“I’ve been a goddamned uncle to you since you were born.” His glare slices me to the bone, his shoulder muscles bunching with tension. “Now you’re a naive, eighteen-year-old girl who doesn’t know the first fucking thing about the world. And who’s getting herself into a shitload of trouble trying to find out.”
Pain breaks open inside me, shards embedding in my heart.
Darius swears under his breath. He tightens his grip on the wheel, accelerating well past the speed limit before exiting onto a twisting series of dirt roads.
Illuminated by a garage light, the old wooden beach house sits like a shelled sea creature at the edge of the dunes.
He pulls into the driveway and slams on the brakes.
“I don’t want to stay here,” I snap.
“Too fucking bad.” He shoves the car door open. “Would you rather I give your father a call?”
Son of a bitch.
I hurry after him through the rain and into the cottage, slamming the door behind me. Water drips from my clothes into a puddle on the floor.
Through my anger and cold, the first sight of the dusty beach house tosses me back ten years. It’s filled with the same old birchwood furniture, shelves stuffed with books, framed etchings of seashells and starfish. Ragged curtains line the windows, and a rocking chair sits by the door leading to the deck.
Darius throws his duffel on the sofa. He’s like an impenetrable stronghold, everything armored and barricaded.
I wrap my arms around my waist and try to stop my teeth from chattering. He stalks into the bedroom and returns with a big navy T-shirt and track pants.
“Put these on.” He thrusts the clothes at me.
I bristle at his sharp order, but grab the clothes and go into the bathroom. I’m shaking badly as I peel off my wet jeans and sweatshirt. The rain soaked me clear down to my underwear. I take everything off and pull the shirt over my head. It falls to my knees in a voluminous mass of soft cotton.
Darius’s T-shirt. Not even the scents of laundry detergent and him ease my pain and fear. There’s no way to make the track pants fit, but the shirt is plenty big enough to cover me. I rub a towel over my hair and warily leave the bathroom.
He’s in the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by a waist-high counter. He sets a cup down with such force that coffee sloshes over the rim. His hair is a sweaty mess, and dried blood tracks down his jaw from the gash on his forehead.
“Darius, your—”
“Drink this.” He jabs a finger at the cup.
“I don’t want it.”
“I don’t give a shit.” He flattens his hands on the counter and glares at me. His arms are roped with strong, corded muscles, his shoulders bunched. “This is what’s going to happen. You stay here. You don’t leave. You lock the doors and don’t even step outside. I’m going back to—”
“You’re going back? No fucking way.”
His mouth tightens. “You are not calling the shots.”
“Obviously I should be, if you think I’ll let you go back into that hellhole. And stop treating me like a child.”
“You are a child!”
“I am not, and you know it.” A flame bursts to life deep inside me—a combination of rage and frustration that has nowhere to go. “Is that why you’re fighting? Because you can’t stand whatever is happening between us?”
His expression hardens to stone. “Nothing is happening between us.”
The force of his statement knifes into me.
No. Of all the people in the world, Darius Hawke will not be the one to link me with the word nothing.
“Bullshit.” I fist my hands, my fingernails digging into my palms. “I saw those pictures you took of me. I see the way you look at me. I’d never show anyone else my scars, and you wouldn’t either, not like that. You’re not trying to escape nothing. You’ve been avoiding me because you know we’re the same and because you want me.”
The words come out like arrows, sharp and directed. Only in this instant do I realize the truth. I’m desirable. Coveted. What I have, who I am, this man wants.
He’s staring at me, his chest heaving.
“Fuck.” The curse snaps out of him, so explosive that my heart lurches with sudden apprehension.
He stalks across the room, reaching me before I can back away. He grabs my wrist, hauling me closer. His eyes blaze with fresh rage.
“Listen, little girl.” His voice is low and rough, his jaw clenched. “You’re not the kind who knows what she’s doing…just the opposite, in fact…but I’m not playing games with you. You think you shouldn’t be afraid of me? You’re wrong. I’m way too fucking dangerous for you. You push me too far, and I’m not going to kiss you under the bleachers or feel you up behind the school cafeteria. You want to know what I’ll do to you?”
I stare at him, immobilized by his grip, the burn in his eyes. My legs start to shake. He crowds up into my space, heat and something else—something raw and powerful that has nothing to do with a physical fight—radiating from every inch of his body.
“I will push you to your knees and shove my dick in your mouth.” He lowers his head to look me in the eye, his teeth bared in warning. “I will grab your hair and make you suck me until I shoot down your throat. Then I’ll force you onto your hands and knees and order you to spread your cunt nice and wide for me. Will I fucking care if you’re ready, if you want it? No. I’ll thrust my cock into you so fast and hard you won’t know whether to scream in pleasure or pain. Then I’ll fuck you like a goddamned animal, pumping so deep you’ll feel my dick all the way up to your eyeballs. I’ll spank your ass until it’s red and bouncing against my stomach every time I thrust. And when you beg and cry…I’ll pound into you even harder, for as long as I want, until I finally pull out of you, leaving you sore and dripping. Then I’ll force you to turn back around so I can jerk off on your pretty little tits before I make you lick my cock clean.”
Holy shit.
I can’t breathe. A fire burns in my blood. I’m suddenly soaking wet between my legs. Throbbing.
He stares at me, his breath hot on my face, his anger a vibrating force field surrounding him. Then he shoves me away so hard I stumble backward and bang my leg on the coffee table. Tears spring to my eyes, less from pain than the shock of what’s happening right now. What I unwittingly started.
Blindly, I turn and stumble to the bedroom, everything inside me a snarled mess of arousal and confusion. I fall onto the bed and bury my face in the pillow to muffle my sobs.
God in heaven, what kind of person am I to get turned on by such raw, cruel words? And why is the picture so vivid in my mind—me on my hands and knees, totally naked with my legs spread, and him behind me, his big hands gripping my ass, sweat dampening his chest as he pushes into me over and over while I scream and beg…
He’s right. I’m wrong. Everything about me—my desires, my lack of experience, my stupid dreams, even my DNA—is distorted and twisted. I’m a freak, a carnival sideshow attraction.
“Nell.”
The bed shifts with his weight. I press my face deeper into the pillow, unable to stop the ragged sobs choking my throat. My body heaves and shakes.