His laugh was a hysterical sound that rasped out of him when he threw his head back, pulling a fog of discomfort between us and exposing those hunted eyes of his which didn't seem to focus on anything in particular as they looked away.
I stayed quiet.
What trudged through Dwain's mind?
Perchance, obscured remembrances?
My thoughts conflicted with one another in ways my inner psyche couldn't even begin to comprehend.
A severer ache drew my nerves.
What do you say to someone who means a decade of joy to your life when they tell you something heartwarming...so heartwarming that you commence seeing stars?
Hoarse voices chaperoned several opinions to the back of my head, animated gestures of concern flashing before my fidgeting eyes as one of the options, but my lips only quivered in response with incoherent words falling off...perhaps, heart-wrenching for anyone who stared at me expectantly.
I was inexperienced with matters of the heart.
His smile fell. "Shouldn't you say something?"
I was startled by his words.
But my brain was crammed with stupidity as nothing lucid swung in my favor. "What should I say?"
Mr. Horton's solemn gaze searched my soul in those lengthening minutes of silence.
His brows contorted in what seemed like discontent with every fading second between us, as his daring eyes adverted to the mug between his hands.
Of cause, he wished to hate Elisabeth.
Who would blame him?
Mr. Horton was the picture of a ghost floating around with no place to go, seeking color in a life that was clouded by darkness while evading the claws of sad memories.
Although he was still confused as to who stood in front of him, the revenge-seeking Elisabeth or the happy-go-lucky Elisabeth, he always played the right cards...the cards that won the jackpot.
He was tortured by two different personas.
Who won't develop a migraine in trying to figure out what was going on?
My heart clenched bitterly to the sad redeem of my pulse.
Why?
Elisabeth made me promise nondisclosure of our identities, for it was her place, to tell the truth.
However, my heart weighed with urgency to scream the reality from every rooftop, but the fear of distrust and rejection in Dwain's handsome eyes which would be the aftermath of the truth sent a toxic shiver down my spine.
I didn't have what it takes to open up to him.
I couldn't build up the courage to end what we hadn't even begun.
My chance of being with Dwain danced on thin glass.
Jeez!
It just took a fraction of a minute to choose me over everyone else, to choose happiness over guilt, to become selfish and irrational towards the feelings of the one and only man I deeply loved...to choose him over everything in the world.
I fought against the blush of self-confidence and self-sufficiency which made its way from across my cheeks, masking their appearance with a bored facial expression.
Sooner or later, someone had to break the iceberg between both of us.
His calm demure was deafening, excessively depressing, and drowning.
My curious eyes set a cross on his façade.
I craned my neck to catch the playful smirk on his daredevil lips before it disappeared behind the cup of chocolate in his raised hands, but his soft recalcitrant gaze lit a mysterious bulb in my subjective thoughts and unraveled an objective plan of action.
My spine straightened out, a gush of uncertainty escaping my lips.
"Oh!"
It rang as though it were a regular remark from a class tutor through my ears.
Not the ideal conversation starter.
Stupid!
It was excessively stupid.
Yet, I expected him to react.
Probably do something out of routine, not just him giving me robotic signals and gross stares.
Maybe finish what he started.
Proceed to make things right.
Open up about his wounds, or do something significant and convincing.
I desperately wished to believe every word of his, but he did the contrary.
His railing orbs took me in, paging through my flushed skin like it was a boring novel, then halted at my chest, and squinted with bashful amusement. "You seem terrified . . . little nutshell. Why is that?"
I withheld the ladylike urge to laugh straight at his face and squeezed my knuckles.
He was the sole discomfort in the sitting room, pathetic. "Who gave you the right to belittle me in a nutshell?"
"It's a cute endearment," he took another sip from his mug; smacking his lips against each other till they popped like he just proved the existence of aliens to a class of teenage dummies. "Earlier, you seemed not to care about the nickname."
What did he take me for, a loser?
I frowned at him. "Is this how you perceive me, something little and comparable to a nut? Inanimate stuff, fragile and void of emotions, just pushed against its will by the wind in all directions with no choice as to where it would want to be?"
His playfulness switched to something serious, unrecognizable.
"You get it all wrong," he nodded in denial at the disgust in my eyes.
His arms made gestures of their own as he fumbled with his mug while replying to me, and made sure to watch my reaction to his argument.
"I'm protective of you."
"How is that a reason?" I plowed a hole through his self-esteem and downed the sip of melted chocolate in my mouth whilst twisting my cheeks in annoyance. "It makes no sense."
"I see you like a little nutshell which I'm tasked with...not tasked but entitled to take care of with all my heart and soul...to cherish and love till death..."
