Page 56 of A Touch of Dark
“Negotiating.”
Thunder rumbles. Our lips meet again. Teeth. Biting. Tasting. Grinding—
Through the thin fabric of my pajamas, I feel the unmissable rasp of tailored fabric, heat, and…sin. I break away with a gasp. “Get…out—”
“The sheets.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him raise a handful in his clenched fist. His nostrils flare inches from the fabric. His expression hardens.
“You didn’t wash the sheets.” His knuckles whiten, ivory over black silk. Shamelessly, he brings his fist to his nose again and inhales more deeply. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and I feel his chest expand, nearing mine.
He looks tenser than I’ve seen him. Poor Damien. My toes curl at the thought of just what he’s seeking from my bedsheets. Or why he can’t seem to let go of his fistful.
“We will make an exchange,” he proposes, his voice composed once again, deep and suave. My inner thighs quiver as his lips part and a thick, red tongue traces the bottom one. “I’ll give you the location of the remaining devices…”
“Good,” I croak even as alarm bells go off inside my mind. This feels far too simple.
“And you…” His fingers find my lips as though magnetized to them. A newer scent blends in with his usual mix of aromas, and I almost miss his next words. “For every location, you give me something.”
“Like what?” I muster up the courage to ask.
“A reward.” His thumb grazes that dangerous sliver of space between my lips, imparting a million disturbing insinuations. “Something I can’t capture with a mere recording.”
“Y-you recorded me?” An image pops into my head of him locked in one of his cavernous rooms, replaying those sick, twisted tapes over and over again. “Why?”
From this angle, I have a perfect view of his twitching throat. Hard swallow after hard swallow. He doesn’t say.
“And if I refuse?” I wonder as if that’s really in question. I am going to. I will. “What? You’ll sell your little recordings to the tabloids, hmm?”
“No.” His upper lip curls back from his teeth at the mere suggestion. “I don’t sell from my private collection.”
Instantly, the heat in my belly cools. “Just how many recordings of women do you hoard?” I press my palm against his chest to push him off. “Goodnight, Mr. Villa—”
He shifts his weight to block my path. Trapped. His mouth grazes my ear from this angle and I feel the jolt down to my toes. Too damn close for comfort.
“What is your price?”
“I don’t have one.” I apply more pressure to his chest, but the bastard doesn’t budge.
“Oh?” His voice deepens, heightening his accent. “I’ll tell you the location of one of the devices in exchange for…a taste of what I’ll never have.” One shift of his weight and he has me pinned. Helpless. Limp. Breathless.
“What are you—”
Black. Darkness. Thunder.
Every light cuts off, plunging my room in shadow.
And I’m in the forest. Lost. Trapped.
“Let’s play a game,” he murmured, pointing from me to Leslie with the tip of a knife. “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe or rock-paper-scissors…”
“Juliana.”
The rough voice doesn’t belong, combating Simon’s slithering drawl. I cling to it, clawing my way to reality bit by bit. I see darkness. No forest. Lightning. A flash of my room. A shadow, reaching for me.
“Focus on my voice,” someone snarls.
Oh no. There’s vomit on my tongue. On the bed. I feel it running down my chin, hot like blood. Someone tries their best to wipe it away, utilizing a handkerchief.
