A Touch of Dark (Painted Sin Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  It’s not my body he seems to be after.

  My heart lurches as his footsteps return, drawing closer. At first, I fear he’ll stay where I can’t see him. But no. He enters my line of sight, sans his cane…and I shouldn’t be relieved. Not given the way he looks. Jaw clenched. Furrowed lines around the edges of his blindfold.

  Panting. The sound comes from me, clashing with the muted sounds of rain and thunder. It picks up, feathering into breathless gasps as he advances step by step. He hunts me through the act alone, his head cocked, his posture rigid.

  I nearly jump out of my skin when his finger brushes my cheek. He wasn’t lying. I feel everything. The softness of his skin. The faintest slickness of sweat, even though I’m freezing. He traces a path to my mouth and hovers his thumb over my parted lips, sensing how they quiver.

  His other hand comes slowly, almost reluctantly, to seek out my forearm. Then my collarbone. Finally, he finds the edge of my towel and sinks his fingers into the material. He tugs it away and my lips flutter open around a gasp.

  Helpless like this, I have no comparison to any other moment in my life. Simon made me feel small and cornered, like a mouse, always running on a wheel that would never move. Damien, in this moment, makes me feel like…

  Prey. Only he’s a disinterested predator. I’m more helpless before him than I’ve ever been around any other monster—even the one who tried to kill me. Yet he controls how much of me he wants to see. My lips at the moment. Then the tender, bony ridge of my rib cage where my heartbeat can be felt the most.

  Watching him stand over me is too damn surreal. So I force my eyes shut and listen, copying how he must sense me. I’m nowhere near as warm as he is, and my hands aren’t halfway as soft.

  My pulse quickens, and I can almost visualize the sound pulsating through his fingertips, giving me away. Touch feels far more penetrating than sight ever could. He can feel what my facial expression wouldn’t reveal. My fear. Terror. Curiosity?

  The other women, the ones so intriguing that he rendered them motionless to decipher their secrets. I bet he explored them far more intimately than he does me. Good. I should count my blessings. Thank God he isn’t interested in peering too deeply beneath my shell.

  Wrong. His main goal seems to be to circumvent my expectations at every turn. The hand he has on my chest curls, cupping more flesh, kneading it just to the point of roughness. To hear me scream. As easily as he deciphers me, I’m finding that I can do the same to him. He wants me to protest, so I make a concerted effort to say nothing.

  I don’t gasp. I don’t whimper. I don’t even breathe.

  I simply feel, locked inside my own body. Now seems like the wrong moment to realize that he’s the first man to ever touch me like this. Really touch me. Naked flesh beneath roaming fingers. Should I feel robbed of some precious moment? My future lover has been beaten to this intimate discovery. He’ll have to be content with whatever Damien leaves untouched.

  Which will be nothing.

  Something in the air changes. Thunder surges as if feeding off the emotion conveyed in the thumb he wedges between my lips to pry them apart. Determination. Morbid curiosity. How far can he push me?

  Another searching path of his hand down my chest conjures up the answer I don’t want to face. Too far. He’s closer, his footsteps landing in menacing tandem. I hear his breath catch on a resigned sigh. He’ll play this stupid game I’ve set in motion. He’ll play to win. The hand on my chin curls, cupping my face fully, tilting it back

  “Are your eyes open? I’m assuming they aren’t,” he says, employing that uncanny knowledge of me to unsettling effect. “You always run when you’re frightened. Cower.” His thumb strokes upward, stopping short of my eyelid. “Open them.”

  He’s right. Playing the role of a frightened mouse is the role I play the best. I’ve grown accustomed to fear’s bitter sting. How it grapples for control from my limbs and paralyzes me more than this drug ever could. I should feel it now, the icy tendrils of terror. Hell, I welcome it.

  But he’s wrong.

  I keep my eyes shut, feeding off the tension building in his fingertips. He senses my disobedience without ever having to see it.

  “Remember your word, Juliana Thorne,” he warns, issuing another callous stroke to my cheek. “I know honor is a murky concept in your family, but you promised your submission. Open. Your. Eyes.”