His reasons went on for decades, eyes not leaving my face as they absorbed my gaze into a sea of affection, vulnerability taking possession of me with every follow-up.
"You are trying to mock me, just say it openly. How can you be so obvious, but choose to lie in my face?"
"I've never been this serious." His pearl teeth dented upward alongside his cheeky smile. "Endearments substitute proper names to express affections, to communicate unsaid feelings at deeper levels of intimacy, and to make love ones less tense."
His brows creased into a single line. "Isn't it cute?"
Dwain wasn't the only man skilled at playing dirty tricks on people, though his skills might save him, he couldn't see the comeback aimed at him brewing from miles ahead.
"What part of helplessness is cute?"
The clinking of my fingertips against my mug gave away nervousness and excitement.
Gosh!
He knew he was hitting the mark with his words, getting under my skin with that sharp tongue of his, and making me blush profusely.
But, I needed to mislead Dwain till I got the upper hand over him.
He tossed a seductive scowl at me. "Let's pretend that a mewling, pooping, and the most annoying small thing is deposited in your lap."
He gulped, taking a step closer to the couch. "It takes over your life as you find yourself lavishing attention on this new creature. Going out becomes a distant memory."
His face brightened foolishly behind his mug, something memorable must have flashed before his eyes. "But the thing is the new baby is cute. Cute, you can't help but feel protected. You want to look after her because she is helpless."
It took more than willpower not to jump to his chest and curl my hands around his neck, beckoning to him to take me far away from this world, far away to a place where we could be the two of us, living the fantasy in my head...forever as lovers.
His words held truths that everyone craved to hear, especially hopeless romantics like myself, and a bunch of other romance readers when their favorite book characters get a satisfying ending and the couple lives happily ever after.
I blew over the mug of chocolate in my hands, not sparing the devilish smirk on his cheeks any other glance.
"It is not fair on your part to assume my quietness for acceptance to an endearment as veil as that, little nutshell, like seriously?"
"You were helpless, drunk, and mesmerizing in that club." He sucked a residue of chocolate from his lips. "I can't even recall the night you fell into the fountain abroad without knotting my brows in guilt...absolute regret for the carelessness of my actions."
Some muscles twitched in my jaw, replaying the night in question.
"For a second, I thought the worst will happen."
"Me too." My brain pieced the memories together, backtracking to the mighty fountain as my lungs constricted. "My life snapped before my eyes. It was scary. I knew my end had come. The shouts, water..."
"Enough!" He held a finger over his lips, gesturing me to snap out of those sad memories, and took in a fresh breath of air. "I was irresponsible. How shouldn't I protect an adorable little creature like you from this cruel world, a world of sin?"
I leaned onto the couch, my back relaxing nicely against the sophisticated foreign padding. "Is that catchphrase supposed to be a love confession, Mr. Horton?"
Many people would say the size of my brain was equivalent to a rotten peanut cookie, for it was easy to comprehend the subverted words of Dwain Horton.
Yet, I must argue that profound love confessions weren't empty catchphrases when intended for those we so-called, "love ones."
Dwain choked on his cup of chocolate, soiled his buttoned-down white business shirt with the brown fluid, and creased his brows.
"Of cause, it is not."
"What?" I muffled a scream, my ego going through heartbreak. "I bet it's not."
"You watch a lot of dramas, little nutshell," he hummed, barely meeting my gaze.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. "And you never lack what to say, dummy."
My fingers tingled like they were placed in a bucket of burning sand, discreetly fisting a cushion as I bit my inner cheeks for being such a fool to assume Dwain's tête-à-tête for a love confession.
Who jokes with emotions?
Who would have thought he wasn't serious all along?
"You should have majored in bluffing," a sick sigh slipped beneath my breath.
His facial expression switched from lightheaded-gorgeous to crappie-bully-raucous whilst he took a step backward, circled the coffee table, and grabbed a paper napkin to dab the large brown stain on his shirt.
"You look too stiff and inattentive for someone awaiting a love confession," the last word resonated at the back of his throat like a poorly strummed guitar, sickening to the ears, and filled my gut with a weird lump that was eventually swallowed. "There is nothing wrong with hoping . . . my little nutshell."
"How dare you jump to such a rash conclusion?" I scoffed, mentally crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm not that desperate for affection, Mr. Horton."
He tossed the soiled napkin in his hands out of sight. "So...don't you wish for my so-called catchphrase to be a love confession, huh?"
His voice was a soft satanic spell that snaked through my ears like slow poison, wrestling against my subconscious mind, and crippling my willpower.
