by Emelia Blair
With Henry taking over the investigation, the detectives would be more vigilant and thorough, but I know of another person who might prove to be helpful.
My thumb hovers over Elijah’s name in my contact list.
Maybe not now.
I put my phone to the side.
Not him.
Not yet.
Nearly an hour passed as I sat in the armchair, working through my thoughts.
I got up to check on Mila.
I looked in on Eve as well and saw her form huddled under the blanket, and a thrill of pleasure rushed through me at the sight, soothing the raging inferno inside me that someone dared to come after my woman.
For now, my family is safe in my fortress, and I’d rip anyone apart with my bare hands who sought to harm them.
It is the sound of the soft knock that has me looking up, sharply.
Eve stands in the doorway, the door slightly ajar behind her, the light from the hallway spilling into the dimly lit room, her hands tugging at the shirt that she wears. I recognize it as one of mine. It is a button up and she didn’t do up the bottom few buttons, flashing my boxers that she also decided to wear.
My mouth goes dry at the image she presents, her long hair up in a loose bun with strands falling out, her standing in my clothing that swallows her curvy frame.
“What is it?” I wonder if I have water in the room or if I will have to go get some the kitchen.
“I can’t sleep.”
I blink at her words, the hesitance in them, a strange fear, as if she doesn’t quite trust herself.
I choose my words carefully. “How can I help?”
Her fingers clutch at the bottom of the shirt, and she takes a step backward. “Never mind. This is a dumb idea.”
I don’t give her the chance to leave as I stride over and close the door before she can pull it open and slip out. That action also has me looming over her, her hand against her head as she leans against the door.
“Eve.”
My eyes study her, watching the flush that creeps up her neck, the way her eyes look confused and soft in a way that tells me more than her words could.
She wants someone to hold her.
But I need her to say it.
A few minutes in and I know she can’t ask for it.
Giving up control isn’t something she is able do, so I take her hand and tug her. “Come on.”
She follows me to the bed, silently.
I sit down on the mattress and tug off my shoes while she stands and watches me. Nudging the shoes aside, I pull her towards me, between my legs, my hands on her hips.
Her own hands automatically move to my shoulders.
“You don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Her fingers burrow into my shoulders, her blunt nails not hurting me in the least as she whispers, “I fell asleep for a few minutes, and I saw myself drowning in blood. It wasn’t mine. It was Lorraine's. And I kept screaming but there was nobody there.” She swallows with some difficulty before admitting, “I’m not good with nightmares.”
Such vulnerability.
Today, she was shaken apart, and the things she is revealing, she would never have done so normally, so I take the gift she offers and hold it to me.
“Tell me what you want from me,” I ask her. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”
There is such a starkness to my words, exposing my deepest desires, hoping that she catches on to the desperation in my tone. I want to lay the world at her feet, if she would only ask.
She moves closer to me, and the darkness in me watches with bated breath.
“I don’t want to sleep,” she confesses, her voice low. “I don’t want to think tonight. I don’t want to be in control tonight. Make it go away. Make everything go away.”
It was a demand, a plea, a desire to give up the tight control she had over herself, just for tonight.
For tonight, she wants to give me the reins.
My hands tighten on her hips as I gaze into her brown eyes that look so lost tonight. “Are you sure, Eve?”
She nods. “Just for tonight.
“Just for tonight,” I repeat.
Then I take the reins.
12
Eve
I tossed and turned, images of Lorraine devouring me, taunting me; when I finally sit up in bed, frightened, disorientated, terror is in every inch of me, sweat clinging to my back, my hair.
I spent five years fixing my mistakes, fighting for myself, controlling every aspect of my environment just to make sure that I would never become a victim. And today, while I haven’t become a victim, somebody for whom I feel responsible, a young woman, was victimized at my workplace. She pleaded with me to fix her, to help her, and I was unable to do anything.
So, when I went to Zayn, I knew what I needed, and a part of me had wondered whether he would go through with it. The fact was that if I had to give up control to anyone, it would be him.
These past few weeks, they had altered our relationship, made me see him in ways that I had blinded myself to, and tonight, well tonight I needed him to tear me down to my very bare essence and then build me up again.
Is this a mistake?
I stare into his cold blue eyes, his large hands on my hips, keeping me in place.
Does he understand what I want? What I need?
Zayn’s hands move over my waist before they reach out to undo the buttons that I actually managed to fasten. His every movement is purposeful, and I watch with bated breath, my skin quivering where his fingers brush.
He doesn’t undo all the buttons.
Just where they fall short of my chest.
My stomach, my navel is bare to him, and he parts the shirt, exposing my scars to him.
He looks at them, his head cocking, like that of a wild animal that is suddenly curious. His fingers lightly brush over the stretch marks, the white line where the doctors inserted the scalpel to remove Mila from my body when I passed out during labor, the second scar when they had to move fast because my body went into shock.
Zayn touches all those scars, and then I see him shift forward till his mouth presses against every one of them, a worshipful caress.
My eyes close, briefly, tears welling at how reverently he touches the marks on my body, how he kisses them tenderly as if they are badges of honor.
