Page 55 of A Touch of Dark
“Do you miss it? Seeing.”
“No,” he says without an ounce of hesitation. “I don’t.”
“Because you can hear just fine,” I say pointedly. “In fact…”
I barge through my bedroom door and switch the light on. Three days have reduced my bed to a crumpled mass of sheets. My closet door is partially open with clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor of it. I look back and find Damien paused near the threshold, frowning as his foot warily taps my discarded heel.
Without thinking, I cross to him and kick the shoe from his path. Why? I have no damn idea.
“Where?” I demand, glancing around the room. “Where are the rest of your little toys?”
If I were a psychopath, where would I hide my secret listening devices? The drapes? Behind the potted plant in the corner? I make a show of loudly checking both places but come up short.
“Where?” I demand while marching toward him. “Maybe I’ll even let you keep one. Poor man. I’d hate to deny you of your sole entertainment—”
“Ah, but I don’t want to hear a recording of you moaning, Ms. Thorne.”
My breath catches. He sounds too damn…heated. “Oh?” I croak. “Fine, then. Tell me where the other bugs are.”
“No.” He easily swats away the request and takes a step closer, homing in on my position. “But I’d much rather hear you moan in person.”
I blink.Breathe. He’s taunting me. “As if.”
He takes another step and I’m frozen in place. Deliberately, he reaches for me, stroking his fingers along the side of my cheek. Then he cups the side of it. Deep down, I know that he’s giving me all the time in the world to run. I don’t. Not even when his lips claim mine once again.
I shiver as he tugs me forward. His tongue rims my mouth, a teasing request for entrance.
“S-stop,” I croak without pulling away. I inhale his laugh directly.
“Do you really want me to?”
Yes. I want him to stop. But like a true madman, he doesn’t give me the chance to demand it. His fingers trace my throat in a fiery caress, traveling down to my collar. Lower…lower still. My nipples sharpen in tense anticipation as he skims the cotton of my shirt. Pressing hard enough to sense but nowhere near hard enough to really feel. My mind plays a devious game of remembering how he felt after he’d drugged me. Raw heat over paralyzed muscles. I’m anything but frozen now.
My chest flutters. My toes sink into the carpet beneath them, desperate for leverage.
“You should leave, Mr. Villa,” I breathe, hating how fragile my voice sounds in comparison to the muted storm raging outside.
He doesn’t.
He steps forward, jarring my precarious balance. I assume he miscalculated my position for once—but no. He moves again, deliberately ramming his chest into mine, hard enough to jar back. Back. Back. My knees strike the base of my bed. Another firm nudge from him urges me onto it.
I stare up at him, panting. No matter how hard I try, I can’t find enough air to command him to stop. And he knows too much—from the layout of my room, apparently, down to just how my body would fall when shoved onto my bed from this position. One of his hands captures my upper thigh and nothing in the world could prepare me for the cruel mixture of sensations jolting through my body. Fire. Ice. Slowly, his other hand finds my opposite thigh. He tugs, and my legs part, opening enough space for him to step in between.
“I suggest,” he starts, his voice alarmingly thick. Guttural. “I suggest you…assist me, here. I’d rather not crush you.”
I shudder at the word.Crush. And also what I know he left out.Yet.
When he nudges my hip, I’m reminded of his request. Assist him.
“To do what?” I’ve never heard this quality to my voice before. Husky. Like Sharla from accounting whenever Dave from research walks by her desk. Funny. I always thought Dave wasn’t her type—but now I know.
Now, I know what it feels like to lie to yourself. It’s hell. It’s heroin.
In a breathtaking display of balance, he braces one knee against the mattress. I have to bite my lower lip as he uses my own thigh for reference to know where to place his limb, grinding against my flesh.
My hands fly out, finding his hips. An appreciative sound catches in my throat; the man is pure muscle. Coiled ridges of it flex beneath my touch as he braces one hand beside my hip. The other lands near my head, fisting in the sheets, and he’s above me. My breaths fan his throat, disrupting the strands of hair framing his face.
“What are you doing?” I ask once I remember how to speak.
