The Neighbour

ELEVEN

"I really wanted to kiss you," I admit.

Freddie works the towel up my body and lightly dries my neck, smiling. "I noticed."

"It's harder than I thought."

He finishes what he's doing with the towel and lightly runs the pad of his thumb over my lips.

"Agreed."

His eyes become heated as he continues to touch my lips.

"They're so soft," he whispers, moving closer.

I mirror his actions and hold my fingers up to his lips. "So are yours."

We stay rooted in place, feeling each other's mouths like the creeps we are. Only, it doesn't feel creepy. It feels gorgeous. Intimate. Like we're actually kissing.

"You're wet," I inform.

"You're one to talk," he quirks.

I playfully shove on his chest.

"I meant your hair and clothes," I insists, stepping into the role of caregiver again.

I grab a spare towel from the small cupboard I keep in the bathroom and instruct him to strip out of his wet clothes. I wait until he's fully naked before I step forward and land a gentle kiss to his pec. He tenses at the gesture and holds my head in place, letting me know he's enjoying it.

"You have the most beautiful body, Freddie," I inform, running my hands across his warm skin.

I stop what I'm doing when I come across a scar positioned just above his left hip. It's small in size, but no less sinister looking.

"It was a burn," he explains, squirming in his own skin.

I can tell by his reaction this burn was not an accidental injury.

"Who did it to you?" I ask.

He looks towards the open bathroom door, gazing at his daughter happily staring at her toy giraffe.

"My dad."

I kiss his shoulder and carefully run my finger across the jagged skin.

"Fuck your dad!" I say.

He smiles.

"Where is he now?"

"London, somewhere? He got relocated after prison."

I quirk a brow, encouraging him to elaborate.

"He got life when he murdered a teenage girl."

Whoa!

"Fucking hell," I share. "Who did he murder?"

"Jamie's girlfriend, Chloe. Her sister—Clarissa—is who stabbed him last year."

Shit—I knew he had sustained a stab wound but we never get given the details. Every time police officers came around to conduct their questioning, I always left the room.

"Wait! I remember that," I say. "I must've been eleven or twelve at the time."

No wonder Freddie is so caught up on his childhood and what it means for him as a father. What he went through is nothing short of traumatic.

"It was all over the news," he explains, drying his arms with the towel. "Social services needed a home for Nikki. Jamie and I were old enough to avoid care."

"What happened?" I ask, gazing into his sad eyes.

"I fucking ran," he admits, lowering his head in shame.