“Oh God.” I arch my back, willing him on, the wildfire inside back with a vengeance.
He pushes into me on a grunt, sinking his fingers into my thighs. “And isn’t it fucking beautiful?” he asks, yanking me down onto him. The flames are fanned, the burn intensifying. I cry out, clawing at his forearms, trying to find my anchor. And that’s the thing with James. There is no anchor. Nothing to keep me grounded when he’s got his hands all over me, and that feeling of absent control is cathartic. It’s deliverance from evil. It’s the therapy I need.
I look at the ugly scars on my arm as James finds his pace, alternating between smooth grinds and hard hits, beating constant cries of ecstasy out of me.
“They’re not there,” he grunts, and I shoot my eyes to his. They’re glazed. His jaw is tight. He looks almost angry. “They’re not there.” He drives forward at an eyewatering speed, punching me deep. “They’re not there,” he whispers, retreating, the smooth flesh of his iron erection gliding with ease, stroking my walls. I look at my arm again. The scars have gone. I don’t see them. Don’t feel the pain that’s so fresh in my mind. He makes all the terrible disappear and replaces it with magic. “Look at me,” he demands, moving a hand to my throat, laying it there. I do as I’m bid, and the sight will never leave me.
He’s about to come. I want his release. For him. For me. The sight of him staring at me, holding his breath, his body rigid, every last muscle in his arms and chest protruding.
I lift my arms above my head, finding the edge of the counter behind me, and grip it tightly. I’m going to need it. “Come,” I order calmly, and he roars at the ceiling, his pace reaching maniac territory as he thrashes me repeatedly and mercilessly.
I’ve never seen anything so spellbinding. Never heard anything so poetic. He’s out of control, and I am in my element. I don’t need to orgasm. I just need to watch him.
“Fuck,” he chokes, sucking back air, his body vibrating violently, his skin slick with sweat. He collapses onto one hand, his head hanging, and he starts to grind firmly, hissing his way through his climax. I go limp, staring up at the ceiling, as the sensation of him filling me, of his cock pulsating against my walls as he releases, overwhelms my body.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quietly, heaving, fighting for breath. “Who you are, who I am, it doesn’t matter.” I don’t want details. Don’t want to give them either. This. I just want this. Whenever I can have it, just this.
“What if I ever want to tell you?” he asks, bringing his front down to mine. His head lays on my chest, and I look at his dark waves.
“If it’ll change this, I want you to resist.”
“Is that a condition?”
“Of what?”
“Of you continuing to see me. You want nothing. Just this.”
“Just this,” I confirm.
“You sound like most men’s dream woman.”
“I’m no one’s dream,” I whisper. I’m their nightmare. So yes, this agreement works for me, because if I don’t know about him, he can’t know about me.
And as if he understands, he takes my deformed arm and kisses my scars. Such a gentle move, and I’m unsure whether I like it. “But I’m not most men,” James says, turning his stare up to me, holding his mouth to my arm. I look away, avoiding him seeing whatever it is he’s looking for in my eyes. “What about opera?”
I frown and look at him with curiosity. His chin’s now resting between my boobs. “Opera?”
“Yes. Is opera allowed?”
“Along with fucking?”
“With fucking,” he confirms, deadly serious. “Or escaping. Or disappearing. Call it what you will.”
I’m bemused. Opera? When I first met this man, he was frosty, unreadable. Now? “Are you asking me on a date?” James doesn’t seem like the kind of man to date. Opera, yes, I can see it. But dating?
“Do you want to call it a date?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“But you want me to go to the opera with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Don’t tell me he’s short of women ready to let him lavish them with his expert fucking and a touch of opera on the side.
His head drops tiredly, and he sighs. “Why not?”
“Because it falls outside the scope of our relationship.” And I can’t be in crowded spaces.
James swallows, and it looks like a patience-gathering move. “Fine. No opera.” He pushes himself up, and we both hiss as he slips free of me. “Here.” He unravels the sheets and starts to wipe the inside of my thighs meticulously, and I study him as he does, my fascination growing. But fascination should be avoided. It could lead to questions I don’t want answers to.
He finishes up, adjusts his pants, and takes the sheet into a room off the kitchen. I retrieve my shirt from the floor by the elevator, and just as I’m fastening the buttons, the doors slide open. I freeze, a deer caught in the headlights, when Goldie appears. Her gaze travels from the tips of my toes, up my half-naked body to my wide eyes. She doesn’t bat an eyelid. I smile awkwardly, backing away, making sure the shirt covers as much of me as possible.
“Evening,” she says, looking past me. I turn to find James by the island, motionless, watching me wilting on the spot.
“Evening,” he says, his face straight, almost angry. “Give me a second.” He disappears up the stairs, leaving Goldie and me alone with a lingering, unbearable silence. Good grief, I can’t stand it. I reach for the tails of my shirt again and tug them down. She catches it, smiling out the corner of her mouth.
“Still being smart?” she asks, her smile turning wry.
I laugh under my breath as I back away. “What does your gut tell you?” I ask, motioning down my naked legs.
“I don’t listen to my gut. Only my head.”
“Okay. What does your head tell you?”
“It tells me to brace myself.”
I withdraw, surprised, my backward steps slowing to a stop. “Brace yourself?” What does she mean? “What for?”
“Here,” James says from behind me, interrupting. I swing around, finding he’s holding out a fancy briefcase to Goldie. The black leather is highly polished, the gold latches sparkling.
She takes it on a nod and goes back to the elevator. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she says dryly, giving James eyebrows so high they’re blending with her sharp hairline. I cast a look over to him. He’s not scowling at Goldie, but he’s not far from it.
“I will.” He heads to the kitchen, and Goldie dazzles me with a smile that’s as sarcastic as could be. Everything about the past few minutes is making me highly regret my silent vow to not ask questions.
“It’s time to feed you,” James says, opening the fridge and pulling out a dish. I look from him to the elevator doors a few times, my mind reeling. What exactly does Goldie do for James? She’s always just . . . here. And Otto? He’s no concierge, and he doesn’t work for a security firm. But security is definitely involved. My brain starts to burn.
“You know, I should probably go.” He wants to feed me, and what will we talk about, because I can think of nothing other than the millions of questions gathering at the front of my mind. Questions I should file away forever. But that’s the problem. My mom raised me to question everything. It’s innate. She taught me by osmosis how to put puzzles together, and it’s why I was a good cop. Something about this glass world that James hides within deserves a lot of questions, but I will resist. I’ll do anything to keep this . . . calm.