  Another crack of thunder reinforces the malice in his tone. But I keep myself blind. For the first time in my life, it isn’t because I’m afraid of what I’ll see. I know the sight awaiting me: a stern-faced villain bolstered by crackling lightning and distracting shadows. Deciphering him through touch is ten times more disorienting. There are no snap judgments I can make. Just slow deliberation based off the sparks ignited in my skin wherever his touch roams.

  Daddy’s method won’t help me here. Damien requires a new form of deduction. Like the fact that even when he boldly grazes his hand over my breast there’s no real malice in it. The thumb braced between my teeth reveals more. It stiffens, capturing the gasp choked from my throat. At first, he presses harder, relishing the perceived triumph. Not even a second later, he withdraws the pressure.

  “Apparently, you still believe this to be a game.”

  I’ve never known such a thick, impenetrable silence before. Even the weather seems to pause its assault, riveted by the man whose anger bastes my skin with every breath. Another harsh stroke along my chin tilts my face toward the palm of his hand. With no control, I’m at his mercy. He could toy with me like a rag doll, or worse. But no, Damien’s style is more psychological than anything.

  “I think you’ve been alone too long, Juliana,” he tells me, his voice grated. I suspect he knows damn well just how long it’s been. “A good, wholesome woman such as yourself shouldn’t be reacting to me.”

  Apparently, he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks. I’ve never been good, always pretending. Wholesome is a term that best applies to the extent of my lies. Whole. Consuming.

  “Are you that desperate for…” He trails off, letting my imagination run wild to fill in the gap.

  His attention drifts lower, more slowly than before. Spreading fingers and dull nails perform their search with more intent. Friction sparks. Fire follows. Locked in place, my muscles can’t even shudder beneath the violation. I’ve never wanted to recoil so badly in my life. I’ve never been so attuned to my body’s reaction to anything. Not Simon. Not anyone.

  “Open your eyes, Juliana.” He’s closer. His words strike my lower jaw like fire.

  My ears pick up the slight ambiance they normally wouldn’t. The crunch of fabric conformed to a muscular body. The creaking of my floor. Rain lashing glass. The high-pitched, breathy noises coming from my throat.

  He must crouch to his knees, crushing the carpet beneath his bulk. The leather hisses, presumably brushed by the fabric of his shirt. Those hot fingers drift lower…

  “Open your eyes.”

  It should be impossible for him to know that I haven’t. Almost as impossible as it should be for me to sense the hard swallow he takes. A low sound nips at the air. Thunder? No. It’s too deep. Too masculine. Too damn close.

  His dominant hand has never left my face. His thumb performs a near constant stroking, up and down. Down and up. Quicker each time, the next brush more menacing than the last. Gritted teeth create an ominous warning amid the backdrop of yet another flash of lightning. This one so bright that I can see it, brilliant silver against my eyelids.

  “Open.” His voice rumbles against my ear. His thumb flicks my cheek, while his other hand becomes even bolder.

  “N-no…” Only God knows how I manage to rasp out the word. I’m still paralyzed. Speaking feels like trying to scream with an iron weight pressing down on my chest. But he makes it possible. So confident that he knows me so damn well. “Want…to…feel…”

  He laughs. Such a terrible, violent sound. My toes would curl if they could. Instead, my mouth waters an
d I know he can sense the moisture against his thumb. It returns to its position between my lips, testing what little control I still have over my jaw.

  “Feel?” His touch moves lower.

  More sparks. More fire—no, explosions set off beneath my skin.

  “I can make you feel a million things, Juliana Thorne,” he promises. Dark things. Awful things. His hand slides between my legs, giving me a mere taste of what his threat conveys.

  And I choke on it.

  Too much. Too much heat ripping through me. Too little control of my body. All I can do is breathe in and out. Noisily. Pained. His thumb is a rigid anchor and my tongue seeks it out, desperate to retaliate in some way.

