Page 58 of A Touch of Dark
My blood goes cold and the reality of the situation descends at full force: I’m alone in my room with a stranger.
“W-what?”
“It’s filthy.” He sounds so calm. So logical. “You need to change.”
But my closet is too terrifying a territory to venture into now.
“You’re disgusting,” I spit, even as I shrug the shirt over my head and toss it aside. “Only a pervert would get a woman naked at a moment like—”
“You can insult me,” he counters, still so damn unshakeable, “if it helps distract you. I can make an exception this once.”
An exception?
“Get out—”
“I can think of a better distraction than anger, however.” The shift in his tone sends my pulse racing. Another roar of thunder echoes, but it sounds too distant now, no match for his low, dangerous rasp. “When you performed your little exhibition, where exactly did you touch yourself?”
I can’t breathe, but this time, it’s not because of terror.
“You disgust me,” I hiss.
“Show me,” he counters. “Or was it all an act?”
A shiver runs down my spine as he adjusts himself behind me. On either side of my hips, his hands appear outstretched, painted silver as lightning flashes.
“You want me to paint you,” he reminds me, his breath hot on my skin. “You think you can bare every inch of yourself to me? You truly believe you’re brave enough to face that woman? I think you’re lying to yourself, Juliana.” Thunder mingles with his words, sending a thrill through me. “I think you’re damn good at lying—”
I grab his hand and place it against my thigh.
We both go rigid.
His fingers are too damn soft. Mine shake as awareness of the storm threatens to shatter even his twisted “distraction.” I can taste the forest again. See it…
Just as the memory unfolds, Damien asks, “Was it here?”
I gasp.
His fingers travel without permission. I’m back firmly in the here and now, suffocating as the tip of a thumb nudges tender flesh.
“Or here?” He drifts higher, sweeping his touch up the ridge of my belly. “I doubt you’re bold enough to go lower.”
“I-I told you,” I manage to reply in a rush. “You’ll never have—”
“Or maybe here?” His other hand cups the opposite hip, applying just enough pressure to tease an ounce of fear from my frayed nerves.
For a second, I toy with the potential danger. He could rape me.
But he won’t. A man like him wouldn’t see the fun in that.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I tell him, confident of that fact. My eyes are closed again and reading him now is easier than ever. He’s brutal, Damien. Never reckless. He wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of ever claiming assault. “Men like you don’t get their hands dirty.”
“No?” he retorts in a low murmur. “If not to hurt you, then what might my motives be?”
He’s distracting me, as much as it stings to admit that. His fingers are my only anchor against the past and Simon. Two monsters go to war on my psyche, but one wins out.
“It was lower,” I admit, breathless. His fingers twitch, hesitant to move. “A place you will never, ever touch—”
“But I have touched you there,” he points out, chuckling in a grated, tortured way. “In fact, I doubt many men have. So tight. Barely accepting of one finger.”
