Page 113 of The Dark Before Light

My hand finds his and pulls it to my belly. Flattening his palm against my skin, I guide him to my center. His nostrils flare, lips parting as he sinks two fingers inside me. I gasp, clutching his arms as I arch against him.

“I need you, Kieran. Give me your rage and your love.”

Our mouths collide in a brutal union of teeth and tongue. I bite his lip so hard I taste blood. He snarls and bites me back. His fingers curl inside me, yanking me forward and back at a punishing pace. The pleasure is so intense I feel it in the roots of my hair.

Before I lose myself completely, I shove him to make space between our bodies, then rip his pants open and push them down his thighs. Grabbing his cock in one hand and his balls in the other, I squeeze. He hisses, snatching my wrists. Pressure and tingling precede my fingers jerking open.

“No fair,” I growl.

His dark laughter is silk on my senses and gasoline on my need. I hook a foot around his knee and pull hard to unbalance him, but I might as well be trying to uproot a tree.

I take a step back, pouting but secretly thrilled by his strength. Watching me with hawklike focus and a smirk, he steps out of his shoes and pants. His shirt goes next, giving me delicious confirmation of how powerful he is. How much bigger and stronger.

I need a different weapon.

He purrs, “Should we arm wrestle next?”

I run my hands up my body, squeezing my breasts together. His eyes soften, instincts dulling. He takes a step toward me, bringing himself within reach. I grab his nipples and wrench them hard.

He yelps but instead of jumping back, he sweeps forward and plucks me off my feet, his arms trapping mine to my sides. “Goddammit, Talia.” Amusement and pain roughen the words.

Wiggling to free my arms, I wrap them around his neck and lock my ankles at the small of his back. “Right where I want you,” I murmur as I rock against him, finding friction against the trail of hair and hard muscle on his abdomen.

Lips trail along my ear, nipping and sucking, as he palms my ass. “I have something better for you,” he whispers, lowering me down his body until the thick root of his cock meets my soaked center. “But you have to ask for it. Nicely.”

Angling my face to his, I clamp my teeth on his lower lip and tug before releasing it to say, “I shouldn’t have to ask for what’s already mine. Give me my cock right now.”

His features tighten, his entire body hard as marble against me.

My gaze holds his. “Now, Kieran.”

Control shattering, he strides to the closest wall. We slam against it, his arms protecting me from the impact. With an animalistic snarl, he fists his cock and notches himself against me. I cry out in relief, but when seconds pass and he doesn’t fill me, my moan turns to a growl. A protest on my tongue, my eyes flutter open.

The anguish on his face steals the air in my lungs, wiping away my frustration. “What’s wrong?”

“I… God, I don’t feel in control. I don’t want to hurt you. I’d rather die.”

A single tear slides down his cheek, and a deep ache unfurls in my chest. Fighting my own tears, I kiss him softly and stroke his jaw, his brow, his cheekbones. “Oh, Kieran, you can’t hurt me. You love me too much. So much, in fact, that you’re going to let go of that fear. I need you to remind me what I’m not—fragile or weak. Help me remember who I am.”

The darkness melts from his eyes. “I know exactly who you are. My perfect match.”

The smile in my heart matches the one on my face. “Yes. Your match. Your equal. May I have my cock now, please? I want to feel your thrusts all the way in my throat.”

Lips curving in promise, he lightly flexes his hips. The head of his cock slips inside me. My eyes roll back in my head at the twinned pleasure and torture of it. He licks my throat, then bites my chin.

“Since you asked so nicely…” Strong fingers hook over my shoulders. “Hold tight, mo ghrá. It’s going to be a rough ride.”

It’s not rough.

It’s the perfect storm, and it scours me clean.

There are more storms over the days and weeks that follow. Storms no amount of logic, acceptance, or calls with my trauma therapist can circumvent. They’re lightning strikes in blue skies. Impossible to predict or to prepare for. One minute I’m fine, the next I’m not.

The first week is the hardest. I wake up multiple times a night covered in sweat, my heart pounding and a scream lodged in my throat. Sometimes I dream of that kitchen and what happened there. But mostly I dream of blood. Gabe’s. Mine. Kieran’s. Gunshots and cuts that won’t stop bleeding.

Awake, I startle at unexpected noises. A car horn. A door closing. A phone ringing. A Tupperware container dropping to the floor. And when Kieran nicks his finger on a knife in the kitchen, the sight of his blood sends me into a panic attack the likes of which I’ve never experienced.

My intellectual tools are useless. I can’t think or meditate myself out of what’s happening. I’m a teenager again, a slave to emotional forces I can’t control. All I can do is weather them. Accept the slices of my monster’s claws inside me and resist the lure to mirror them on my skin.

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