Page 68 of Hostile Love
Fingering the thick damask wallpaper, I keep to the edge of the room. My scalp tingles while my steady footfall doesn’t make a sound.
Reaching the drapes, I fist the weighted fabric and throw them wide.
Moonlight floods every inch of my skin and twinkles on the flat ocean beyond the glass. The plan is to use natural light to brighten the suite and expose him.
Standing here, naked, with my back to the room, a rush of excitement keeps me facing the white dot hanging over the horizon.
The longer I wait, the hotter the anticipation. Butterflies jumble in my stomach and my skin tingles.
I’m sure I could easily pinpoint his location behind me and drop to my knees.
Only that’s probably what a good girl would do for a dominant man like him. Me, however, I’d prefer to offer him my trust and let him grasp it with both hands.
My awareness spikes. I sense his predatory approach. Still, I don’t turn around.
Not even when the only way he touches me is his breath agitating the hairs at the back of my head, the warmth of an aphrodisiac.
“I won’t push you away anymore,” I tell him, speaking to the outdoors.
Matheus stands behind me while my heart beats against my ribs. The hairs on my arms prickle. My clit pulses, needy and swollen.
Despite my typical reflexes to face him, I stand still. I’d never push him away again. A tornado whirls in my stomach.
Just as I think he’s about to pull me close, he snatches the blade from my holster, grabs my elbow, and spins me around. I stare at the knife; my brows pinched and meet his serious gaze.
Silver flecks scatter his chestnut irises, and his beautiful features appear sharper under a war of shadows and moonlight.
This is him. Handsomely dangerous.
Mine.
I swallow hard, not because I’m scared. No, I’m drawn to him in every possible way.
“I want you to understand something too, Dani,” he says quietly, pressing two fingers to my breastbone and driving me backward. “When I said you were mine, it was the truth.”
My shoulders bump into the thin pane of glass as he takes the knife and drags the edge across his palm in the same way I’d done moments ago.
The sting on my own hand flares in empathy and my heartbeat drums.
I don’t like seeing his skin split and bleeding. It makes me feel weird. Protective maybe, or perhaps it’s something else. He’s doing it to prove a point.
His eyes fall to the blood gathering in his hand, both of us breathing the same air, not saying a word.
Sliding his middle finger through the shallow pool, he bites his bottom lip, cocks his head, and paints a letter on my chest.
“Spell it out with me, baby…M.” He begins.
I breathe deep, my eyes closing briefly and focus on the warm strokes.
“M,” I repeat, slowly blinking as he swirls the pad of his finger in more of his blood.
“A,” he mutters, writing the letter.
“A.”
He continues to coat his finger, dipping it like a quill in an inkwell. “T.”
“T.”
