Page 17 of The King of Hearts

My stomach swirls when he says my name in that deep voice. How would it sound if he growled it in my ear as he fucked me from behind?

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I said so. Now be a good girl and do as you’re fucking told.”

He moves back another step, leaving me enough room to move around him. My knees are weak and my steps are unsteady as I slowly walk around the bed. I keep him in sight, as if afraid he’ll pounce on me if I don’t. He watches me just as closely.

He stays at the end of my bed, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. The stance appears too casual for the situation. Here I am, my body as stiff as a board and my mind ramped with dark and dirty possibilities, while he looks like he’s merely waiting at a bus stop or in line at the grocery store.

Just as I slide back the duvet, he orders, “Remove the clothes.”

I want to tell him to fuck off, or rather, Ishouldtell him to fuck off, but it’s like my body has a mind of its own.

My hands release the duvet of their own accord and automatically move to the hem of my cami. They shake as I slowly lift the silky material. I keep looking at his shadowed form until my view is interrupted when I slide it over my head. It’s only for a second, but I half expected him to be closer once I can see him again. He’s not. He’s still at the end of my bed.

I drop the cami to the floor and slip my fingers under the strings of my thong around my hips. I’m just as slow removing them. Once both items are gone, I shift nervously on my feet. I’ve never been naked in front of a man before.

I bite my lower lip, and my toes curl in the plush carpet. Again, that voice in the back of my head, the rational side of my brain, is screaming at me to do something. I fight so hard to follow that impulse, but my treacherous body won’t follow through.

A flush coats my cheeks as I stand there fully nude and on display. I can’t see the devil’s eyes on me because it’s too dark in the room, plus the mask he wears, but I can feel them. They’re like little caresses along my skin. My nipples pebble painfully, and I’m not sure if it’s from the cool air wafting in from the balcony doors or knowing his gaze is pinned on them.

I want to jerk my eyes away from him in embarrassment, but it’s like we’re the opposite ends of magnets, and I can’t pull them away.

The muscles in my stomach tighten, and I press my legs together. I’m ashamed at the slickness that’s slowly coating my thighs. It’s wrong on so many levels to be this aroused, given the situation. A normal woman would be freaking out about now. Correction—she would have been freaking out long before now.

“Utterly fucking stunning,” he rumbles, his tone full of gravel.

I dip my head so my hair falls over my shoulders, but keep it up enough to still see him through my lashes. Irrationally, it pleases me that he finds me so beautiful.

“Get on the bed, Vicious,” he commands.

I immediately comply, if for no other reason than to cover myself and put myself out of this insane misery.

When I reach for the sheet and duvet, he stops me once again. “Leave it off.”

I frown. “What if I get cold?”

“You won’t.”

My frown deepens. He’s right, I won’t get cold. I’m a hot sleeper, but how could he possibly know that?

I lay back against the pillows on the center of the bed, my body tense. My arms lay by my sides, my hands fisted, and my head is tilted down so I can keep watching him. I wonder if he can see the evidence of my arousal. My legs are pressed together, hiding that part of me, but when the breeze coming in through the balcony doors blows across my skin, I can feel the coolness of my juices on my thighs.

I watch him as he continues to stare at me. I wish I could see his eyes. Maybe they’d give away what he’s thinking. There’s no way in hell I’ll actually fall asleep with him standing there. It feels weird, and I’m still strung tight, wondering what he’ll do. Does he really only want to watch me sleep? Or is he waiting to attack once I drift off?

I don’t want to think about it, but the thought still slams inside my head.

Somnophilia is another of those pesky little curiosities I’ve developed since I started reading dark romance. That particular trope is quite popular, and I’ve sought it out quite frequently.

“Why do you want to watch me sleep?” I ask timidly.

“Because you look so fucking innocent, and I want to witness that look for a little longer before I destroy it.”

My mouth goes dry, and I run my tongue over my lips to wet them.

“How do I know you won’t touch me while I sleep?”

“You don’t.”

---