Christian Westbrook, an emotionless seventeen-year-old who is far too mature for his age, is trapped in a life with his aunt and uncle. It was never his intention, but he didn't have an option. His life has been irreparably altered, and he longs for...
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(BEHIND HIDDEN DOORS)
"You can't be in here," I tell him, watching him from the mirror as he locks the door and moves closer.
"Frankly, I don't care," he says.
He reaches me and I turn around to face him, but my chest is still tight fast and my breathing remains hectic.
It doesn't help that he's staring down at me because he's bringing that foggy air into my lungs.
"Christian, just leave me alone," I plead. "Do you find pleasure in tormenting me?"
I need him to leave, he can't see me like this. I'm being weak, I'm letting my mind control me and cloud my judgement.
I need to clear my head and get back on my feet, because right now I'm basically as good as a turtle on its back.
I feel his arms around my waist, before he pulls me onto the counter, but I'm not in the mood to have this sexual aroma around us.
"Christian, I'm not in the mo—,"
His arms wrap around my body as he stands between my legs, I feel his head rest on my shoulder causing me to shut up.
My mind forgets to send blood to my lungs because I stop breathing entirely. I can't open my mouth to speak because my body completely shuts down.
"Focus on me," he mutters.
I'm supposed to hate him but right now I'm finding it hard to. It's as if he just takes my hatred for him, puts it to the side along with my dignity and after whatever we do he just gives it right back.
And right now, it's gone again.
"My voice,"
"You're alright, love,"
"You're okay,"
He continues to speak, embedding it in my brain that I'm alright and it takes me a while as my breathing regulates at a depressingly slow pace, but I feel as if I can breath fresh air again, even though the heat between us is distracting me.
"How'd you do on the exam?" He asks.
"I'm not sure,"
I feel myself ready to break down, and now I want him to leave again, but I don't say it because I know he won't.
"Your mind's playing games on you, so I'll help you out," he says against my neck, "You aced it,"
