“You don’t want that?” I ask.
Her head tilts, her pretty face turned up. “I don’t want lies. Around me, you should be who you are.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s always a temptation to open up to her because she looks at me like she sees me. I like that feeling. But it’s risky. I can be brutal, and my mind’s a dark place. Most people back away when they get a glimpse of what lurks below the surface.
“I don’t like being around men who are mean or spiteful. Or emotionally abusive, like Frank,” she says, shaking her head. “But rough around the edges is different.” She glances at me and then away. “It’s probably dangerous to be attracted to that, but it can feel sexy.”
Everything about her makes my cock hard, especially this conversation.
A stillness descends. We’re heading into territory where I never thought we’d go.
Her eyes return to me and lock on my face.
I wonder,How much does she know?
* * *
Rachel
“When I punished you yesterday, you weren’t surprised by it. What do you know about me?” he asks.
“Girls hear things.”
“Especially you,” he says. “What have you heard about my kind of rough, Raven?” His long blunt fingers rub a strand of my hair between them.
He studies me, like it’s the first time he’s seeing me, like I’m an exotic endangered species that deserves a closer look.
“Enough to know I wouldn’t be bored.”
“No. I can promise you wouldn’t be bored,” he says, his gaze intent.
He stands and I follow suit.
“So?” I whisper.
“With you, it wouldn’t be the way it’s been with other women,” he says. “That’s casual. You and me together? Not casual.”
My hands drift forward until my palms are pressed against his rock-hard abs. “Tell me how it would be.”
He draws me closer with a hand on the back of my neck. “You don’t want it. What I feel, it’s an obsession. So imagine what you’ve heard I’m like, and then picture that getting more intense. No one smart would sign up for that.”
My heart is beating like a caged bird flapping its wings. Like the caged bird I sense he wants me to be. With anyone else, I’d be rushing toward the door, but I don’t so much as take a step back.
My fingers fumble with the waistband of his boxer-briefs, feeling the hard rod beneath his fly.
Giant paws circle my forearms and pull my hands back.
“Hey,” he says.
I look up at him through my lashes.
“The twisted fantasies I’ve got... should stay in my head,” he says, starting to set me away from him.
I wobble, then plant my feet and shake my head. “Not leaving,” I say. “I want to know you. I’ve always wanted to know you.”
He closes his eyes, like he’s fighting for control. I guess he is. And that just makes me want him more.
I’m the moth. He’s my flame.
