Page 60 of His Dark Desires

"Why?" he barks, clearly wrestling with himself. He turns away, running a hand through his hair. I wait for him to speak, biting my cheek hard to stop myself from prodding him.

"Elliot," he eventually says quietly. "My brother. I didn't tell you everything about him. He raised me after our parents died. Taught me everything I know about business, about technology. Abouttrust." He has difficulty saying that last word.

I watch him, thrown by this sudden vulnerability. I'm barely breathing. I remember when he first told me about Elliot when we were on the rooftop. I hadn't thought to ask him about it again, so I can't believe he's plunging into this now.

"We built our first company together. An AI startup focused on ethical technology, on making the world better." Adrian's shoulders tense. "We were on the verge of something revolutionary. And then he sold us out. Sold our technology to people who used it to violate privacy, to hurt others. He took everything we built together and destroyed it for profit."

"Adrian—"

"He disappeared afterward. Left me to deal with the fallout, the legal battles, the public outrage. His voice grows tight with suppressed emotion as he continues. "After Elliot's betrayal, everything fell apart. The media had a field day with the scandal. We went from being the golden boys of tech to public enemies overnight. Investors pulled out. Lawsuits came flooding in. Every day was a new battle to keep the company afloat, to salvage any part of what we built."

Adrian's eyes flicker with a haunted look, as if he's seeing those days unfold again before him. "The legal battles drained us, financially and emotionally. We were scrutinized, vilified. Our friends, our allies—people we thought we could trust—they all turned their backs on us. On me."

I stay silent, my anger momentarily quelled. This is a side of Adrian I've never seen, a vulnerability he's never shown.

"The worst part," he says, voice barely above a whisper, "was the loss of faith in human connection. How do you trust anyone after that? How do you let anyone get close when you know they can betray you in an instant?"

He turns to face me, his expression a mixture of pain and resolve. "That's why I am the way I am, Sophia. That's why I need control. It's not just about protecting you—it's about protecting myself from ever feeling that kind of betrayal again."

For the first time since all this began, I see the man behind the mask—the boy who lost everything because he trusted too much.

"I don't expect you to understand," he continues. "But I need you to know that everything I've done has been to keep us both safe."

His confession lingers between us, the pain in his eyes echoing my own. For a moment, our differences blur. Our fears, our traumas, our shared sense of betrayal and loss, bind us together in a way I hadn't anticipated.

I take a step closer, my anger replaced by a profound empathy.

"Adrian," I start softly, "I know what it's like to lose trust in people. To be let down by those you thought would never hurt you. "Daniel..." I pause. "He used to tell me my art was too raw, too honest. He'd suggest changes that made my work more commercial, more like his. Then he'd take credit for my growth when pieces sold." I wrap my arms around myself, the memories flooding back. "The photos were just the final betrayal. He promised he deleted them, swore up and down."

Adrian's eyes darken at my words, and I see a flash of understanding pass between us. Two people scarred by those we trusted most. The weight of his confession about Elliot sits heavy in my chest, mirroring my own wounds.

"Trust..." I whisper. "It's funny how the people closest to us know exactly where to plant the knife. But we can't let those experiences define us," I tell him gently. "We can't close ourselves off from the world out of fear of getting hurt again."

I fear I've pushed too far. But then he sighs, the sound almost lost.

"You're right," he admits in a whisper. His admission sends a thrill through me—it's as if an invisible wall between us has started to crumble.

I move closer still until there's barely any space left between us.

"Adrian," I murmur, looking up at him through my lashes, "Maybe it's time to let someone in again."

When I look into Adrian's eyes, I see a depth of yearning that surprises me. It's as if he's standing at the edge of a precipice, wanting to let me in but afraid to take that final step. The vulnerability I witnessed earlier remains, a chink in his armor.

My heart aches for him, for the wounds he's carried for so long. Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision. Impulsively, I throw my arms around him, pulling him into a fierce embrace.

He stands rigid, his body unyielding. Then, slowly, his arms wrap around me, returning the hug. I breathe in his scent, feeling the solid warmth of him against me. Between us passes unspoken emotions—desire, forgiveness, and the acknowledgment of our shared pain.

As we pull apart, I see desire burning in his eyes, but he makes no move to act on it. He's holding back, giving me control.

I fall slowly to my knees before him, determined to heal the wounds that words alone cannot. With gentle fingers, I start to unbutton his pants, my eyes never leaving his.

"Let me show you," I whisper, "that you can trust again."

I take Adrian's length in my hand, feeling its weight, its power. My eyes hold his as I slowly wrap my lips around the head, tasting him, savoring him. Each stroke of my tongue, each swirl, is a tribute to our growing intimacy, a silent promise that I'm all in.

His fingers tangle in my hair as I take him deeper, guiding me, encouraging me. I moan softly around him, the vibrations making him shudder. I love the way he feels, the way he responds to my touch.

"Am I forgiven?" he whispers hoarsely.

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