Page 17 of His Dark Cravings

My heart clenches at her words. Family. It’s a simple concept, one I understand so completely, but now it’s a concept that tastes sour on my tongue. What would my family think of me?

I know what Talon thinks—nothing.

I offer her a genuine smile as I take her artwork. “It’s beautiful. I’m sure your mom will love it.”

Work continues, each task a distraction, a way to avoid thinking. Hours drift past. Max chats with me, his words a drone I barely register, and I nod and smile and pretend to listen. The faces of the people I help become indistinct, a haze of need and gratitude. Guilt continues its slow burn in the pit of my stomach with each kind smile, each thank you, each small act of kindness. It grows larger with every avoided glance at Max and his cheerful demeanor. My thoughts keep drifting, pulled back to Xavier, to the way he made my body glow, the sensations he coaxed from me, the feeling of control with a side of surrender.

I find myself wondering what he'll have me do tonight.

I excuse myself when I feel the flush creep up my neck. I go to the bathroom and stare at the mirror. My eyes look too bright, too alert. I lean against the wall, my body feels unsteady. It’s hard to reconcile the charitable woman staring back at me with the one that's been with Xavier, the one who experienced his pain and wanted more. This isn't me. Not the real me.

I splash water on my face, hoping to soothe my skin, to still my thoughts. But the moment passes, and I return to my station. More time goes by. I feel like I'm living in fast forward, and I can't make it stop.

After work, dinner is normal, the conversation light, but the undercurrents are heavy. In no time, it's all over. The whole day. And the moment I've been waiting for arrives.

The hallway seems longer this time, the Persian runner soft against my bare feet. My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat a drum signaling the shift in atmosphere. I stop at the dungeon door, pausing briefly, then push it open, the hinges groaning in protest.

Xavier's in the center of the room. He’s already changed, wearing only dark trousers, his bare chest a sculpted landscape of muscle and shadow. His green eyes gleam as he turns toward me, and a small smile plays at his lips. He looks beautiful. And terrible.

"Everly. You came." His voice, low and smooth, wraps around me like a velvet rope.

I nod, swallowing hard. The room is exactly as I remember, a space with cold metal fixtures and heavy leather benches, all designed for purposes I'm only beginning to explore. This time, though, the various tools unsettle me more, now that their purposes are becoming clear.

He gestures to a bench near the wall, its surface gleaming with a slick polish. "We'll have the session over here this time."

My feet move with a mind of their own. I walk toward him slowly, the space between us diminishing with each step. My palms begin to sweat.

"Take off your clothes," he instructs, his gaze locking on mine.

I do as I'm told, my hands trembling as I pull off my shirt and my pants until I’m left in only my cotton panties. I feel exposed, vulnerable under his scrutiny, yet there's a strange thrill that accompanies this feeling. I can't really understand it.

He approaches and reaches into the drawer of the workbench. He retrieves a black length of fabric and holds it out to me.

"This," he says, his voice a low drawl, "is for your eyes."

I stare at the strip of cloth, its purpose now clear. A blindfold. My heart begins to pound harder, a nervous flutter rising in my chest. This isn’t something I would have imagined myself wanting or doing.

He comes closer, his fingers brushing against my cheek as he positions the material. The edges scratch against my temple, and then, the world goes black. The absence of sight throws my other senses into overdrive. I hear my own accelerated heartbeat, the slight rustle of fabric, the faint hum of the sconces on the wall. I’m now aware of the unique odor of leather and polish mingling with a masculine scent.

"Can you hear me, Everly?" His voice, suddenly close, makes me jump.

"Yes," I respond, my own voice a shaky whisper.

He takes my hand and guides me toward the bench, its hard surface cool against my bare thighs once I'm placed there. I sit, my body stiff, and he encourages me to lie down flat.

I hear him moving around and try to sense him with my body. Then I feel it, a metal cuff, its surface cold and smooth as it fits around my ankle. I immediately feel the weight of it before he secures my ankle to the bench. He repeats the process with my other ankle, then my wrists, one by one. Now my limbs are locked securely in place, the sensation both restricting and oddly freeing.

Whether I wanted to or not, there's nothing for me to do.

His fingers graze my knee, sending a jolt through my system. "Relax, sweetheart. Let the tension flow from you."

I try to, but it's harder than it sounds. Being so vulnerable, so exposed, is something entirely different. My body feels stretched, pulled tight like a bowstring. He touches my thigh, his hand warm against my cool skin. His touch feels like electricity, making my skin prickle.

He trails his fingers up my stomach, my abdomen contracting at his unexpected contact. I gasp, a small involuntary sound that seems to please him. He circles my belly button, his touch featherlight, before moving upward. The world is now a canvas of sensation, each touch a brushstroke of pleasure and fear.

He cups my breast, the weight of his hand causing me to take another sharp intake. He rubs his thumb across my nipple, and a wave of warmth washes over me. I arch back slightly, my body opening up, reacting to every sensation he gives me. It's strange and overwhelming.

He removes his hand and moves to my shoulder, tracing the curves and contours of my body, each touch a new exploration of my boundaries. His fingers feel like fire as they explore the curve of my neck, tracing the line of my jaw, sending shivers across my skin.

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