Page 11 of Wicked S.O.B.

I returned to him on my own terms, despite knowing from the beginning that taking on a man like Quinn Blackwood would be the challenge of a lifetime. I live that overwhelming reality every day. Even before I saw his face, I knew his power over me was borderline absolute and that he intended to own every last cell in my body the way he owns half of the city we live in.

Nothing about Quinn’s rabid possessiveness has changed. I’m twisted enough to not want it to. On some level, I crave it enough to worry Dr. Freeman. But I’m realizing that there are some things that will break us. Like the blackness inside him that he ignores for long stretches.

Until he can’t.

I move to the nearest damaged piece of furniture—a barely used signature Tiffany reading lamp I know cost an insane amount of money. I don’t necessarily mourn its demise. It was okay to look at but it reminded me a little too much of the fake one Clay kept in his study back at the whorehouse grandly named the Villa, where I was kept as his prisoner.

I move the lamp out of my way and walk to the far side of the room. My beloved baby grand piano has suffered too. The lid is still open, and several strings are broken by what looks like a shattered clay sculpture. I run my fingers over the smooth surface, mourning the death of the exquisite instrument.

I have fifteen minutes, tops, before Quinn wakes up and comes to find me. The fancy five-thousand-dollar coffee center that takes up a whole counter in our kitchen will start percolating in T-minus five minutes.

I’m torn as to whether to make the room livable again or leave things the way they are. We have a service that can make all of this disappear in under an hour. All I need to do is make a call to the concierge. But…do I want Quinn to confront what he’s done in the cold light of day? The alternative is to walk away from the chaos. Just as we walked away from the last two scenes of his outbursts in equally stunning apartments on the Upper East Side.

My mouth twists in a smile. Being a billionaire with endless square feet of real estate at your fingertips comes in handy after going berserk and destroying one apartment. After those incidents, we simply upped and moved to another penthouse.

But this property is beyond gorgeous. I’m not with Quinn for his money, but if I were, I’d slavishly fulfill his every desire for the chance to live in this stunning Park Avenue apartment every day for the rest of my life.

A few days after we moved in three months ago, we woke up to an overcast city below us and nothing but blue sky above us. The sensation of floating above the clouds was incredible. We spent the day in bed, staring at the view from our California king when we weren’t fucking in the heavens.

I want many more days like that.

I sigh. Turn around. And freeze.

He’s lounging against the wall in the hallway, wearing gray low-riding sweatpants and nothing else, with one knee propped behind him. My mouth goes dry as those penetrating eyes watch me in silence.

Quinn’s deathly stillness is one of the many unnerving things I noticed about him when we first met. Despite his towering six-foot-three height and his sleek but solid frame, he moves with a quiet, devastating elegance that literally stops my breath when he walks into a room. And that is even before the exquisite masculinity of his sharp cheekbones, square jaw, and sensual lips. The contrast between his startling silver blue eyes and dark hair never fails to trap and hold the attention of anyone he comes into contact with. I’ve literally seen grown women, and men, stop and stare when he walks on the street.

That dangerous attraction holds my total focus now.

His eyes search mine, the unnervingly direct gaze examining every corner of me. Probing for flaws I can’t hide and concerns I’m struggling to contain. But then that’s nothing new.

Despite my constant reassurances that I forgive him, he punishes himself for what he did to me a year ago. He blames himself for the lapse of security that led to Clayton capturing me and holding me prisoner for days as he tried to pry Petra’s whereabouts from me.

After we started seeing Dr. Freeman and it became clear he was more concerned about making amends with me than healing himself, Dr. Freeman and I agreed that, for now, we needed to attend therapy separately once a week.

That didn’t please Quinn.

Now, as I watch him from the middle of the wreckage he created last night, I wonder if that was the beginning of whatever spiral we’re currently twisted in.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he commands from across the room in a low, sleep-rasped voice that makes my toes curl.

I want to start this day with a cleanish (snort) slate. But I know any attempt to evade him will be spotted a mile off. He sees too much. He always has. “Your money,” I reply, choosing the least volatile truth.

His eyes flare for a moment before he shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You go out of your fucking way to avoid anything to do with my money. Try again.”

I’m not touching that statement with a ten-foot pole, so I shrug inwardly and state another truth. “I love this apartment. I’m not moving.”

His unwavering eyes gleam the way they do when he’s debating the pros and cons of giving me what I want. His leg slowly straightens, and he moves toward me. “I said I was sorry. I believe I apologized quite comprehensively. All night long.”

The effect of it is stamped both inside and outside my body. “I know. I was there.”

One brow slowly rises. “But that’s not enough?”

I take a beat before I answer. “You said you were sorry the other times too. But we moved. I’m not moving again.”

He stops behind the wide sectional sofa he fucked me on last night. Strong, elegant fingers spread over the back of it as he angles his body toward me. “I see. Have Ifinallyfound something of mine that you love enough to claim for yourself, Elyse?” His voice is a speculative trap, intent on closing around me, wrapping me tighter in his web.

“I love loads of things you own, Quinn. This T-shirt for instance.” I pluck at the only item of clothing I’m wearing. “What’s not to love about a Springsteen T-shirt, especially when it’s covered in your smell?”

---