Page 48 of A Touch of Dark
“I’m fine.” I force a grin to prove it and nod toward the door. “Thank you. I’ll contact the manager if I need anything else.”
The moment the door closes after him, my posture deflates. Damn Damien. I almost wish he’d sent me something truly awful to put Simon to shame. Something I could march down to the police station or leak to the tabloids—possibly turning part of the vicious tide against Heyworth Thorne.Somethingto counter the sickly-sweet perfume of dying roses and prove once and for all that this gesture is a threat.
Or I could leave. Daddy wouldn’t question too much if I returned home now with my tail between my legs. He’d prefer having me underfoot, always protected.
I’m still torn between the two possibilities when I finally cradle the present in my hands. It’s lighter than expected. I undo the bow and strip the wrapping paper to reveal a wooden box with silver fixtures. After making sure no brooding madman is lurking in the shadows, I sit and lift the lid.
Inside, on a bed of red silk, rests a small sketch reinforced on a wooden base. I hate the gasp drawn from my throat when I recognize the woman staring up at me. At first glance, it’s a chilling rendition: someone with features similar to my own, frozen in a mask of terror. A second glance, however, reveals something far worse.
The artist was skilled enough to depict everything down to the moisture glistening on her lips. The sweat slicking her skin. Her wide eyes and her bare chest heaving with bated breath. How her exposed throat almost demands raking teeth and violence. Destruction. Lust.
Poor woman, whoever she is. Damien violated her in charcoal and ivory.
In disgust, I flip the damned thing over and set it aside. Only to reach for it again and observe every line more closely.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when I finally notice the folded slip of paper lying in the box beneath where the sketch was. The message scribbled on it reads more like a command than a contrite request:I assume this apology suffices.My studio. Tonight.
A sound tears from my throat, startling me. Laughter? It’s been so damn long since I’ve heard the real thing. No polite, restrainedhahaha. I’m doubled over, clutching at my stomach as uncontrollable giggling reduces me to a quivering mess with streaming, watery eyes.
When I regain my composure, I rip up his stupid note and sprinkle its remains over the carpet of petals. Then I enter my bedroom, intending to pack. Return to Daddy. Damn Damien to Hell.
But the bastard didn’t content himself with violating just one room of my suite. His scent conveys a haunting warning before I notice the lit lamp on my nightstand. Someone left an object resting against its metallic base. Small. Black. Shaped like an earpiece.
That son of a bitch. Judging from the faint layer of dust on the device, it’s been hidden, out of sight, for a while. Months, perhaps. Maybe even longer. I have no doubt that every bit of data and moment of vulnerability collected was used to create the profile of this vain, boring, materialistic woman he claims I am.
Tears prickle behind my eyes, and I choke down a desperate gulp of air.Breathe.He won’t win tonight—I can’t let him win. Without thinking through the consequences, I snatch up the device and bring it to my mouth.
“Enjoying the show?” I croak into it, hating how broken I sound. Fuck Damien. In fact… “You asked me if I was a virgin? Why? Is that how you get off? Manipulating women into bed? Does your blind-man act not earn enough pity on its own?”
Low blow, Thorne.I’ve never spoken to anyone like this before. Anyone. A thrill runs down my spine, feeding my resolve. Excitement, rather than shame.
“Sadly for you, I’d rather have sex with my doorman. Someone who doesn’t need to paralyze his women to feel in control.”
I break off, panting. For all intents and purposes, I’m shouting to myself. As far as I know, he could have severed this line. But no. A psychopath would never cut off communication with his victim first. He’s listening, and I intend to give him a damn good show.
“Frankly, I’m disappointed, Mr. Villa.” I creep toward my bed and mount the edge of the mattress. Unease flickers through my belly, but I ignore it. I’ve played by the rules of politeness for so damn long. He’s pushed me to the brink.
“I thought you’d be better with your hands. Should I give you a demonstration, you sick bastard?” I turn, lying back on the mattress. My fingers flutter hesitantly before roving down my hip and finding the clasp of my jeans. “Listen and learn, Mr. Villa. You wanted something interesting to spy on, didn’t you? Well, here’s a sample of what you’ll never hear in person.”
I flick the bug aside without bothering to see where it lands. Somewhere close. Then I eye the ceiling and focus on…
I don’t know. My hand seems to move on its own. It slides between my skin and the fabric of my underwear, finding the spot he assaulted that night. Damn it. The flesh feels different. Stimulated. Slightly sore. Because he’s a bumbling, sloppy idiot—not because of the effects of the drug, rendering my body immobile against him.
It has no trouble at all reacting to me. One stroke of my finger along my entrance and I suck in a breath. I rarely have time for self-indulgence. Simon was always watching. Maybe he still is. I swallow hard and start to pull my hand away. But my finger crooks as if it has a mind of its own, stroking again. Faster. Harder.
Another, softer sound tears from my lips. A gasp.There.That’s enough. Damien doesn’t deserve any more of my debasement to entertain him. But even the thought of his name makes my chest tighten. It takes more effort to force air into my lungs. Because I hate him. Not because my traitorous body remembers what it felt like. His breath on my ear. His voice, hoarse and constrained—unsteady for once.Are you a virgin?
Why the hell did he care?
More importantly, why the hell can’t I stop hearing him ask me that damn question?
Virginity. Virgin. Virginal.My hips arch against the bed. My touch becomes bolder, every finger desperate to recreate the friction he had. Almost. Almost…Yes. Sparks prickle as my finger flicks. I drive my teeth into my lower lip to smother the sound crawling up my throat. A groan rips from me, loud despite the attempt. He’ll hear that and there’s no taking it back.
Good. He can mock me all he wants. Sell the tape to the tabloids, even. But that will never erase the fact that he’s listening. Right now, the artist is forced to bear my own form of art.
I stop thinking and let my body take what it wants. Rapid strokes. Deliberate motions. More. More. More
But I don’t feel the fire until my brain follows suit, displaying images without permission. Thick, soft fingers. A masculine voice reverberating through my skin. His taste on my tongue.
