The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Part 37 - Green Eyed Devil

Struck to dumbness, you watch as Melinda rises from the chair.   She does it with practised ease, like a dancer moving through water.  Every toned muscle seems taut, setting her body in a posture so sexually beautiful even you're impressed.   She stands erect, rib cage expanded, her head back, her butt pushed out  behind to emphasise the curve of her spine, reducing her waist to  nothing.   Each time she breathes those immobile breasts heave upwards; and she breathes breathlessly as though she's aghast at the sight of this lean, masked man towering in the doorway.

Brahms says nothing.  He just continues to stare.

You watch Melinda bridle.  Neither of them give you a glance.  They both seem absorbed in each other.   Glancing again at Brahms, you wait for him to speak...but Melinda beats you to it, and when she speaks, she purrs.

"Well, hello!    Not interrupting anything am I?"

Brahms shifts his gaze to you.  For once you can't read those eyes.   Melinda addresses you with a short bark of amusement.  "There's nothing quite like a bit of role playing, is there?"

You glare at her, and she laughs even harder.   "Oh, Lord, I'm so sorry.  Really.   Take no notice of me."  She takes a step towards Brahms, holding out her hand.  "Hi, I'm Mel."

You watch Brahms tense, then slowly extend his hand.  As their fingers touch, you clench your own hands into fists.   The handshake is neither long nor lingering but Melinda makes it seem that way.  As she releases Brahms's hand, her long fingers caress his palm.   It's a subtle gesture, and one not lost on you.  

She knows, you think angrily.   Knows exactly what she's doing.

"And you are?"  she prompts with a nod to Brahms.

"Thomas!" You blurt.  "Tom, this is Melinda Heelshire."

At your emphasis, Brahms nods slowly.   He fills the doorway, tall and mute.

"Doesn't say much, does he?" Melinda laughs.   "I have to confess..I adore the strong, silent type.   And that mask is...very sexy.   Is that all part of the game?"

Completely at a loss to explain away the mask, you decide to twist the truth.  "Tom has recently had...surgery and has to keep his face covered."

Melinda raises one perfectly plucked brow at you with a smirk that gives you the lie.  "Doctors and nurses, is it?"

"Excuse me!" 

She holds up both palms, grinning and tottering back a step or two.  "Sorreee.   My bad.  Shall I leave you both to it?"

You feel like punching her good and hard.   Why on earth did you say she could stay?   You might have known something like this would happen.  If she discovers who Brahms really is, there'll be no end of complications.    Perhaps Brahms wants to get to know this cousin more.  That would be natural.   And you wouldn't be able to stop it.  

Melinda stalks to the doorway and oozes past Brahms.  He steps to the side to let her pass and you watch as she allows her breasts to brush his chest.  Then she's gone, her footsteps fading up the stairs.   Brahms  leans backwards and peers over his shoulder at Melinda's receding form.  You watch him look back at you, cocking his head in that way he has.  Then he says, "Who the hell is that?"

"Your cousin...apparently."

"I don't remember any cousins."

"Well, I don't suppose you would.   Being cloistered away like a dirty secret for most of your life."

You curse silently at your sarcasm.   This isn't his fault.  You mumble, "your parents must have had siblings."

He shakes his head.  "I don't think so."

You tell him how Melinda arrived, and why you've offered her a room for the weekend.  He digests this in silence then says, "Why did you tell her my name is Tom?"

"She knows about you.   About the doll.  She kept up a correspondence with your mother.  Or so she says.   If she knows you're alive..."

He's staring down at you in that guileless, almost childlike way he sometimes has.  "Brahms, take off the mask, for God's sake."

"She might come back."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"Why?"

"Y/N?" he whispers, and  you feel a rush of shame.  Typical of a man, he hasn't realised how insecure you feel compared to that beautiful stranger.   He's picked up on none of the female signals of flirtation and lust that Melinda's been giving out like a bitch on heat.  At least, not consciously.  Brahms doesn't have the social experience with women that most men have.  But the acute insecurity you're feeling is overwhelming.  You've never felt this way about a man before, not to this level.   Embarrassed, you go on the defensive, even though you know you're being totally unreasonable.   "Are you afraid she won't find you so attractive without it?"

As soon as you speak the words, you cringe inside.  You're behaving just as he did when you first came here...like a jealous possessive.   You glance up at him and your heart sinks.   He's glaring at you from behind the mask, his eyes turned to red and emerald, bright as flint and just as hard.  He steps into the room and slams the door shut,   Quaking, you stand your ground, even when he comes right up to you.   His breathing is heavy behind the mask and amplified.  "Is that what you think of me?"

"I can't believe you just said that!"   You gaze up into his eyes, so wide and unblinking.  Eyes that looked that way so long ago when he cornered you in your bedroom; when you thought he might kill you.  His voice, pitched low and intimate, belies the murder in his eyes.

"You think someone that beautiful couldn't want me."

"Oh, like I'm ugly?" you counter back, furiously.

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

You can smell the cologne he's wearing, the one you bought him for Christmas.   It's fresh and musky and gorgeous, and you long to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him.  Instead, you glare venomously back at him, crammed full of hurt pride.   "I told you there was a big wide world out there, Brahms.  One day you're gonna want to fly, and she's just the tip of the iceberg." 

You push past him but he catches your arm and swings you round to face him.    "Why are being like this, Y/N?"

Can't you see?  You want to yell.   You fold your arms and set your jaw.  "I'm not being like anything."

"You're behaving like my mother!"

At that you gape at him.   You splutter a few  words but nothing comes out that's coherent.  At last you manage, "How fucking dare you!"

"Don't try to manipulate me, Y/N.   Don't play mind games with me because you'll lose.  If you have something to say, say it.  Don't give me that female simpering crap either!"

"I am NOT simpering!"  You pace up and down the room, then turn to face him.  "She's making a play for you but you're too... You just can't see it."

He pulls off the mask.   It catches on his hair, then the tousled mass springs back onto his forehead.   Those persistent eyes search your face.   You stare across at him, wondering why it's so hard to admit the green eyed devil got the better of you.   

"Don't you trust me?" he asks.

I don't trust her, you want to tell him but don't.  It feels so petty and puerile.    When you don't speak he shoots you a filthy look, then leaves the room.  You know where he's going.  Into retreat. Back behind the walls.  Normally, you'd follow him.  But you can't because of the stranger in your house.  With weak loathing you stare up at the ceiling.  Roll on fucking Monday!