Chapter136 – Atticus, don’t…
Atticus grew serious then, his hand closing around hers gently but firmly.
“I don’t want anyone else. I don’t care if you’re older, or if you think you’re not enough.” His voice softened, but the conviction in it was razor-sharp. “Even if you were sixteen years older than me, Clarissa, I’d still love you. Hell, I’d still chase after you just the same.”
She blinked rapidly, eyes beginning to glisten. “Such an idiot,” she whispered, trying to hold back tears. “Stupid sweet talk...”
“It’s not sweet talk. It’s the truth,” he said, his thumb brushing the back of her hand. “I know how lost you felt after aunt died. Even Lancaster family... they were kind, but they weren’t yours. Clarissa, I want to be your home. Let me be that for you.”
Clarissa’s breath hitched. She didn’t reply.
Atticus leaned in, brushing her hair back from her face, his touch feather-light.
“You can’t hide from me. I know you, all of you. Your favorite teas. The way you sleep curled up like a cat. The way you avoid eye contact when you’re flustered, just like now\...” His lips curled into the faintest, knowing smile. “All I need is one word, and I’ll give you everything. We’ll stop being just... almost. We’ll become real.”
Instead, he lifted her chin with two fingers, coaxing her to meet his gaze. And before she could stop him, his lips found hers.
Clarissa’s eyes widened in shock, her hands instinctively flying to his chest in protest. But Atticus caught one wrist with ease, while his other hand slid around her waist, anchoring her firmly in place.
The kiss deepened. Her body was caught between wanting to resist and... surrendering completely.
At some point, she stopped pushing. Her limbs went soft against him, and she let herself melt into the heat of his embrace.
He guided her down to the sofa, slow. His kisses deepened, trailing along her jaw and down to her neck, reverent and slow, until Clarissa was breathless. She barely noticed when her blouse slid up, baring her skin to the cool air and the heat of his mouth.
It wasn’t until the chill reached her thighs that she snapped back into herself.
“Wait... don’t—” she breathed, voice barely audible.
She tried to push him again, weakly. But Atticus caught her mouth in another kiss, silencing her plea with maddening tenderness.
“Clarissa...” he murmured against her lips, then again, hoarser, “Clarissa.”
His voice was shaking now, thick with emotion, need. He kissed her like he couldn’t bear to stop. Like he wanted to consume every part of her.
And then—
“Atticus, don’t...” Her voice cracked. Tears spilled from her eyes as she turned her face away. “Please... stop.”
The sound of her crying snapped him out of the haze.
He looked down at Clarissa. Her clothes were rumpled, her lips swollen and tinged with red. On her own skin, kiss marks of varying intensity were scattered.
Atticus wanted her. Right then. But he also knew—it wasn’t time. Clarissa hadn’t truly accepted him.
He wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t tell the difference between having her body and having her heart.
So he forced himself to breathe, to rein in the raw heat pulsing through his veins. Gently, he reached out and straightened her clothes, his fingers slow. Then he pulled her into his arms, holding her close like she was something breakable and cherished.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I just wanted to kiss you... but the moment I touched you, I completely lost control.”
Clarissa’s voice was hoarse when she answered, laced with embarrassment and residual heat. “Your apology sounds anything but sincere.”
She didn’t push him away, though. Her limbs had gone soft again, and she let herself rest against his chest.
Atticus chuckled quietly. “You’re right. It’s not. I’m a shameless man, sis. Punish me—quickly.”
He rubbed his forehead against hers, a gesture so natural, so intimate, it made her heart skip violently in her chest.
They stayed like that for a long while. Just wrapped around each other in silence. Atticus realized holding her like this... felt full and sweet.
“Let’s go on a trip next week,” he said suddenly, his fingers lacing through hers. “Just the two of us.”
There was a boyish excitement in his voice, a hint of impatience. “I’ve already bookmarked a few places. You pick, yeah?”
Clarissa lowered her eyes, her tone soft. “After my mother’s death anniversary, maybe. I… I’m a little hungry.”
Atticus gave her a smile. “Then I’ll make something for you.”
He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead, then reluctantly stood up and headed to the kitchen.
Clarissa stayed on the sofa, dazed. Her mind and body both felt suspended, caught in the whirlwind of everything that had just happened.
.......
That evening, after dinner, Clarissa returned to her room. She paused for a second, then locked the door.
In the bathroom, she slowly undressed. Her blouse slipped to the floor, and as she stood in front of the mirror, her reflection made her blush all over again.
Her lips were still a little swollen. And her skin was now a canvas of faint red traces and hickeys, dotting her collarbones and trailing all the way down her chest...
“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath, cheeks burning. “Getting more and more reckless.”
Some marks she could hide. But the ones on her neck? There was no hiding those without wearing a turtleneck. And it was summer.
Clarissa was in a bad mood, but her face and body were hot. She wanted a cold shower—but remembered her period was coming, so she turned on the hot water instead and rinsed off quickly.
Later that night, Clarissa stayed up playing games, fully absorbed until after two a.m. She didn’t plan to wake up until nearly noon the next day.
But her phone buzzed loudly at just past eight.
Still half-asleep, she fumbled for it and pressed it to her ear.
“Clarissa?” her mother’s voice rang out. “I heard you’re going to visit Madam Clementine’s grave?”
“Mmm? Yeah...” Clarissa rubbed her eyes. “The day after tomorrow. I prepped everything yesterday.”
“Well, your dad and I are both free that day. We’ll go with you.”
“Huh?” Clarissa blinked, sitting up. “Wait, what? You’re coming too?”
“Yes! We’ve got the time. Don’t worry about anything. Go back to sleep.”
And just like that, Ophelia hung up. Clarissa stared at the phone in horror, completely awake now, her heart pounding. She looked down at her neck.
Around eight the next morning, Atticus knocked lightly on Clarissa’s door to call her for breakfast—only to find the door slightly ajar.
His brows lifted in surprise, but what caught his eye was the shopping bag on the floor. It was filled with foundation, concealer, and a handful of powder puffs.
Curious, he leaned in. “Why’d you buy so much makeup?”
Clarissa, startled by his voice, whipped around—only to see him standing right behind her. Her expression immediately soured.
The kiss mark on her neck, left by none other than him, was still stubbornly visible. She had already applied three layers of foundation, but the deep, bruised flush refused to be hidden.
As soon as she laid eyes on him, her anger flared. Before he could say another word, she snapped, “You have the nerve to ask? This is your fault! Get out!”
Atticus blinked innocently. “What did I do? I just came to ask if you wanted breakfast. Why are you so fierce, sister?”
Clarissa inhaled sharply, trying to calm the frustration bubbling in her chest. She turned her back on him. “I heard you. I’ll be out in a minute. Just wait outside.”
Atticus had already seen it—the thick, uneven patch of foundation on her pale neck. His eyes darkened slightly with satisfaction.