The Book Club (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

9: In Which She Wears Black [Part I]

9: In Which She Wears Black [Part I]

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“Stella told me you were in here,” I said, leaning against the doorjamb.

Stephen turned to look at me, wielding a kitchen knife. “I specifically told her not to tell anyone.”

“I think she’s afraid of me. I might have gone mental on her a while back,” I admitted sheepishly, stepping into the kitchen. “What are you making?”

“A snack,” he mumbled, returning to chopping what I discovered was salami. “I think my accountant’s a fúcking skunk so I have a feeling I’m going to be here going through the books for aeons. What are you doing here?”

I ignored his menacing tone. “Someone told me this place has the best burgers but... I’ve never had one.”

“Then I don’t know what you’re doing back here. The restaurant’s up front.”

“Stephen, don’t be like this,” I said softly, setting my bag on a lone stool.

“Like what, Janelle?” He turned to face me, brandishing the knife in his hand like a sword, his eyes blazing. “Like I don’t give a shít? What are we even doing? Having fun? A dysfunctional relationship? Playing let’s-pretend like in book club? What?”

My eyes became slits. “Don’t raise your voice at me like I’m a child.”

“Well, you sure act like one,” he grunted out.

My hand flew out and slapped him, the sound resonating in the empty kitchen. “You’re behaving like one right now, throwing a tantrum over nothing.”

He snorted, slamming the knife onto the counter. “A tantrum?”

I shoved him. “I don’t know what we’re doing, OK? I don’t.”

Stephen grabbed my wrists. “Don’t play with fire. You’re beginning to piss me off. I was quietly making a fúcking sandwich and then you just –”

“Then make your stupid sandwich.” I tried to free my arms. “Stephen, let me go.”

“Will you fúck off if I do?”

“I don’t like you very much.”

He pulled me towards him. “Don’t lie.” Releasing my arms, he backed me up against the counter with his body.

I felt the familiar pull in my abdomen whenever I was around Stephen Ritter. I tried to do everything in my power to fight it. By hitting him. Again. And again. The feeling of my fist making contact with his chest did little to express the anger I felt at him for saying that he loved me. Saying it and then taking it back.

“Go away,” I growled at him.

“You go away. This is my kitchen.”

“Then let me!”

Instead, he slammed his mouth against mine and snaked his arms around my waist. Everything in me said that I should push him away and run but I didn’t. Instead, I found myself running my hands up his shirt and clawing at his back like a yowling cat. I pushed him against a wall and unzipped him, panting like a dog. His hands hiked up the hem of my dress, cupping my bare buttocks.

“No underwear, Janelle?”

I moaned when his fingers parted my pússylips and slid inside me. “Isn’t it better this way?” I countered, leaning into his hand and nibbling on his bottom lip.