Page 30 of Desperate Crimes
“You could have killed me?—”
“I would never hurt you,” he interrupts angrily.
I think he’s insulted.
Can you believe this guy?
The bed I’m sitting on is soft, and the temperature is more than comfortable. He’s right though, I feel a little less queasy now. My headache is gone.
And I’m actually wondering what kind of snacks he left me.
Jesus. Christ. What is wrong with me?
Truth is, I hate how good I’m starting to feel when I know I should be screaming.
“You’re sick,” I finally reply, recoiling slightly at the sharp sound of my own voice.
“You have no idea,” he growls, the words rough and dark and thick with something feral.
Oh, fuck.
My breath catches.
My body betrays me.
I squeeze my thighs together beneath the silk, shame blooming in my chest like wildfire.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I should be terrified. I am terrified.
But beneath the fear, beneath the outrage, there’s something else.
Something warm.
Slow. Wanting.
It doesn’t make sense.
I’ve always had this fantasy—twisted and wrong and shaped by too many of my mother’s dark romance novels—about being wanted too much.
About being claimed. Taken. Consumed.
But that’s fiction.
This is real.
Isn’t it?
And yet, I can’t stop imagining him. Behind the voice.
What he looks like.
What his hands feel like.
What he’d do if I begged him not to stop instead of to let me go.
I breathe in slowly through my nose. Try to calm the spiraling storm inside me.
