Page 57 of Cain
He’s right! I think my fever has stopped rising. Is it because of the conversation or because he’s touching me so tenderly?
“Then I suppose you can tell the doctor not to come.”
I mean, what’s the point, anyway? I’ll be fine, and I can’t even ask for help. If I do, he’ll kill him.
He doesn’t speak. He merely hums sharply. He’s different. He doesn’t seem so twisted, so dark, just like when he played the piano. For a moment, I almost forget who he is and what he’s done.
I raise my eyes and look at him. He’s looking ahead of him, into nothing. He seems absorbed in his thoughts. Then, he lowers his eyes, and they meet mine. Why can’t I look away? Why do I feel different? More … available.
I lift my hand and gently stroke his cheek, my eyes traveling all over his face. He looks normal. Not sinister or twisted. He seems like the man I thought he was. Vulnerable, even.
Our lips are just a breath away. They can almost brush against each other. My heart is pounding beneath my chest, and my breathing becomes more rapid. At that moment, all I want to do is kiss him.
And then I do it. My hand glides higher, resting on his nape for a few seconds, and then I pull him closer.
Then, his hand catches my chin.
“Don’t.”
I freeze, my pulse hammering.
“Why?”
He exhales through his nose. “Because I don’t do this.”
He says no, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t let go.
“You don’t want to?” I ask while this awful, awkward feeling starts consuming me.
His fingers tighten for just a second. His lips curl into a smirk, while his eyes travel all over my face, as if he’s studying me.
“I didn’t say that.”
He said that he wanted to push my limits and break my boundaries. And that’s exactly what he’s doing right now.
He wants me to push. To cross that line. But he won’t be the one to do it.
Fine.
I lean in, closing the space, daring him to stop me. His fingers slide down my throat, making my pulse jump beneath his touch.
And just when my lips nearly brush his, his grip on my throat tightens.
In one smooth motion, he rolls us, pinning me beneath him. His face is close—so close—but still, he doesn’t narrow the distance.
“You’re flattering me, little rose,” he says as if taunting me.
I swallow hard.
Bastard! He is indeed making me do it, making me the one to cross the line.
And the worst part is that I want to.
God, I hate that I want to.
He wants to see how far I’ll go, how much I’ll beg for something he already knows I want.
Asshole!
