Page 78 of Refrain

I grit out a noise that might be a moan, and she slows just for a second. Long enough for her to readjust her grip and lower her head.

I feel her breath on my shaft. It’s like the first brush of a lit lighter against the end of a cig. You’ve got to hold it there for a second before it catches fire. Before the flames bite deep.

One touch of her tongue is all it takes for this new flame to bitedeep. I’m on my heels before I know it, curses revving in my throat. Her hair parts between my fingers as I seek out the shape of her scalp. I know it’s wrong, even before I hold her steady and arch my hips to sink in even deeper. I feel the entrance of her throat. Tight. Hot. A part of me needs to sink in deeper, but the sound she makes… It’s a choked gasp, and I pull back. I’m nearly free of her mouth when her hand clutches my hip, her nails digging in. I look down and right into her eyes again.

Don’t. I’m okay.

Gritting my teeth, I go back, letting her set the pace. I don’t last long. Not even a minute later, I’m already trying to shove her off again. I’m coming. I feel the impending release in every fucking inch of my body, but she doesn’t take the hint. She stares me dead on. She sucks me in deeper. Her cheeks hollow…

And I’m on another goddamn planet. I lose my sense of gravity; that’s how violently the world shifts. I’m on fire. I’m full. I’m empty.

She takes everything I have and then some, swallowing it alldown like it’s vital. Like she thrives on this. She needs me more than fucking oxygen. More than sanity.

We’reinsane.I could get off again just from watching her. Knowingthat,I wrench my jeans back up and turn around. I set my sights on the fridge, and I stare at it until my breathing slows and I feel in control.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHLOE

Fate is a blank slate.So how fitting is it that my angel is an artist, painting beauty out of darkness and destruction? Taking an act I’ve always reviled andmakingit seem…vital. Even worse, forcing me to crave it.

Only he can make hate so appealing. For five minutes, I forgot about Piotr—that’s the longest I’ve ever gone. For five minutes, my used, broken body felt something other than pain or disgust.

It’s like the formless paintings streaking the canvas around us spell out the truth—Fucking him isart—even if it will never happen in the traditional sense. I’m resigned to that. I’ll take him in any way I can, like a dog content with the scraps from a banquet table.

It’s selfish.

I’m putting him in danger.

I can’t help myself.

I succumb to the high, and it feels like hours pass before I manage to stand up and hobble over to the sink. I turn the faucet on and drink directly from the spray. The water doesn’t erase his taste, however. It doesn’t even make a dent in the flavor.

I’ll choke on him all night.

Touching him is like dancing, only without the restriction of the cage. With him, my cage is everywhere. The world seems open. I’m unreachable. Just as long as he holds me. Just as long as his fingers tanglewithinmy hair to keep me steady. Just as long as his eyes peer into mine.

Though, hell, maybe I’m not the only woman addicted to him. There was one in his sketchbook, her features carefully detailed in pencil and ink over crumbled paper. Dark hair. Flashing eyes. I’m not skilled enough to decipher whatever emotions he might have felt while drawing her.

I don’t want to. Is this jealousy? Guilt?

When I finally turn the sink off and face the rest of the narrow room, he’s barricaded himself inside the bathroom again. The water’s running, betraying what he’s doing without my needing to see it for myself—his hand on his shaft, grinding me out.

He’d rather use nicotine as his crutch than me.Apparently,angels don’t see the power in dominating another. This one is so afraid of becoming a monster that he denies himself pleasure altogether. He surrounds himself with pain instead—curing it, inflicting it—going so far as to tattoo a reminder on his chest as to just what he’s capable of.

I don’t need another brand to remind me. Piotr’s stench is in my skin. I will never erase his touch. I can forget for a minute, maybe longer. But he always comes back to me.

Moya lyubov.

I shiver as my mind scuttles away from the thought. I need to move. Think. Thankfully, the house remains silent as I haul myself upright and pad into the bedroom. I take a T-shirt and sweatpants from his closet and pull them on without allowing myself to feel any guilt. When I realize I left my shoes behind at the hotel, I have no choice but to take a pair of his as well, along with another sweatshirt. That particular item I don’t need,however. I want it. My nose lowers into the sleeve, inhaling the stench embedded within the cotton.

One hit is enough to soothe whatever nerves the thought of leaving stirs up as I head for the front door. Fear, my old friend, has returned in full force.Escape. Run.My plan is sloppy,compiled on the fly—I’ll catch a train and ride it as far as I can. Piotr can have his seven days—andmanymore after that. I won’t go back to him.

Iwon’t.

I can’t...

“You think it’s really going to be this easy?”

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