I scrunched my nose, eyeballing him from head to toe.
I needed a distraction from his face.
"Who amongst the two of us can't move on without the other, huh?"
Something appeared in his eyes, soft and cheerful, intensifying with each burrow forming across his brows.
"Keep on talking like that so we would see to what extent you can keep up with that smart mouth of yours, my so little nutshell."
His self-confidence was the death of me.
I crossed a leg over my ankle and sipped the content of my mug, giving the croissants on the coffee table my complete attention.
"Someone is desperately in need of the other even though they don't deserve them, doesn't it sound oddly familiar?"
Thank goodness for the stain on his dress, it distracted me from his self-righteousness.
"Strangely familiar, indeed," he fiddled with his stubble, traced the prominent outline of his dashing jawline, and acknowledged my smug smile. "Who could that be, a male model, I guess?"
"Surely not a male model, but he should have been." My brows lifted in deep thoughts, searching for inspiration. "His crescent-of-moon eyebrows are thin and narrow sitting just above his nomad-blue eyes. His black hair is casually jumbled sometimes, but mostly neat and flowing. His only blemish is that he has beetle brows and they sometimes knit in frustration."
His index finger played with the rim of his mug, pursed as his brows arched, and a grin made a dent in his mouth. "If I hadn't known you, I would have assumed you were describing me."
He moved a lock of hair out of his face. "I kind of see myself in your description, Mrs. Horton."
"You are a total airhead." I munched a croissant, took more hungry bites, and spoke with my mouth full, not giving Dwain the chance to tell me off. "Apart from being socially gifted, what else can be said about you?"
"I give up." His fist carelessly swung to his face and pressed hard against his mouth to mute his awful laughs. "Am astounded to deal with a quick-witted woman, it's endearing."
"Not for long." I cocked a brow at him. "You are yet to see the worst of me."
He casually shrugged his shoulders, arms lifting over his head and falling to his thighs without spilling out the content of his mug. "If you say so, I won't retaliate."
His regard was sweet, focusing on my curves. "What if my previous words were an actual love confession, would they have hit the mark?"
"My expectations are very high." I shook my head, eyes still lifted at the sneer on his lips. "For a gentleman of your caliber; it was bad."
The mug in my palms was raised to an appropriate angle above my chest, my taste buds slobbering with anticipation as every move ushered the chocolate aroma to my mouth.
"Something colorful, not over the top, yet passionate and sincere would have done the trick."
His gaze hardened, it was like a giant's fist. "Is that so?"
"It's overused in works of fiction." My eyes narrowed to slits. "I wasn't impressed."
His biceps were at the point of ripping his shirt to rags, straining through the white fabric with hopes of grasping onto something tangible with every concern that he shot at me, yet he fisted his cup of hot chocolate, and gulped in silence, his shameless gaze still lingering on my face diligently.
"How then should a gentleman impress you?"
His wrestler's shoulders were a part of his burly physique.
His voice was daring to do anything as the bass in his tone resonated through my ears.
"With eyes as bright and spellbinding as lodestars, I'm bewitched under your steady gaze. You have bewitched a gentleman."
One could sense the aroma of shredded chocolate at the back of my head as my mug halted between my teeth. "You aren't gentle; it was a slip of the tongue."
He seemed to be molded from a different cast as his face changed to something uncommon. "A slip of the tongue you say?" His eyes glimmered with pain, raw and sharp, but they quickly shut themselves in an instant. "That makes it two of us."
I nodded, eyes as wide as saucers when his free hand dropped to his chest, threw his red tie to a very sexy angle, and popped open his first three shirt buttons.
"But I believed you." His fingers slid over the next set of buttons to fidget with his belt. "It's an immense shame that I didn't see then what I see now."
My cheeks flushed in anticipation.
I gulped. "What do you see?"
From the look of things, his mind had plotted evil.
His business shirt went flying across the living room onto a desolate couch.
Shirtless, Dwain's rakish appearance was a source of amusement, emanating an enticing herbal smell as his muscled chest crammed my peripheral vision.
"Perfection," he whispered, regaining possession of his mug from the coffee table.
I wasn't fond of how my legs gently drew closer towards each other, quieting the pressure that built up within me, as my eyes roomed the arcs of Dwain's biceps, ambled down to the bulging veins underneath his clear skin, and halted at the well-sculpted abs which hardened his spectacular abdomen.
I couldn't handle the hot mess entwining with my thoughts.
His sonorous and rumbling voice filled the living room. "A lady with a wafer-thin body, a decanter-shaped waist, and a remarkable complexion whose pencil-thin eyebrows ease down gently to her thick eyelashes whenever she's embarrassed."