  “Open your eyes. Though perhaps I should do the honors, figuratively speaking?” He drags my legs apart as he speaks.

  While I’m blinded, the sensations of slick leather and silken fingers resonate tenfold. Cool air assaults heated flesh. I suck in a breath. Too sensitive. My eyelids flutter. Make it stop.

  Never have this end.

  “Your father is a man of contradiction,” Damien grits out. Something brushes my earlobe, imparting a tendril of alarm. Moist. Soft. His lips? His mouth, lowered so close that I feel every lash of his tongue as he speaks. “In public, he pretends to be the beacon of justice, but in private? He hides and obfuscates whatever he can. He’s had all of his past records erased. Wiped clean. Did you know that? Not the good cases of course, but the others… Now, be the good little girl you are for everyone else and open. Your father could order you to jump off a fucking cliff and you would, wouldn’t you?”

  Probably.

  The heart-stopping fall would be preferable to this; at least I’d know what to expect. I’d see the bottom in advance. I’d never have the chance to regret my decision for very long.

  But this…

  Lightning strikes. Thunder rumbles, and all the while, Damien breathes his hate into my skin. There’s no clear line of sight to the end of my fall. I could be suspended for ages. Or hit the ground without warning.

  “Open.”

  I don’t bother denying him out loud. I can’t. His thumb twists inside my mouth until the nail grazes my tongue. Boom! Flash! He’s created his own storm inside me.

  “I don’t particularly care to molest you, Ms. Thorne.” He almost sounds convincing. If only his accent didn’t wrap around that little word—molest—and strangle it beyond recognition.

  I know the word he substituted it for. Destroy.

  I don’t particularly care to destroy you, Ms. Thorne. But I will.

  The hand between my legs twitches in warning as his voice straddles that guttural octave. “Open your goddamn eyes.”

  “N-no—”

  Inferno. He must have anticipated my response, because silken fingers cup me without hesitation. Ruthlessly. My thoughts scatter at the contact. Total shutdown. What little air I have in my lungs escapes in a rush. Every nerve I possess overloads and then comes back online, one after the other. Sensation first. Then the parts of my brain capable of interpreting it. Heat. Fire. Sweltering. Raw. Skin. Soft. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

  Motion rustles near my earlobe as he murmurs something unintelligible. Open. I register a ragged inhale. Sharp exhale. Then he growls, “Mierda. What game are you playing?”

  As if I’m the one who wields the control. I wish I were. I’d push him off. Run away. I’d cower and hide like he wants me to.

  “Open,” he snarls.

  But the darkness is addicting. Beneath its veil, I can interpret more of him than ever before. He’s closer, leaning his weight toward my position. What must be his torso brushes the tips of my knees, not quite forcing its way between them. But almost. Heat fans my neck in tandem with his breathing. Harsh. Slowed. He’s grappling for calm, something I doubt I’ll ever find again.

  “For the last time…open your eyes.”

  I don’t. He retaliates.

  Only the power of my imagination allows me a vague inclination of what he does next: slide a finger inside me. My frozen muscles don’t offer him any slack. He has to force it. I have to feel it. Friction—bitter, searing friction. Tightness. Closeness. A feeling beyond fire or inferno. A nuclear blast.

  A strangled cry crawls up my throat, but I barely hear myself beneath his grunted exclamation.

  “Qué mierda!”

  Doused. He pulls back so suddenly that that’s what it feels like: being drenched in ice water and left to freeze.

  His mouth remains near my ear, however, his thumb trembling against my tongue. “You’re a virgin.”

  He sounds incredulous. He sounds…furious?

  I don’t know whether to lie or admit the truth. So I say nothing. But he wins. The breadth of his confusion feels far too great to experience through feel alone. I have to open my eyes and see his clenched, disgusted expression for myself.

  He’s closer than I thought, hunched against me, his hand still between my legs, his face almost parallel to mine. There’s no avoiding the path my eyes take. Even blindfolded, his features form a beautiful silhouette in the dark—but make a terrifying contrast when lightning flashes.

