Page 41 of A Touch of Dark
Which will be nothing.
Something in the air changes. Thunder surges as if feeding off the emotion conveyed in the thumb he wedges between my lips to pry them apart. Determination. Morbid curiosity. How far can he push me?
Another searching path of his hand down my chest conjures up the answer I don’t want to face. Too far. He’s closer, his footsteps landing in menacing tandem. I hear his breath catch on a resigned sigh. He’ll play this stupid game I’ve set in motion. He’ll play to win. The hand on my chin curls, cupping my face fully, tilting it back
“Are your eyes open? I’m assuming they aren’t,” he says, employing that uncanny knowledge of me to unsettling effect. “You always run when you’re frightened. Cower.” His thumb strokes upward, stopping short of my eyelid. “Open them.”
He’s right. Playing the role of a frightened mouse is the role I play the best. I’ve grown accustomed to fear’s bitter sting. How it grapples for control from my limbs and paralyzes me more than this drug ever could. I should feel it now, the icy tendrils of terror. Hell, I welcome it.
But he’s wrong.
I keep my eyes shut, feeding off the tension building in his fingertips. He senses my disobedience without ever having to see it.
“Remember your word, Juliana Thorne,” he warns, issuing another callous stroke to my cheek. “I know honor is a murky concept in your family, but you promised your submission. Open. Your. Eyes.”
Another crack of thunder reinforces the malice in his tone. But I keep myself blind. For the first time in my life, it isn’t because I’m afraid of what I’ll see. I know the sight awaiting me: a stern-faced villain bolstered by crackling lightning and distracting shadows. Deciphering him through touch is ten times more disorienting. There are no snap judgments I can make. Just slow deliberation based off the sparks ignited in my skin wherever his touch roams.
Daddy’s method won’t help me here. Damien requires a new form of deduction. Like the fact that even when he boldly grazes his hand over my breast there’s no real malice in it. The thumb braced between my teeth reveals more. It stiffens, capturing the gasp choked from my throat. At first, he presses harder, relishing the perceived triumph. Not even a second later, he withdraws the pressure.
“Apparently, you still believe this to be a game.”
I’ve never known such a thick, impenetrable silence before. Even the weather seems to pause its assault, riveted by the man whose anger bastes my skin with every breath. Another harsh stroke along my chin tilts my face toward the palm of his hand. With no control, I’m at his mercy. He could toy with me like a rag doll, or worse. But no, Damien’s style is more psychological than anything.
“I think you’ve been alone too long, Juliana,” he tells me, his voice grated. I suspect he knows damn well just how long it’s been. “A good, wholesome woman such as yourself shouldn’t be reacting to me.”
Apparently, he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks. I’ve never been good, always pretending. Wholesome is a term that best applies to the extent of my lies. Whole. Consuming.
“Are you that desperate for…” He trails off, letting my imagination run wild to fill in the gap.
His attention drifts lower, more slowly than before. Spreading fingers and dull nails perform their search with more intent. Friction sparks. Fire follows. Locked in place, my muscles can’t even shudder beneath the violation. I’ve never wanted to recoil so badly in my life. I’ve never been so attuned to my body’s reaction to anything. Not Simon. Not anyone.
“Open your eyes, Juliana.” He’s closer. His words strike my lower jaw like fire.
My ears pick up the slight ambiance they normally wouldn’t. The crunch of fabric conformed to a muscular body. The creaking of my floor. Rain lashing glass. The high-pitched, breathy noises coming from my throat.
He must crouch to his knees, crushing the carpet beneath his bulk. The leather hisses, presumably brushed by the fabric of his shirt. Those hot fingers drift lower…
“Open your eyes.”
It should be impossible for him to know that I haven’t. Almost as impossible as it should be for me to sense the hard swallow he takes. A low sound nips at the air. Thunder? No. It’s too deep. Too masculine. Too damn close.
His dominant hand has never left my face. His thumb performs a near constant stroking, up and down. Down and up. Quicker each time, the next brush more menacing than the last. Gritted teeth create an ominous warning amid the backdrop of yet another flash of lightning. This one so bright that I can see it, brilliant silver against my eyelids.
“Open.” His voice rumbles against my ear. His thumb flicks my cheek, while his other hand becomes even bolder.
“N-no…” Only God knows how I manage to rasp out the word. I’m still paralyzed. Speaking feels like trying to scream with an iron weight pressing down on my chest. But he makes it possible. So confident that he knows me so damn well. “Want…to…feel…”
He laughs. Such a terrible, violent sound. My toes would curl if they could. Instead, my mouth waters and I know he can sense the moisture against his thumb. It returns to its position between my lips, testing what little control I still have over my jaw.
“Feel?” His touch moves lower.
More sparks. More fire—no,explosionsset off beneath my skin.
“I can make you feel a million things, Juliana Thorne,” he promises. Dark things. Awful things. His hand slides between my legs, giving me a mere taste of what his threat conveys.
And I choke on it.
Too much. Too much heat ripping through me. Too little control of my body. All I can do is breathe in and out. Noisily. Pained. His thumb is a rigid anchor and my tongue seeks it out, desperate to retaliate in some way.
