Page 35 of Dark Angel

The craving for her is intoxicating, an endorphin rush that I'm chasing with a hunger I haven't felt in ages. It's a slow burn, this game of anticipation and patience. Intercourse remains a boundary I've yet to cross, but the thoughts of her—the soft sounds she can't help but release as I play with her clit, the way she confronts me head-on yet never casts judgment—consume me. She's both a delicate paradox and a dauntless warrior, fearlessly charging ahead. I need to shut this down. *Enough.*

The gnawing in my gut twists tighter with each passing day. There's a strength to Rayne that's both admirable and a glaring beacon of my own shortcomings. Her assured denunciations, her certainty in confronting the vile and the weak, leave me in turmoil. I'm certain the day will come when her rose-tinted glasses will shatter, and she'll see the man behind the mask—the flawed soul I truly am.

In the War Room, her presence is commanding, her debates with Razor spirited and sharp. She's a force, bolstering my ego in ways I didn't know were vacant. Even the shroud that constantly berates me, that sardonic voice that whispers about my looks, my stature—"Look at you, all beautiful..."—it's less convincing when I watch her.

My power, if I can call it that, surges, bolstered by her nearness, and the shroud retreats, if only slightly. She's candid about her preferences, unabashedly telling me, "You're damned lucky I even let you near me, CC. I don’t like big men, and you’re huge. Way over my maximum requirements." Her words should sting, but they don't. Not when she looks at me with that blend of defiance and curiosity . . . and reverence.

Her contradictions are baffling—she's wrapped in conviction, shining a light into my too-often darkened days. Yet with each day she's here, each day I allow her closer, she unwittingly sharpens the blade of betrayal I fear will one day slice through me. The echo of my mother's biting admonishments—"You should have fought harder."—clashes with the reality that Rayne is nothing like her. The adage rings hollow: trust no one. No matter how fervently I try to convince myself that Rayne's presence is inconsequential, deep down, I know it's not true.

She's a maelstrom of intelligence and adaptability, yet oblivious to the brilliance she exudes. And the only reason she tolerates me, I'm convinced, is because she hasn't yet seen me for the pitiful mess I am. The day will come, likely sooner rather than later, when she discerns the futility of her time with me and walks away. The mere thought is a punch to the gut, a visceral reaction I can't suppress. Regardless of the fear that grips me, this strange, burgeoning connection with Rayne—it matters more than I dare admit.

Struggling with the torrent within, I grapple with the riddle that is Rayne—and, by extension, the enigma that is myself. She's become an anomaly in my life, the first since childhood to stir something akin to positivity in my worn-out soul. She's defiant in ways that resonate deep within, seeing in me a hero, an idol, not just another handsome face. Her reverence is unsettling yet invigorating; my power revels in her adulation. And despite my protests, I find solace in her refusal to relent without cause.

The compliments she throws my way—meant to be kind—are double-edged swords, each word reopening old wounds that time has failed to heal. "You have to know how gorgeous you are," she insists, and every fiber of me wants to scream the truth—that her words are a torment, reminders of a beauty I cannot see and a curse I've borne all my life.

"I wish you would stop.” My tone is sharper than I intend. She recoils only slightly, her resilience quick to bounce back. "You keep saying that, but you won’t tell me why. I don’t understand, Jaden. You are beautiful. Like Most GQ gorgeous. How can you not know that?"

Her confusion is genuine, but I can only offer a feeble response, "I don’t see it, and I don’t like it. That should be good enough." It's a dismissal, a weak defense against her probing.

I watch her now, aware that each day she becomes more entwined in my life, more vital to my existence. And as much as I dread the depth of my need for her, I can't deny it. I'm on the precipice, teetering on the edge of confessing the depths of my desire—how I long for her, fantasize about her, the way my thoughts of her become my nightly solace. Yet, I'm petrified. To admit such things would be to hand her the power to annihilate me.

In her presence, I'm torn between dread and an inexplicable joy. Each interaction with her, each time our bodies align in whatever game we play, I'm left wondering if maybe, just maybe, there's a chance for intimacy without the aftershocks of fear, guilt, or shame. A glimmer of hope flickers within, but it's a flame I must shield, hide deep within before the harsh winds of reality snuff it out.

