at my sides as I force myself to turn back, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as I can muster.

“Bathroom,” I say sharply, though the word comes out defensive. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

His lips curve into a slow smirk, the kind that makes my stomach twist. “Sit back down,” he says simply, like it’s not a request but an order, his tone daring me to disobey.

I glare at him, my pulse spiking. “Fuck you,” I bite out, almost laughing at his audacity. I hurry away to the bathroom, my heart racing in my chest as I feel his eyes burn into my back. The tension in the air clings to me, suffocating, and I can feel him watching.

I slam the bathroom stall door behind me and immediately pull down my pants.

Actually, these things are coming all the way off.

I hang them on the hook on the back of the door and then remove my underwear.

I clean it as much as I can, wiping off his semen.

I glance down at my naked body, not caring if anyone walks in on me.

I use water and soap to clean my underwear and then I dry them under the hand dryer.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, realizing how insane I look, bottom-half naked in this random bathroom.

I should just throw this fucking underwear away.

I step back into my stall just as the main door swings open. My heart is hammering against my chest, but I hear the clank of heels and feel relieved it’s not him.

I exhale, locking my stall door and hold my underwear up to get a good look at them.

It’s so stupid, but I can’t throw these away. It’s a memory, a pinnacle one. Our dynamic is changing, shifting. I came into this without a choice, but now, I have some power. I have the pleasure of an arrogant cock that’ll fuck me, tease me, and leave me wild.

I smirk at myself. He told me to sit back down, and I didn’t. One point for Rhea. But I didn’t orgasm, so one point for him.

I grab my jeans, and my phone falls out of the back pocket. I don’t wait for the underwear to dry, instead, I start shoving my legs back into my pants and then I pick up my phone.

Cassidy is my first thought. I hope she’s not mad at me or worried. I should give her a call. The thought of her being angry or worried makes the tension in my chest grow. I need to talk to her. I swipe to her contact, my thumb hovering over the screen.

I tap her name and wait, the dial tone a steady rhythm in my ear.

“Hey,” Cassidy answers after a few rings, her voice laced with concern. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say quickly. “We’re at a diner.”

“A diner? What’s going on, Rhea? What’s Thatcher doing to you? Is he forcing you to be with him?”

I take a deep breath, leaning back against the bathroom stall. I shake my head even though she can’t see me, trying to push the panic out of my chest. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just… I don’t know. I don’t know what to say.”

Cassidy’s voice softens, sensing the turmoil in my words. “You don’t have to explain everything right now, Rhea. Just tell me if you’re safe? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m in the bathroom, just…trying to get my head straight.”

Cassidy’s silence on the other end of the line stretches for a moment, and I can almost feel the weight of her concern through the phone. “Rhea, I’m worried.”

“I have everything under control, even though it might not seem like it,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I just needed to hear that you’re not mad at me.”

“I’m not mad, Rhea,” Cassidy reassures me, her voice soft but firm. “I’m just worried about you. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

The Reaper business comes to mind.

“I was just thinking, and what if he’s the killer?” she whispers.

I’m stunned at her words, but immediately my defenses are there as I scoff, “Killer? I’m pretty sure Jack was just drunk, and it was foul play. There’s no killer on the loose, Cass.”

“People on campus are talking. They have theories. They think it might’ve been some girl he was trying to hook up with and he was with us that night.”