In my mind they are.
Zayn whispers something that sounds suspiciously like ‘my little warrior,’ but I don’t ask, I don’t speak.
When he pulls away, my eyes open and I see him standing, an odd look on his face. “Not here. If I take you anywhere, it’s going to be in my bed.”
His hand curls around mine, such an unexpected gesture that is so sweet in nature that I end up following him without questioning.
If he sees the rumpled sheets on the bed or the blanket tossed on the floor in the throes of my nightmare, he doesn't make any comment.
Instead, he walks me slowly backward towards the bed, till the back of my knees hit the silk of the black sheets. His fingers brush my face, my cheekbones, his thumbs grazing my lips as he gazes at my mouth without saying anything, a hungry look in his eyes.
Why won’t you kiss me already?
When he chuckles, I realize I uttered the impatient words aloud. “I want to look at you.” His hand curls around the back of my neck. “Tonight, you belong to me, Eve. And I want to look at you as you respond to my touch.”
His lips quirk up, a wolfish expression in his eyes. “Do you know how responsive you are when I run my hands over you? It’s the most beautiful sight in the world to me.”
My eyes close, uncomfortable with the way he is describing me, his words seducing me, trying to tell me that he knows my deepest fears, the insecurity that lingers there that I hide from the world with the numerous masks I wear, and that he finds me beautiful despite all that.
“Open your eyes.” The words are a soft command.
I do, and when I see the adoration in his eyes, I want
to suddenly pull back, not ready for what he is offering. However, his fingers tangle in the loose bun I hurriedly threw my hair up in before going in search of him, and he pulls out the pen I stuck in there to keep my hair in place, and when my thick long hair tumbles down, I feel his fingers curl in the base of it, pulling my head back, not gently. He leans forward and runs his nose from my jaw to my collarbone, scenting me blatantly in what I can only call a possessive action.
“I wonder if you know what you’ve signed up for,” he murmurs, his tongue darting out and licking my collarbone before he sucks on it in a way that nearly has me sighing. “I want to mark your skin with so many mementos and bruises, all evidence of what I did to you so that every time you press your fingers against them and they hurt, it reminds you of what exactly I was doing to you at that moment, and you get wet.”
I tremble at his words, and he continues whispering against my skin, his breath hot. “I’d leave my mark on your skin so that everyone who sees you will know that you belong to me.”
Despite the fact that his proximity is making me delirious, the way one hand tugs at my hair, the other exploring my exposed body, I am still in control of myself and defiance surges at his words. “I don’t belong to you.”
He makes a humming sound under his breath before meeting my eyes, his own calm. “But you do. You always have.”
My lips part to say something, a retort, a barb, but my back arches instead when he slips his hands inside the boxers that I wear, his thumbs exploring the sharp bones of my hips.
Suddenly, I am whirled around, and he sits on the bed, pulling me flush against him, my back to his chest as he continues his explorations, those large hands touching my thighs, nearing quivering flesh and then retreating as if they have better things to do.
Feverishly, I writhe in his hold as Zayn takes his time in exploring my body, as if mapping every inch of it. I feel one of his hands reach around to clamp on my throat in a hold that isn’t restricting my airflow. His tongue follows a path from my shoulder to my nape as he sucks vigorously.
I tremble, writhe, and fall still when the hand around my neck tightens, and he says, pleasantly, “None of that.”
Feeling me give in, begrudgingly, I feel his lips curve against my skin. “You want to give up control, but you don’t just want to give it up; you want me to earn the right to take it from you, tonight.”
His words strike a chord in me, and my eyes snap open, realizing the truth in his words.
I want him to prove that he is worth it, that he is worth the gift he is being offered.
“Tell me, Eve,” Zayn continues. “Who else? Who else have you submitted to like this?”
I shake my head, mutely, before forcing the words out of my mouth. “I’m not submitting to you.”
“No?” He sounds amused, and I hate him for it.
He isn’t making fun of me, but he is poking at me, looking for weaknesses he could exploit. Giving up control to him doesn’t mean that I am handing myself over, no questions asked.
He has to earn it.
The confusion and contradiction in my words and actions don’t bother me. What I want and what I am doing is not in sync at the moment.
“So what would it take for you to give in to me tonight?” he breathes. “Do you want me to put in more effort into persuading your body that I’m the only one whose brand of ownership you can wear?”
His words are like soft velvet, stroking my skin, dark promises in them.
Rebelliousness, my core nature, rises in me, and I look over my shoulder at him, brown eyes meeting pale blue ones, defiance in my stance and my tone, despite the fact that my breathing has sped up. “Yes.”
His lips curve in a smirk that has me shuddering, it is so wickedly delighted. “I expected nothing less.”
His hands now move over the remaining top buttons of the shirt, and he undoes them with ease and languor, unhurried as if he has all the time in the world. His touch is like jolts of electricity on my skin, the knowledge that I am half naked in front of him, in such a vulnerable position, where has access to every part of me, while he is fully clothed, it makes me whimper.