  “Are you?” he demands. Another searching thrust of his thumb fractures my attention. Can’t focus. “Too tight,” he grates, speaking more to himself than me. “Have to be.”

  I bite my tongue and he draws back, rising to his feet. The loss of his heat deals a harsher blow than it should. Cold air cruelly replaces him as he starts to pace. One of his hands tears through his hair. The same one he had inside me. The nails on it assault his scalp, ripping strands of ebony hair from his neat ponytail. In place of me.

  I’m the real target of his rage. To prove it, his head swivels in my direction and I sense his focus on my fingers. Looking down, I see why. They’re flexing against the leather, straining for leverage as the hand on the clock inches minutes past an hour.

  But I’m a long way from moving. If anything, the slight tease of freedom is a million times worse. I’m not so helpless, but still at his mercy. Still vulnerable to the threat he voiced. I’ll leave you here in the dark.

  “D-don’t. P-please!” The plea scrapes my throat as he stalks past the couch, beyond my sight. With my eyes wide open, it’s harder to assume what he’s doing. Wood drags across carpet. Fabric swishes through the air. Footsteps angrily approach my door. “W-wait—”

  “Once upon a time, you were left alone in the dark.” There’s what could be mistaken for pity in his voice. Almost—and it unnerves me like nothing else. “Afraid. Abandoned. In so many ways, you will always be that little girl.”

  The door opens. Slams shut. Rain hammers against my windows, drowning out my rapid breathing.

  Shadows loom across the floor. He must have disabled my automatic lights somehow, because they don’t come on no matter how my fingers flutter. I’m frozen. For one minute. Two minutes…

  There’s no bluffing on his part. I’m swallowed by the silence. The loneliness. It circles me like a predator, waiting for the right moment to strike. It comes as lightning illuminates the sky and thunder reverberates through the very foundation of my building. Panic.

  Bit by bit—cell by fucking cell—movement returns.

  But all I can do is scream and remember.

  Simon says…

  You’re never lonely with a…

  “Smile so hard and you might hurt yourself!” Sharla from accounting makes the assessment as she drops a stack of documents onto my desk.

  My mouth practically waters at the prospect of more work. These will take hours, if not days to review. Less time to think. When I swipe my hand longingly over the pages, the perky blond raises an eyebrow.

  “You must be having the best day ever. You haven’t stopped smiling since you came in.”

  She’s right. I haven’t. My mouth aches with the effort it takes to maintain my flawless expression. I’m happy, all right. So damn happy.

  “Thank you.” I beam wider as Sharla saunters off and closes the
door of my office behind her.

  The moment she’s gone, I lift a mug from the corner of my desk and drain it in one go. The liquid running down my throat isn’t coffee—the one risk in my façade I’m willing to take. As they have since the moment I woke up, memories from last night play tauntingly across the inside of my skull and only alcohol can counter them. This sinister brand, to be exact.

  Maybe I’m as much of a masochist as I am a coward. The bitter taste serves as a harsh reminder of just what Damien is capable of. Stalking. Drugging. Abandoning.

  It took two hours after he left for me to regain control of my limbs and crawl into my bedroom. I only had enough strength left to switch on every damn light before a pounding headache drove me beneath the blankets and into a dreamless sleep—a quick Google search revealed a headache could be a potential side effect of succinylcholine. So that was that. He hadn’t poisoned me at least, and somehow, I woke up in time to hobble into my closet and get dressed for work.

  But something else he said makes me compile another search, and the results are more puzzling. Legal cases have never interested me before—not even my father’s before he took the bench. A cursory search reveals a few of his landmark cases as a defense attorney, but little else.

  Erased, Damien said. In fact, the only thing even remotely out of place is a single headline from over twenty-one years ago reading “All Charges Dropped Against Child Murder Suspect.” My father was briefly mentioned as the defense attorney, but the police apparently had no solid evidence and the suspect was never named. Nothing nefarious in that. Still, the topic of murder makes me shudder. Could that case be why Heyworth Thorne picked me, of all children, to adopt? Misplaced guilt?