His mockery of my awkwardness was oblivious.
"You aren't serious." I struggled to keep away my hands from fidgeting, switched from one crappy facial expression to the next, and held his gaze with a straight face, but every attempt to mask my enthusiasm was pointless. "That's not close to what even happens whenever I get embarrassed, stop exaggerating Mr. Horton."
Moreover, being trapped in his clothes lit a bigger fire that flamed within me.
He gave a deaf ear to my shy appeal.
"When she breaks into a smile, it lights up the room." His eyes had the same startling clarity of a mountain stream; the lineaments of his face were in perfect proportions to each other. "It can jolt you like an electric current when that megawatt smile gives you her full attention."
My fingers found the back of my neck and ran through my nougat-brown hair.
What went through his head?
My consciousness fought for dear life as if my heart repeatedly raced to safety from a predator.
Perhaps, it was just a slip of his tongue?
Each twist and twirl of Dwain's lips, the alignment of his eyebrows as he spoke, and the swelling of his cheeks replayed before my eyes a zillion times to make sure the words which left his mouth weren't subverted by my subconscious mind to get me anxious...not that it meant anything.
Nevertheless, I ought to be sure.
What was his endgame?
My heartbeat sprinted to the airtight windows in the living room, whereas excruciating knots twisted in my stomach as though it were a sharp knife stabbed in my back, meanwhile, the clues in Dwain's description that carried meaning glided into a daze behind my eyes.
Like fireworks, every clue sprung without protest.
I ogled at the tiles, bit back a blush, and sipped from the warm chocolate mug squeezed in between my palms.
"You do have a sweet way with words."
"It's not sweet-talking."
His eyes hardened, wrinkles blemishing the faultlessness of his forehead as he unconsciously curled his fingers about the nook of his cup, and spared my features a traitorous once over. "You are the embodiment of perfection, but I don't deserve you. I can't stain your white with my world."
His world, which world?
Weren't we in the same world?
In that instant, multiple theories birth evil fruits at the back of my head, the world of BDSM shamelessly standing out amongst all of the other thoughts.
Is that what his world meant?
I couldn't believe he let me get a glimpse of his struggles, being vulnerable to the extent of throwing away his domineering temperament, even though it lasted for just a brief second. "What makes you think of me in that way?"
"I am selfishly possessive of you, though I should let go."
His breathing became unfathomable, very sporadic, distracted, and pulsating around his wrist when my eyes subtly lifted from my mug to catch a sign of remorse, but nothing.
"Why would you let go of something you cherish?"
He spaced out and stared into a void.
"What demons are you fighting?" I tasted my lips. "What makes you think that you don't deserve me?"
Regardless of the things, Elisabeth told me about Dwain, I wanted to listen to his version of the story, the side that no one cared about. "Why don't you give me answers?"
He groaned, almost inaudibly. "I'm not comfortable talking about it."
Just then, a low cough rasped out of his throat alongside the protruding Adam's apple. "I'm not good enough for you. I'm not the kind of person you can be proud of; my private baggage is not the one you would love to carry."
For a brief second, he was fascinated by the curtain of worry in my puppy eyes.
Dwain's knuckles traveled hastily to the extremities of his chocolate mug. "I'm just another work in progress that won't ever get the chance to have an ending."
"You give me very little information to comprehend." I suckled on my bottom lip which swelled into a bright red tomato as bittersweet chills spread to my back, ascended my neck without prior notice, and slopped to the sole of my toes in a dangerous hurl. "I'm left to my imagination. C'mon, what is happening?"
"I'm the monster who ruined everything for you," he murmured.
I rocked my brain to find a response.
"You aren't a monster. Never shall you even become one! Please, don't think that way, can't you do that for me?"
"You aren't in my shoes." His jet-blue eyes were a sea of darkness, glinting with a wicked desire that disappeared as soon as he regained awareness of his surroundings, and let out a feathery breath that escaped his throat through those chubby lips. "The day we met is surely a bitter memory in your archives."
If Elisabeth was truthful about the happenings of that famous night, then it would indeed be a bitter memory of being raped against one's will.
His pain was palpable, dread rushed through me.
"Everything that happened that night is my fault. I blame myself for the bad choices which hurt you."
My soul was ripped out by his last words.
"I shouldn't have crossed your path, Elisabeth."
I held onto my beliefs.
Even though Elisabeth claimed to have been raped, Dwain won't have slept with her without consent.
"What happened that night?"
He wore a soft gaze around his eyes.
"I thought you would never ask, my lady."