It’s time to snap the thread.
He ogles my naked flesh, his jaw tensing as he gauges the war I’m waging.
“I know who you are,” he finally speaks, his voice tinged with the warning dancing in his eyes.
“Do you?” I challenge. “I don’t think so.”
He takes a step toward me, and I refuse to flinch. The air thickens as he unapologetically traces the hard lines and curves of my body with hungry eyes. The draw becoming harder to ignore the closer he becomes.
“Cecelia Leann Horner, born June 19th, 1999, five feet nine inches tall, a hundred and forty-three pounds,” he takes a step toward me and then another as the water rolls in rivulets down my back. “Daughter of CEO Roman Horner, and Diane Johnston, never married.”
He’s visually devouring me as I feed on the gravity that threatens the closer he draws near.
“Is this supposed to impress—”
“A timid girl who grew up reading love stories and living vicariously through her best friend while her mother collected boyfriends and DUIs.”
I hold my swallow as he takes one last step to tower above me, citrus and leather filling my nose. He raises a hand and cups my chin, sliding his thumb over my bottom lip before dipping the pad of it in my mouth, running it along my teeth. I turn my head as he leans in on a whisper.
“The picture of neglect, you grew up estranged from your absent father and made it your mission to care for your mother all the while playing it safe. A good girl—that is until curiosity got the best of you and you skipped your junior prom because you were too busy giving away your virginity.”
I turn back to face him, utterly shocked.
“Maybe because you felt he had waited an acceptable amount of time, not because you were seized by the passion you so desperately crave.”
My eyes dart away as he bends to capture my gaze and holds it—holds me—hostage as my body responds to him, pulsating with a mix of anger and rapidly building desire as he caresses my face with a gentle hand while dissecting my life choices in a play by play. “You drifted through your teens playing the role of the responsible adult in your household, and purposefully failed a final placing you third in your graduating class from Torrington High School. Either to avoid the spotlight to spite Daddy and go unnoticed for your perfect attendance and scholastic accolades, or to keep your mother from feeling guilty she couldn’t pay an Ivy League tuition in case Daddy didn’t come through. After all, it was much safer to stay under the radar and use your mother’s mistakes as an excuse not to take any chances.”
“That’s enough,” I snap.
I can’t look away at all now as he analyzes my life, my decisions.
He moves in so I’m pressed to him.
“The silver lining? You used your mother’s psychotic break as a reason to liberate yourself from being the parent while still gifting yourself the ability to play the martyr. Which leads us here. Where you claim to be for your mother’s sake, but the truth is, being here gave you an escape. It gave you your first real taste of freedom.”
Raw, stripped beyond my nudity, he grips my face in his hands.
“And now you’re hiding again because taking chances and really living for the first time in your life didn’t turn out the way you hoped it would. But I see you, Cecelia. I. See. You. You keep trying to give yourself, your heart, your allegiance away to anyone who will have it for reasons you can’t understand, but it’s so painfully clear. Your mother is a selfish narcissist, your father dodged his responsibilities, you feel that my brothers used you and abandoned you, and you’re putting on a brave front all the while you’re fucking dying inside.”
He tilts my chin with his thick finger, as a lone tear runs along my cheek. I grant him the sight of it, the last of my weakness gathering before he gently swipes it away with his thumb. “You’re sad and lonely, locking yourself up in this house day and night and I shouldn’t give a shit, but I know I’m partly to blame. I ransacked your life and—”
The crack of my palm against his cheek is sickly satisfying. He roars, gripping my wrists and pinning me to the dresser.
Eyes locked, I glare up at him a second before he slams his mouth over mine. It’s noteworthy from his kiss that he’s high from my pain, and all I’ve done is reward him with my reaction, my angry tears. He loves my opposition, and the sadness he’s inflicting with these heavy truths—his angle to take me down, just as psychological as it is strategic.
I rip my mouth away, shaking my head, disgusted. “You’re getting off on this, you sick fuck.”
“Sadly, so are you,” he counters, possessing my mouth again in a way I can’t—don’t want to escape. And I kiss him back because my body never listens. After all, he’s right. My heart was begging for love in all the wrong places, lurching in any direction for a home. But it’s not my heart he wants. It’s my spirit he’s intent on destroying.
He lifts his free hand to cradle my face and I grip his wrists, trying to tear myself away to no avail. He’s stripped me bare, robbed me of more pride with his easy appraisal. I hate that he can see it so clearly, see me so clearly.
Or that he did.
Because I’m no longer the woman I was yesterday or even an hour ago.
His words come out in a whisper. “You are a fighter. I’ll give you that.” His lips inches away, he searches my eyes. “But you give too much for not enough. You trust too easily because you’ve been lonely your whole fucking life.”
“Says a lonely king to the lonely little girl.”
Our chests rise and fall collectively as we watch one another for long seconds.
For the first time in my life, I’m in the deep end and I no longer want to find my kick, all I want to do is drown…in my enemy. He’s the way. The only way.
And once I do this, there’s no going back.
It’s as if he senses my decision when he lifts a hand to wrap the hair at my nape around his fist and pulls, exposing my neck. His breath hits a second before his full, warm lips land on my shoulder lapping the droplets of water away. Greedy, he draws them into his mouth as I tamp down the whimper on my tongue.
Snap the thread, Cecelia.
Leisurely, he moves across my collarbone drinking in more, savoring the water along my torso and down my stomach as angry tears threaten and I bite back a sob.
Determined to see this through, I sink my nails into his scalp as his hot mouth blazes a trail across my flesh. He devours, covering every inch in his path before he parts my thighs with his palms and begins licking at my core.
Fisting his hair, I cry out at the force in which he sucks, his thick locks tickling my thighs before his tongue darts out separating me, spearing my clit with precision. And with one sure swipe of his tongue, I go boneless, my back crashing into my dresser as I throw my head back and begin to ride his face.
“Damn you,” I pound his shoulders with open palms as his licks increase speed before he slips a probing finger into me. He eats me, his hunger fueled by my cries as I silently sag against my dresser, the knobs digging into my back. Soul aching, my desire for him consumes me as I begin to tremble uncontrollably. An orgasm threatens, and I deny myself, hating him, hating me, hating that nothing has ever felt so fucking good.
“Tu te retiens.” You’re fighting.