I grasp her waist and plant her back to the tile. As she locks her arms around my neck, her breasts press enticingly against my chest. I graze my fingers down the flare of her hips and shove my throbbing cock to her pelvis, groaning over her mouth at the feel of her heat and the abrasive rub. She’s all bare pussy, but the hint of growth against my dick feels so damn good, driving me crazy with need.
Bending at the knees, I lower myself and slip my cock between her thighs, grinding my shaft along her smooth, wet lips.
Her breathy moan slips free to torture me, her hips undulating seductively to lure me right over the fucking edge of sanity.
I hook an arm beneath her knee and drag her thighs apart, notching myself at her entrance. She writhes her hips, the sexy motion begging me to sink inside her.
I grip the back of her neck and angle her face up toward mine. “Just tell me one thing,” I say, a plea whispered over her mouth.
She blinks up at me, beads of water seductively slipping down her face. At her bated silence, I expend a restless breath. “Are we making love?”
A forceful swallow drags along her throat. “Alex—”
“Tell me you love me.”
Her gaze flits over my features before she casts it down at the shower floor.
“Christ, Blakely. Tell me you want us—”
“I don’t want to do this alone,” she admits.
A searing ember of regret constricts my throat. I did this to her; I made her alone, suffering an ailment no one on the planet has ever suffered. Until she adapts, I’ll take her abuse readily. Some sick part of me even craves it.
Which is the only reason I can justify what I say next. “You think I wanted to want you? That I wanted to fall in love with you? I loathed myself for my weakness. Some desperate part of me even wanted the treatment to kill you, so you’d no longer be a temptation.”
I expect her to look as stricken as I feel from the glutted confession. Yet, when she lifts her gaze to mine, her features are soft, a river of pity tucked behind a portrait of empathy. “At least you’re finally being honest,” she says. “That’s the sanest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
I expel a harsh curse, my lungs on fire. Grasping her face, I angle her mouth toward mine, the frantic need to make her feel my torture a monster rattling the cage. “When this is done,” I say, baring the absolute honesty she craves, “I want you to cut my fucking heart out with that razor blade.”
At least then she’ll have her revenge, and I can die peacefully, captivated by her.
Because for me, it’s only her. There can never be anyone else.
Only her.
The slight quiver of her lips reveals her hesitation, but before I can fully comprehend what she’s feeling, she crushes her mouth to mine. The kiss is an assault. Raw and aching from hours of abuse, she punishes my lips.
I hoist her up against the tile wall as she wraps her legs around my hips, fusing our bodies into one before either of us can stop.
I’m inside her, filling her to the fucking hilt, trying to fuck away the pain and regret threatening to tear me apart.
I know what has to be done—and god, she’ll despise me even more, but I saw the doubt welling in her green eyes. I know what’s running through her head.
I’ll don my villain hat to keep her safe.
The darkness presses against us, sheltering us from the past and the future, a moment in time carved out just for us. We become a tangle of limbs and desperate touches, vying for an intimacy past the barrier of our flesh.
Frustrated, I growl against her mouth as I rail into her, not able to get close enough. “I want more,” I say. The double meaning of my words pulls at the last frayed thread to unravel my patience.
But for once, I want her in my bed. I haul her drenched body to the bedroom. Her legs stay locked around my hips as I drop us to the mattress, our skin slick and heated, her body inviting me in as I capture her mouth in a brutal kiss.
I compete against gravity as I thrust into her. I fall so completely into her that the world bleeds away, leaving us encased in the fiery throes of our pain and darkness.
12
The Hatter
Blakely
The morning sun is a laser beam that wants to fry what’s left of my brain cells. Two hours of sleep isn’t enough to function on, especially when every other hour was spent abusing my body, in more ways than I care to recount in the light of day.
Some part of me felt guilty as I walked out of Alex’s apartment. I’ve never believed in lying to myself; didn’t know it was possible, actually. I always pitied people who did. The disturbing truth is, I felt comfort in his arms, in his bed. I felt safe sheltered in his embrace beneath the spray of the shower, protected. It’s irrational and twisted, like a victim imprinting on her abuser.
It’s true that daylight clarifies what the night obscures.
Hidden by darkness, every desire and lascivious, forbidden act is heightened, and it’s easier to shut our eyes and let our resistance cave, to reach for what will sate the burning hunger.
An ache sears beneath my rib cage, but I push on. The blare of horns and the screech of brakes greets the early morning as I cross the bustling intersection. I’m unsure if the pain is physical or psychological, or an anguished combination of both.
I expected the guilt of giving in to my weakness for Alex to be the deciding factor—but strangely, as I watched him sleep, sun-illuminated dust particles dancing around his still form, all I felt was hollow.
That void lingered inside me like an annoyingly obsessive quirk. Like when you second-guess if you shut the gas off on the range, or when a song lyric gets stuck on a loop in your head but you can’t remember the title.
This ill feeling in the pit of my stomach might be regret…but as I have little experience with regret, it’s a tune I can ignore.
Because when the sun shown in Alex’s room to wake me, I was already decided.
Damn the consequences, and damn the fallout for Alex.
It’s time to end this.
Last night, when he began plotting the deaths of three people, and the excited flutter of adrenaline sparked my bloodstream, I knew his claim about me was true; there was already a darkness inside me before he damaged my brain.
I’ve known this since my second-grade teacher tried to teach me about cruelty, when she glimpsed the festering sickness of my nature.
I heard it whispered to me on a street corner when some random, nameless stranger tried to snatch my purse. I felt it curl around my insides and tickle a craving, tempting me to act on the deranged threats I slung at him.
That guy saw it in my eyes. That’s why he ran away.
Alex saw it in my DNA. That’s why he chose me.
And when Alex confessed as much last night, whatever frail but hopeful thread I’d clung to of returning to my former self unraveled, plunging me below the deepest level of vulnerability.
Even if Alex could accomplish the impossible and return me to who I was, I was broken before.
Only an insight afforded by my new emotional awareness could reveal this raw truth.
So I clung to him in the darkness of the shower instead, trying to fill a void that’s always been inside me. And for the faintest moment, I think I did, or maybe this is the first lie I’ve told myself.