Page 48 of Kept in the Dark
“Do not get on your knees,” I grind out, shifting away so she will not get between my spread legs.
“Why?” she repeats, truly confused. She puts her other knee down, and I scowl at her.
Infuriating, obstinate woman, testing my self-control! Does she have no sense of self-preservation after all?
The picture she paints is one I recognize from my dreams. She is wearing far more clothing now, but the raging fire of desire this position creates is no less urgent.
I grip the blanket and sheets so hard that I hear a small tearing noise. “Because I am barely holding back, mymed.”
“H-holding back… from what?” she squeaks.
“What do you think?” I growl. My hips buck, just a little, drawing her attention to the bulge in my pants. It swells a little more, as if the weight of her eyes is a physicality equal to the touch of her hand.
She sits back on her feet, digesting that, then shivers. When her eyes meet mine again, they are shining with need through dilated pupils. Suddenly, there is nothing clinical in how she gazes up at me through her lashes. It is subservient, and torturous, and powerful and sexual and… right. She presses her thighs tighter together, and I can see her nipples pebble against tight, abrasive cotton.
“So don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t hold back.”
Desire rages around the tentative flash of hope. She wants it. She wants me.
Perhaps… perhaps this can be enough. One encounter. One release. One brief moment of heat to hold in my chest and revisit when the night is cold and lonely.
I reach for her chin, gripping it firmly between my thumb and index finger. She allows me to lift her head a fraction, and her mouth falls open as her brows slant up in a pleading expression. My nerves are singing, my pulse is pounding, and there is a roaring in my ears.
The temptation of such an invitation is too great. My hand cups along her cheek towards the corner of her mouth. Dipping just inside, I rest the pad of my thumb on the point of her bottom canine tooth and pull her lower jaw down. I open her, testing her, seeing what she will let me do. She touches the tip of my thumb with her tongue, tasting me, and a guttural noise escapes my throat.
My chest is heaving as if I were running at full speed. I pull my thumb from her mouth and slide my hand down to circle the front of her throat. She goes rigid in my grip, then her chin lifts, stretching her neck, making more room for a palm that looks massive against the fragile column of her throat. Her pulse races under my fingertips. Her eyes beg me—a hungry, wild expression—though it is unclear exactly what for.
I tighten my grip. She whimpers, and the sound snaps me out of my obsessive focus. A noise of surprise, of trepidation, of desire, and of torment. It is perfect. She is perfect—she would be. I can tell.
She would give, would allow me to take, would takemeso well…
And then how would I ever be able to stop at just one night?
I shake my head, stopping myself and pulling away. “I will not. I cannot,” I say, and my voice is raw and raspy.
Her sharp inhale is a shard of ice through my stomach. “Why?” she whispers, as if a louder acknowledgment might injure her pride.
The question makes me angry because I am asking myself the exact same thing. She sits there still on her knees, blithe to my suffering. I grab my shirt and stand, momentarily forgetting where I am. I hit my head on the low ceiling. Her expression of sympathy is like a rude, cold splash of water.
I am amurderer. I do not need her sympathy. I do not need a soft woman to care for me. Soft things do not last long in my hard world.
“You want to know why?” I hiss, and I can hear that my voice has become fierce.
She shifts back, sitting hard on her plush ass in response to my tone, eyes wide. The edge of her apprehension is sharp against my heart, reopening the stitches there that she did not know she sewed.
My hands curl into fists that shake. “Because I am a violent man, Nicole. I will not make love to you. I will not have sex with you. I will fuck you, and I will take everything. I will ruin you. Do you understand? The way I want you is violent.Iam violent.”
I see it again—the flash of fear. She is aroused, yes, but she is afraid of me. Good. She should be. Satisfaction twists with shame until I cannot tell which I feel and who it is directed at, me or her.
“I am not a good person. I do not save things like you do; I break them.”
I turn away, then I hear her shaky voice. “You savedme.”
She is not listening. I need to leave before I…
“I’m not afraid of you, Dimitri.”
I send her a disdainful look. Seconds ago, I saw her fear. “You are a liar.”
