by Lana Sky
“I suggest,” he starts, his voice alarmingly thick. Guttural. “I suggest you…assist me, here. I’d rather not crush you.”
I shudder at the word. Crush. And also what I know he left out. Yet.
When he nudges my hip, I’m reminded of his request. Assist him.
“To do what?” I’ve never heard this quality to my voice before. Husky. Like Sharla from accounting whenever Dave from research walks by her desk. Funny. I always thought Dave wasn’t her type—but now I know.
Now, I know what it feels like to lie to yourself. It’s hell. It’s heroin.
In a breathtaking display of balance, he braces one knee against the mattress. I have to bite my lower lip as he uses my own thigh for reference to know where to place his limb, grinding against my flesh.
My hands fly out, finding his hips. An appreciative sound catches in my throat; the man is pure muscle. Coiled ridges of it flex beneath my touch as he braces one hand beside my hip. The other lands near my head, fisting in the sheets, and he’s above me. My breaths fan his throat, disrupting the strands of hair framing his face.
“What are you doing?” I ask once I remember how to speak.
“Negotiating.”
Thunder rumbles. Our lips meet again. Teeth. Biting. Tasting. Grinding—
Through the thin fabric of my pajamas, I feel the unmissable rasp of tailored fabric, heat, and…sin. I break away with a gasp. “Get…out—”
“The sheets.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him raise a handful in his clenched fist. His nostrils flare inches from the fabric. His expression hardens.
“You didn’t wash the sheets.” His knuckles whiten, ivory over black silk. Shamelessly, he brings his fist to his nose again and inhales more deeply. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and I feel his chest expand, nearing mine.
He looks tenser than I’ve seen him. Poor Damien. My toes curl at the thought of just what he’s seeking from my bedsheets. Or why he can’t seem to let go of his fistful.
“We will make an exchange,” he proposes, his voice composed once again, deep and suave. My inner thighs quiver as his lips part and a thick, red tongue traces the bottom one. “I’ll give you the location of the remaining devices…”
“Good,” I croak even as alarm bells go off inside my mind. This feels far too simple.
“And you…” His fingers find my lips as though magnetized to them. A newer scent blends in with his usual mix of aromas, and I almost miss his next words. “For every location, you give me something.”
“Like what?” I muster up the courage to ask.
“A reward.” His thumb grazes that dangerous sliver of space between my lips, imparting a million disturbing insinuations. “Something I can’t capture with a mere recording.”
“Y-you recorded me?” An image pops into my head of him locked in one of his cavernous rooms, replaying those sick, twisted tapes over and over again. “Why?”
From this angle, I have a perfect view of his twitching throat. Hard swallow after hard swallow. He doesn’t say.
“And if I refuse?” I wonder as if that’s really in question. I am going to. I will. “What? You’ll sell your little recordings to the tabloids, hmm?”
“No.” His upper lip curls back from his teeth at the mere suggestion. “I don’t sell from my private collection.”
Instantly, the heat in my belly cools. “Just how many recordings of women do you hoard?” I press my palm against his chest to push him off. “Goodnight, Mr. Villa—”
He shifts his weight to block my path. Trapped. His mouth grazes my ear from this angle and I feel the jolt down to my toes. Too damn close for comfort.
“What is your price?”
“I don’t have one.” I apply more pressure to his chest, but the bastard doesn’t budge.
“Oh?” His voice deepens, heightening his accent. “I’ll tell you the location of one of the devices in exchange for…a taste of what I’ll never have.” One shift of his weight and he has me pinned. Helpless. Limp. Breathless.
“What are you—”
Black. Darkness. Thunder.
Every light cuts off, plunging my room in shadow.
And I’m in the forest. Lost. Trapped.
“Let’s play a game,” he murmured, pointing from me to Leslie with the tip of a knife. “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe or rock-paper-scissors…”
“Juliana.”
The rough voice doesn’t belong, combating Simon’s slithering drawl. I cling to it, clawing my way to reality bit by bit. I see darkness. No forest. Lightning. A flash of my room. A shadow, reaching for me.
“Focus on my voice,” someone snarls.
Oh no. There’s vomit on my tongue. On the bed. I feel it running down my chin, hot like blood. Someone tries their best to wipe it away, utilizing a handkerchief.
“L-let me go!” I swat at his arm, but this time, he backs away.
It’s unfair how easily he maneuvers, even in the dark. My eyes blink rapidly as I adjust to the loss of his heat. Too cold. Shivering. My fingers fan out, searching until they brush silk and curl around a fistful without permission.
“I’m here.”
God, he’s the last person in the world I should hear uttering those words. The last man on Earth whose reassurance should ease my heartbeat.
The last man in the world to drag me from a nightmare.
“Get out,” I croak.
He doesn’t move and the minutes of the outage tick by, longer than the first. Too long.
“Let’s play a game,” he said. “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe or rock-paper-scissors? What about you, little girl in the purple… Tell us what to play.”
“Are you listening to me? I think I just insulted you, Ms. Thorne.”
