Page 61 of Bonds of Pain
I push away from him, creating distance between our bodies. “What I want doesn’t matter here. It never has.”
“It matters to me,” he says quietly.
The words hang in the steam between us, an offering I don’t know how to accept or reject.
So, I do the only thing I can think of to make him stop talking.
I lean forward, closing the distance between us, and press my lips to his. It’s a desperate move, but one that works. Poe stills for a moment, surprise evident in the way his body tenses beneath mine. Then his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer as he deepens the kiss.
This is different from our first encounter in the basement. That was all adrenaline and violence, a primal reaction to death. This is something softer, a connection I can’t afford to feel.
His hands trail up my back, fingers tangling in my wet hair as he cradles my head. I push myself against him, using physical sensation to drown out the thoughts his words stirred in me. When he groans into my mouth, I feel a flutter of triumph.
“Maya,” he whispers against my lips. “I think I love?—”
I silence him with another kiss. Words are treacherous. They make promises neither of us can keep.
My hands explore the planes of his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle and scars. Each mark tells a story I suddenly want to know, but I force the curiosity away. Knowledge leads to understanding, understanding to attachment. I can’t risk that—not when I need to destroy them all.
Poe’s fingers graze the underside of my breast, his touch setting me on fire even through the lace of my bra.
“Don’t talk,” I murmur. “Just keep touching me.”
His eyes search mine, but his hands resume their exploration with deliberate slowness.
The water laps around us as he lifts me effortlessly with one hand, positioning my lower body more solidly on his lap. He guides me into rocking against him until I’m practically grinding my pussy against his stomach. I feel how hard he is behind me, but he makes no move to shift the friction to where his body so obviously wants it.
Instead, he traces patterns on my skin with his other hand, despite how much that must hurt his injured shoulder. Each touch is reverent in a way that makes my chest ache.
This isn’t the reaction I expected. I want him rough and mindless, something to push away the vulnerability his words created. Instead, Poe gives me gentleness that threatens to unravel me more thoroughly than any force could.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, breaking my own rule about talking.
His thumb traces my lower lip. “Doing what?”
“Being gentle. I don’t need gentle.”
A shadow crosses his face. “Maybe I do.”
The admission catches me off guard. In this moment, with water droplets clinging to his eyelashes and vulnerability etchedacross his features, he looks nothing like the dangerous Alpha who only a day ago slashed a man’s throat without hesitation.
“I’ve never had anyone look at me the way you do,” he continues, voice barely audible over the water. “Like you see past all the blood on my hands.”
“Your hands are plenty bloody,” I say, trying to rebuild the wall between us.
He nods. “Yes. And so are yours now.”
I think of Darius, of the knife sliding into flesh. Of the strange satisfaction I felt watching life drain from his eyes.
“Does that bother you?” I challenge.
“Not at all.” His answer is immediate, certain. “Nothing makes me happier than the thought of you being able to protect yourself.”
If only he knew.
I kiss him again, harder this time, demanding rather than asking.
My hips move of their own volition, only spurred on by his hand encouraging me to move faster and harder, despite the gentle way his lips move against mine.