“How do I drive you to the point of no return, Eve?” he asks softly, his hands tugging the shirt down till it is pulling my arms back, my breasts exposed, my nipples hardening with the cold air, tightening them to almost painful pebbles.
I am very effectively bound now, my hands behind me, my body open and available to his every touch. He trails his hand over my throat, my jaw, and this thumb begins to stroke my lower lip till my lips part, and I open my mouth to suck his fingers in, my mind descending into a passionate haze with how he is slowly torturing me.
His tone is sliding over me like velvet. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to put my fingers inside you?” The fingers in my mouth move in and out as he fucks my mouth with them. “How many fingers do you want me to stuff in your pussy? Two, three?”
My eyes close shut tightly, and my head falls back against his shoulder.
Zayn pulls out the wet fingers from my mouth, and I feel his breath against my ear, rough, and yet so exceedingly polite. “Tell me how many fingers, Eve?”
I whimper at the question, feeling his wet hand ghosting over my stomach, making its way inside the boxers I stole. “I don’t know.”
His other hand reaches out to cup one breast, and his fingers seek out the hard nipple which he rolls between his fingers. “If I put my hand between your legs right now, what would I find? Would you be wet for me? How tight will you be? Spread your legs.”
The last part was a sharp command and my legs widen, giving him easier access. When he pinches my nipple as a reward, my spine arches with a gasp and I feel his mouth biting down on my earlobe softly, my head resting on his shoulder.
“Good girl.”
The praise is so unexpected, so strange that my eyes flutter open and I feel a weird pride in pleasing him. I don’t understand it, but it is there. Despite the fact that he is fully clothed, I feel the thick hot ridge of Zayn’s cock pressed against my spine.
The trembling anticipation, this strained headiness as he touches me, expertly plays my body, it makes me shake. I feel his hand near my pussy and I moan when one thick finger runs across the slit of my entrance, scooping up the leaking cream before trailing up and gently pressing that finger against my lips.
I heed the invitation to open my mouth. I feel Zayn’s delight at the way I suck my juices off his finger, swirling my tongue around it, tasting myself on him.
His cock hardens even more.
“I wish you could see yourself.” His voice sounds dark. “Such an exquisite creature.” I feel the sting of his teeth against my throat as he murmurs. “It’s like you were designed just for me.”
My mind is breaking, the fragility being encased in something darker, more protective. Zayn’s touch drives me wild while soothing the pain inside me. The way he controls me with just his words, I weep inside at such a release.
“Such a sensuous creature,” he breathes against my neck and then my hair is tugged back almost forcefully as he fastens his mouth on mine in a kiss that is all teeth and tongue. He licks inside my mouth, demanding I give in to him, that I submit to him and I fight back, not able to entirely give up control.
Yet, as his mouth claims me in the most intimate of ways, I start submitting to him, unable to help myself.
His words are fierce when he pulls away. “I want to hear you beg for my cock, Eve. I want you to ask me for it.” His smile is almost sadistic, and I would have rubbed my thighs together in need if he wasn’t holding them apart with his feet hooked around my ankles.
I am at his mercy.
“I think you’d beg beautifully. It would be impossible to resist you,” he croons, and I groan, unconsciously spreading my legs, trying to give Zayn access to where I need him the most.
He looks pleased and then without warning, I feel his feet draw my legs even further apart, roughly. “I want to see you ut
terly debauched by the time I’m done with you.”
His fingers find their way to my pussy again, and this time he sticks in two fingers, and I keen at the sharp pleasure as he slowly starts fucking me on them.
I try to shift, to get some more friction, but I am so entangled that I can’t move and have to bear the onslaught of slow-burning pleasure as he slowly and calmly uses his fingers to get me off.
Just as I am about to reach the edge, my helpless moans increasing in sound, he pulls them out.
I make a cry of protest, and then I feel him unhook my legs as the boxers are forced off of me and tossed aside.
The next thing I know, he has three fingers stuffed inside me, and I am rocking against them this time. I am so lost in the hot pleasure as he forces me into an orgasm that his harsh breathing nearly misses my notice.
Zayn is slowly losing control.
“Tell me what you feel?” he snarls and my mind in shambles, the pleasure so much, my body so aroused, I let out a moaning sound as I become rigid, a visible ripple of pleasure running through my entire body.
But Zayn isn’t done with me yet.
He makes me ride out the orgasm, my face flushed, and then he adds a fourth finger, making me let out a short scream of both pain and pleasure.
It is so much.
Too much.
“Tell me!” His voice is a bark as he rocks the fingers inside me, as I writhe in his grasp, my arms still behind me.
“It feels so good!” I sob out. I feel almost shocked, panicked at the sharp pleasure that keeps tearing through me. “Oh, oh! I like it!”
The words are torn from me, unable to deny him anything right now.
The words satisfy him, please him, and he almost purrs, “I know you do.”
When I bite my lower lip at the next orgasm that comes rolling in, I feel him viciously pull my head back in an almost painful grip. “I want to hear your voice.”
The authority in his voice is my undoing as he hisses. “I want to hear you lose control. I want to hear you scream and beg.”
And so I do.