Huh? I blink. Still here, in my room. With Damien…
“I said,” he says, infuriatingly calm, “that your bed is a travesty. Sí, no wonder you’ve been moaning every night.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “B-bastard.”
“I thought women like you lounged on silk?”
“Fuck you.” The retort trickles out of me, more as a whisper than anything else. “Go away.”
“I would,” he says thickly. “If you let me go.”
I stiffen, aware of my grip on him, but I can’t seem to loosen it. Out of self-preservation, of course. If this is a stunt, I’ll make sure his DNA is beneath my fingernails. I’ll make sure the world knows that Damien entered my apartment and…
“Your heart is racing,” he declares, sounding more concerned than taunting. “You’re afraid—”
“Get out!” This time, I manage to shove him off just as a ripple of thunder reverberates through the walls.
“Pick,” a cruel voice demanded. “Who will live and who will die?”
“Damn.” The harsher, deeper baritone doesn’t belong in my memory.
Blinking, I return to the present. I’m in my room. On my bed…
Someone’s fingers are in my hair as more warm liquid drips from my mouth and down my chin.
“Get off,” I croak, swiping at my lips. Panic melds in my blood, making everything too loud. Too sharp. Too hot.
“Breathe,” someone urges against my ear. Their hands slip from my hair, following the curve of my spine. “Breathe.”
My lungs obey him, sucking in air as the chilling reality sinks in. There’s vomit on my shirt. I’m shaking and the past looms, waiting for another roll of thunder to overwhelm me again.
And Damien is here to witness every terrible second.
“Get out.” I shift away from him and brace my feet on the floor, but he follows, his heat like a wall, keeping me upright.
“Close your eyes,” he commands against the nape of my neck. “Now.”
I do, and the darkness doesn’t help ease the shame setting my cheeks on fire. “Lucky you,” I rasp. “You have a wonderful story to sell to the tabloids—”
“Take off the shirt.”
My blood goes cold and the reality of the si
tuation descends at full force: I’m alone in my room with a stranger.
“W-what?”
“It’s filthy.” He sounds so calm. So logical. “You need to change.”
But my closet is too terrifying a territory to venture into now.
“You’re disgusting,” I spit, even as I shrug the shirt over my head and toss it aside. “Only a pervert would get a woman naked at a moment like—”
“You can insult me,” he counters, still so damn unshakeable, “if it helps distract you. I can make an exception this once.”
An exception?
“Get out—”
“I can think of a better distraction than anger, however.” The shift in his tone sends my pulse racing. Another roar of thunder echoes, but it sounds too distant now, no match for his low, dangerous rasp. “When you performed your little exhibition, where exactly did you touch yourself?”
I can’t breathe, but this time, it’s not because of terror.
“You disgust me,” I hiss.
“Show me,” he counters. “Or was it all an act?”
A shiver runs down my spine as he adjusts himself behind me. On either side of my hips, his hands appear outstretched, painted silver as lightning flashes.
“You want me to paint you,” he reminds me, his breath hot on my skin. “You think you can bare every inch of yourself to me? You truly believe you’re brave enough to face that woman? I think you’re lying to yourself, Juliana.” Thunder mingles with his words, sending a thrill through me. “I think you’re damn good at lying—”
I grab his hand and place it against my thigh.
We both go rigid.
His fingers are too damn soft. Mine shake as awareness of the storm threatens to shatter even his twisted “distraction.” I can taste the forest again. See it…
Just as the memory unfolds, Damien asks, “Was it here?”
I gasp.
His fingers travel without permission. I’m back firmly in the here and now, suffocating as the tip of a thumb nudges tender flesh.
“Or here?” He drifts higher, sweeping his touch up the ridge of my belly. “I doubt you’re bold enough to go lower.”
“I-I told you,” I manage to reply in a rush. “You’ll never have—”
“Or maybe here?” His other hand cups the opposite hip, applying just enough pressure to tease an ounce of fear from my frayed nerves.
For a second, I toy with the potential danger. He could rape me.
But he won’t. A man like him wouldn’t see the fun in that.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I tell him, confident of that fact. My eyes are closed again and reading him now is easier than ever. He’s brutal, Damien. Never reckless. He wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of ever claiming assault. “Men like you don’t get their hands dirty.”
“No?” he retorts in a low murmur. “If not to hurt you, then what might my motives be?”
He’s distracting me, as much as it stings to admit that. His fingers are my only anchor against the past and Simon. Two monsters go to war on my psyche, but one wins out.
“It was lower,” I admit, breathless. His fingers twitch, hesitant to move. “A place you will never, ever touch—”
“But I have touched you there,” he points out, chuckling in a grated, tortured way. “In fact, I doubt many men have. So tight. Barely accepting of one finger.”
There’s awe in his tone. Smugness too.
“I can accept my fingers just fine,” I snap.
“I can imagine.”
I jump at the barely concealed dare. So do it, then.
My fingers tremble as they brush over the fabric of my pants. Every cell in my body warns me to run. But I don’t. I find the drawstring instead, arching my hips to undo it.
And the atmosphere changes. His grip tightens, biting in deeper.
“It was here,” I tell him, sliding a hand between my legs. He shouldn’t be able to tell. I could be lying.
