Page 52 of A Touch of Dark
“Bullshit.” Something about how he said “direct feed” makes me swallow hard. “You mean you have a dedicated room where you go tospyon me?”
The boring life of Juliana Thorne in HD surround sound, perhaps? Who’s the dull one now?
“It’s only recently that I’ve taken to keeping a more…consistent vigilance,” he admits.
Consistent.My lungs promptly deflate of air. “Oh?” I wonder innocently, aware of how a muscle in his arm jerks beneath my touch. “How recently? As recently as three days ago?” I should leave it at that, but my lips won’t stop moving. “When I gave you a taste of what you’ll never, ever have?”
Bingo. He can’t hide how his throat lurches, but an answering flutter in my chest alarms me far more. I flex my palm, intending to push away from him.
“Well, now that you mention it…” His fingers seize my chin, tilting it. At the same time, he lowers his face, bringing his mouth near my ear as if he memorized the distance. Close enough for his breath to fan my earlobe with every grated word. “Itwasas recently as three days ago,” he concedes, “when you fingered yourself to the tune of my name. Or pretended to, perhaps…”
My cheeks flame. No one makes everyday words sound as vulgar as he does.Fingered. My own twitch against him. The last part of that statement, however, has my mouth contorting into a frown.
“Pretended?”
He can’t see what I’m doing—I know that. Regardless, his nostrils flare anyway as if seeking every trace of the fingertips I parade beneath his nose.
“I definitely wasn’t pretending.” Only belatedly do I realize that statement could encompass everything.To the tune of my name.“About the f-fingering part.”
“Oh?”
I shouldn’t be able to track that shadow that falls across his features, even with the blindfold. He’s dangerously easy to read in this moment. Tense. Waiting for something. A cue to leave, I think. And, God, I should give it to him. Get the hell out—but he’s the one who started this game, and I can’t resist taking one final cheap shot.
“Ohyes.”
He tenses even before I hover my thumb over his lips. They’re surprisingly pink. Soft. The slightest pressure is all it takes to make an indentation—and have him sharply inhale.
“If only you knew.” I draw my hand away, fully intending to kick him out. I don’t expect him to cup my face in retaliation, his thumb expertly finding my own mouth. I inhale raggedly, waiting.
He should leave it at that: a sleazy tit-for-tat. He shouldn’t lean closer. I’m rendered motionless even though I have plenty of warning to turn my face. Run. Move. Something.
His mouth finds mine easily, separated only by the width of his thumb. “Oh, I would like to know,” he breathes against my parted lips. “I’dvery muchlike to know why you panted my name.”
He sounds angry. Insulted. Intrigued.
Enough. I shove against him. At the same time, he lowers his hand and covers the distance between us.
Preemptively, I call his bluff. “You wouldn’t dare—”
Our lips meet. Stiffen. Deepen their contact.
It’s not a kiss. Even as his tongue swipes my mouth open and invades without warning. It’s a battle of wits.
And I’m woefully unmatched.
He shouldn’t taste sweet. Like cognac mixed with something fruity. Poisonous fruit. He rams his flavor into me like he’s forcing me to swallow every illicit drop. He shouldn’t feel so damn soft. My body shouldn’t catch fire.
I shouldn’t extend this.
He slides his hand around to the back of my throat, holding me captive as he steps in closer, using his height advantage as a weapon to knock me off-balance. My hands fly to his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his suit jacket. Another searing taste of him unnerves me, deeper than the first. Another.
“S-stop.” I break away and find myself stumbling in the direction of my room.
He follows me, eerily steady.
“Get out,” I snap.
“Is that what you really want?”