Sex. That's the mantra I must cling to. It's the boundary I've set—a line drawn in the sand. Yet as I watch her, considering the 'what ifs,' I can't help but indulge in the fantasy for a fleeting second. Rayne's with me, under my tutelage, learning to navigate the intricacies of physical pleasure. And for now, I allow myself the luxury of enjoying the journey, however brief it might be. Because nothing lasts forever, especially not this.

Amidst this semblance of routine life Rayne has crafted so deftly, the woman's become a force in my world, one that my power seeks out like a beacon in the dark. It's a dangerous game, this blend of fear and fascination she stirs within me. She believes in me, sees something noble, a savior where I only recognize the facade. And despite my hesitations, I can't deny the draw I feel toward her—a magnetism that defies explanation.

The vibrancy she brings into every space, and every task, whether laying out plans for a mission or simply recounting her day, it's something that either lifts me or grates on me, dependent on the whims of my mood. Surprisingly, catering to her needs, this caretaking role has brought unexpected satisfaction, allowing me to step outside the chorus of critical voices I've come to associate with my own thoughts.

But it's not all about the mission or her ambitions; there's an allure to our evenings at the club, a curiosity that she can't help but exude. It's in these moments, watching her untamed interest, that I find myself indulging in thoughts better left unexplored. The thought of her, alone, lost in pleasure—it's a concept that has become a tantalizing addition to my solitary indulgences, a source of intense personal gratification.

Yet there's that persistent echo of doubt, the one that tells me I'm getting too close, letting her in too much. It's a battle within, a seesaw between longing and self-preservation. I'm caught in her orbit, yet every day that passes is a day closer to the inevitable—when she sees through the veneer and into the void that I am.

Her brightness, her intelligence, they're a balm, yet also a blinder. She doesn't see the truth yet, doesn't realize that a man like me can offer nothing but transient moments. The thought of her departure, it's a gut punch, a sensation that leaves me reeling, dreading the day she realizes her worth and turns away.

For now, the bond we share is a tightrope I walk with trepidation, feeling the push and pull of something that wants more, that dares to dream of a reality where the shadows are kept at bay. Yet deep down, I'm bracing for the fall. It's a familiar refrain, the knowledge that all good things come to an end.

Tonight, as she enters the room, the sight of her strikes me anew. The dress, the way it clings to her, it speaks of things unsaid, of desires unclaimed. Ownership, a possessiveness I've no right to feel, surges within me. Compliments sit on the tip of my tongue, yet they remain unspoken, buried beneath layers of defense mechanisms.

"Ready?" is all I can muster, a single word heavy with unvoiced emotions. The hurt that flickers through our bond is a blade to my gut, but she stands tall, the little dragon I both admire and fear.

"Sure, lead on.”

With a resilience that I both envy and cherish, she follows me out, leaving behind the sanctuary of our suite for the uncertainty that awaits

Rayne’s curiosity, it’s like a beacon, always hungry for knowledge, seeking to pierce the veil I’ve carefully constructed around my world. There’s a certain pride in being the one to unravel the mysteries of desire for her, to channel her inquisitiveness into the dark alleys of pleasure and pain. Yet, there’s a twinge of something else — a protective instinct that snarls within me every time I’m reminded of how she’s been wronged.

"Tonight's agenda?” Rayne’s voice, casual as she accepts the drink, belies the acute attentiveness I've come to expect. She lounges with a grace that’s all her own, yet her posture subtly shifts, aligning with my unspoken cues. Despite her vehement assertions of autonomy, there’s an unspoken dance between us, a give-and-take that edges closer to the domain of dominance and submission than either of us may openly acknowledge.

"We're observing an edge play scene.” I watch as her expression morphs from relaxed to riveted. Her innocence in these matters is a stark reminder of the trust she’s placed in my hands — a trust I'm determined not to betray.

Her brow arches, the spark of her spirit never far from the surface. "Edge play? Define it," she demands, her directness a challenge and a plea all in one.

I pause, choosing my words with care. "It's the art of flirting with limits, a dance on the knife-edge of desire and danger." My explanation is cryptic, an intentional prod to her ever-active mind.

Her eyes darken, the thrill of the unknown beckoning. "That sounds . . . risky." Her voice a blend of trepidation and intrigue.

"Risk is part of the allure," I sip my drink, the fizz a stark contrast to the smoothness of her skin—skin I'm increasingly desperate to touch.

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