But he knows the second I make contact. His breathing changes. His posture tenses.
I’ve won the game.
But the rules have changed from here on out. It’s not enough to accept his dare. The second I attempt to pull my hand back, his falls over my wrist, conveying a silent command through only a subtle bit of pressure.
Show me.
I squeeze my eyes shut as traitorous heat builds and spreads. My legs drift apart before I can help it. My hand slips lower. His becomes a vise.
And nothing else matters. Not the thunder biting through the silence. Not lightning. Not Simon.
I touch myself.
He listens, inhaling harshly against my earlobe, his touch tracking every shameful motion.
It’s my previous show in HD surround sound.
And I don’t care if he records this moment and sends the tape to the news.
He makes for a chilling barrier against the darkness as heat builds inside me. For a dangerous second, I imagine his hand drifting lower and pushing mine out of the way…
A gasp slips from my throat and wetness coats my fingers. Too much. Too real.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” His lips part near my jaw and my nerves rattle. With one quip, he could devastate me. Humiliate. “Let go,” he demands instead, his voice like a spark over tinder.
I catch fire.
My eyes flutter shut as my back arches. I’m leaning against him. Into him, letting the heat drown out shame until all I can feel is an agonizing inferno.
“Should I paint you like this?” He sounds on the edge of a groan as I spasm against his chest.
At the back of my mind, I know I should be embarrassed. Horrified, even. Not writhing through every tortured second he extends his nearness.
“Coiled muscle, sweat-slick skin, panting,” he murmurs into my ear, painting a picture with his fucking voice alone. “Hang it where your father might see? His beautiful girl… So broken. So shameless.”
My face inflames at the thought and enough shame leeches into my dazed brain that I withdraw my hand. “Would you?”
A brush of his knuckles over my wrist doesn’t give me a solid answer. “How many fingers was it?” he wonders, half taunting, half serious. “That you used that night—”
I force out a laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
His own fingers flick my skin in tandem as if to convey silent guesses. One? Two? Five?
But he doesn’t force me any further, dragging me right to the edge of some invisible boundary that I didn’t even know was there.
He waits, letting me keep the fragile reins of control.
And only now do I realize that the rain has stopped.
The storm has passed.
Uh-oh. The ominous thought tugs me awake and my brain sluggishly tries to decipher why. There are the usual suspects. Uh-oh, I’m late for work. Uh-oh, I’m having a horrendous flashback. Uh-oh, Daddy’s pounding on my door, demanding I reassure him of how happy and healthy I am.
All of those would be preferable to the slow realization that someone else is in my bed. Someone large, their limbs skewing the surface of my mattress to one side. Someone who smells of sin and cognac, and inexplicably of roses.
Uh-oh.
I peel my eyes open to a view of my ceiling. Gray daylight streams across it, alluding to a final break in the storms. If only that peace could translate into my current reality.
Even his breathing resembles thunder. Low and unassuming until I finally notice it. With every additional note, I find myself tensing with the next unnerving rumble.
I turn in his likely direction, all the while desperately gathering up the nerve to do what must be done. Scream. Fight. Kick him the hell out.
Or stare.
He’s a creature made of shadow who has an unholy affair with sunlight. No matter how faint, it paints detail into his skin, fleshing out what dimmer surroundings disguise. Like the subtle lines around his mouth that hint at his age. The faint gold in his skin. The blue-black tint to his hair, and the slight quir
k in his jaw that betrays when he’s awake.
“Good morning, Ms. Thorne.”
“I could have you arrested for trespassing,” I tell him, hoping I sound intimidating enough. Not exhausted. Uh-oh, uh-oh. There’s a bitter taste on my tongue. Residue from a horrific flashback. I can only recall snippets. Good. I don’t remember the gist. Just that…
I clung to someone. Someone who coached me through the nightmare, their voice a rugged anchor. Someone who held me through gasping sobs. Someone with an accent like hellfire.
“You vomited,” he says. “Afterward, you removed the shirt.”
The blunt warning precedes the moment I finally look down and realize the horrifying truth. It comes in the pair of gray panties I’m wearing—nothing else.
“Y-you stripped me.” I instinctively cover my breasts with my hands.
“I’ll avert my gaze if you’d like,” Damien says dryly.
So the man has jokes. Apparently, my realizing that I slept mostly naked next to a psychopath amuses him.
Or not. His expression is tense. I can decipher the emotion conveyed on his face clearly, even with the blindfold obscuring most of it. Annoyance.
“Why…why did you stay?” My confusion confounds me almost as much as my lack of real anger does.
He’s right. A foul stench taints the air, and my vomit-soaked shirt is on the floor, neatly folded. I have a vague image in my head ripping the soiled clothing off by myself.
And I huddled against him rather than move. Something I rectify now by lurching from the mattress and into my closet. I snatch the first garment I see from its hanger and pull it on: a black cocktail dress worth more than Sharla from accounting’s weekly wages. And I just ruined it with vomit and tears.
To save face, I enter my room with my head held high as though I’m totally unaffected by the sight of Damien standing near my bed.
