𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒, Klaus Mikaelson
"I've been infatuated with you since the beginning."
"I know."
𝐈n which Klaus Mikaelson makes a friend during the five years he spent in a dungeon.
𝐎𝐫
𝐈n which River Creed, the first of her kind, is curious as to...
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Chapter Twenty-Five ᴅᴇᴄɪsɪᴏɴs
𝑅𝐼𝑉𝐸𝑅
I see Klaus glance toward the hallway, and then back at me. He picks me up by the back of my thighs and starts walking. "Which door?" He asks.
I'm still kissing his neck even as I mumble out a response. "Third on the left." He squeezes my ass gently. Excitedly. And starts to walk. "But Klaus... we can't. I share a wall with Remedy."
He pushes the door open with a growl. "You know how to be quiet." He shuts the door by pushing me against it, but I gently push away from him, stopping his lovely kisses.
"We need to talk, Klaus. Really."
He seems to take in my expression, debating if this is a battle he can win or not. "You said it wasn't a bad talk," he finally drawls out
I shrug as he sets me down. "It's debatable."
He breathes out a hard breath. "I can't think straight when I'm around you. It's like I just want to be closer when I'm already as close as possible."
I try to ignore the way those words make me feel—warm and fuzzy. My heart stutters in my chest. But at the same time, my heart sinks because of what his words mean. "I know," I murmur, running a hand across his stubble.
He glances around the room, coming to the same realization that I just have. He's never been in here before. "Physically, at least," he adds.
"I know," I say again. I don't really mean to be distant, it just...happens.
He walks the room, sometimes touching things. He reads some of the titles on the tiny bookshelf beside my bed. It holds all my special first edition and signed books. A couple are as old as me.
Inside the drawer of my nightstand is where he finds my wide collection of notebooks. He glances up at me, silently asking if he's allowed to go through them. I don't say anything, and the way he smiles at getting his way is the most precious thing ever.
I move closer as he sits on my bed, watching him as he begins to flip through the pages. This book in particular is notes and tidbits for songs. It's full from cover to cover of out-of-order quotes and phrases.
Klaus smiles. "Your handwriting is messy."
"I try to write it down fast before I forget."
He inspects the spine, trailing his fingers over the gold embossment. They all match because I bound them myself. "August 2008 - January 2009," he reads aloud.
