It’s not the prelude to an attack, but I can’t dismiss it either.
I lower my gaze a little so he cannot see the worry that is sure to be there. Some people get off on the terror of others, so it’s best not to tempt him. Whatever is holding him back from advancing is a barrier I don’t want to disable.
“How quickly you defer to me,” he says with a hint of surprise in his tone. “Are you a submissive?”
The words burn with shame when they form on my tongue and sweep past my lips. “I’m submissive.”
At the feel of his fingers taking hold of my chin, I suck in a breath. I didn’t hear him move, and it only confirms how deadly this man is. He roughly jerks my head up and brings my gaze to his. This time, I don’t look away, in fear of what’ll happen if I do.
He narrows his eyes, but they do not gleam. Not yet. “There’s a big difference between being submissive and beingasubmissive.” He turns my head to one side and then the other, and I don’t fight him while he examines me.
I have no idea what he’s searching for, but whatever it is, I hope he doesn’t find it.
I’ve never thought of myself as a beautiful woman. If anyone were to ask for my evaluation, it would be that I’m pretty—nothing more, nothing less. However, attraction isn’t necessary for someone to want to hurt you.
Another lesson courtesy of my father.
My heart rate, already chaotic with this man’s proximity, races even faster. Anger is a feeling I buried deep long ago because it would only serve to put me in jeopardy. But I dredge it up, digging for and uncovering the strong emotion like a skeleton—something once dead and hidden away. It finally overrides the anxiety churning within me and spreads, heating my cheeks and causing my breaths to speed up, giving me life. I use it while it’s still within my grasp.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice soft but firm. “And who are you?”
As if I don’t already know this man’s identity. However, it’s his intent that’s missing. He lived in my subconscious for years until I finally laid the fantasy of him to rest, along with my desire for love. Yet here he is in the flesh, far from the hero I painted him to be. If the stories my father told me are anything to go by.
At the man’s glare, I inwardly deflate but continue to meet his gaze. He releases my chin to slide his hand through the curls resting on the nape of my neck, weaving his fingers through them until he palms the back of my head. Once his grip is secure, he wrenches me forward, and I get fully on my knees to avoid falling. Although, I’m not sure I would in his strong hold. It brands like heated iron, searing me everywhere he touches.
Now he is closer than ever, and the scent of his cologne brushes my nose. I hate to admit it’s like him: alluring and seductive. His breaths, unlike mine, are controlled and even, the warmth of them skimming my lips. I press them together to avoid the sensation again. It’s more of a violation to my person than the hand gripping me. And the reason? There was a slight reaction, a tingling that has me wanting to experience it again.
Am I so starved for human contact that a mere exhale from his lips to mine has me yearning? Am I so lonely that his very touch makes me want to sigh with something that borders on pleasure?
“A moment of bravery?” He cocks his head. “If you don’t recognize me as a threat, you are truly insane.”
My insides clench at his mentioning my mental state. However, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before, and I’d be naive to think he never learned about that night at the gala, where I created a scene. It was memorable, to say the least.
Nerves combining with the need to remove the feel of his breath from my lips have me darting my tongue across them. His gaze zeroes in on the action and flashes. My entire body tenses in preparation for his attack. This signal has been lit, and it’s blazing in his dark eyes, making them like newly polished onyx.
He doesn’t give me time to respond. Instead, he uses the hand palming my head to delve further into my hair and fist it. The other he snakes around my waist, yanking me to him. I throw out my arms in a weak attempt to stop him, but my strength doesn’t compare to his. Then I slam into his torso, and though it’s hard like marble, it’s warm. My breasts, belly, and palms are flush to his chest, and the contact, so close and intimate, has my senses overloaded.
I can’t remember the last time I felt the touch of another person. I’ve been a prisoner in these four walls for so long that time has slipped from me, my mind’s way of protecting me from really acknowledging how much of a solitary existence I lead. Not by choice, but that can’t be helped.
So having this man’s hands on me and his body pressed to mine? I’m in complete and total shock. I don’t know what will make it worse: to close my eyes or not? If I do, will I absorb the sensation of touch more fully? Or will it prevent me from diving into a sea of panic? Already my breathing is erratic, making it difficult for me to inhale properly, and I swear my heart is about to burst from my chest.
With my eyes wider than the moon just outside and my lips parted, begging and searching for oxygen, I stare up at him when he speaks. His voice, like the rest of him, holds me prisoner.
“Tell me, little one, what will you do with that information, if I were to indulge you?” He cocks his head ever so slightly. “What could a madwoman do with knowing my name?”
“I’m not insane,” I say. When he raises a sardonic brow, I all but force the words from my throat, finding it hard to concentrate long enough to gather my thoughts into a coherent sentence. Fortunately, my mind stores data, so all I do is let it roll off my tongue in a recital. “Fact: Less than 5 percent of the human population is diagnosed as insane, and given how you are acting, I’m inclined to think you fall into that minority.”
He snaps my head back, using the hand that’s fisted in my hair. The strands pull at my scalp, and I wince because of the pain, but I don’t cry out. If he is truly crazed, then my suffering will entice him.
“You are either stupid,” he says, his voice dangerously low, “or intelligent but obviously not enough to keep your mouth fucking shut.”
I add his presumed threat to the rest of my problems. It’s not because I don’t care I’m in danger; it’s more that I’m bewildered and cannot function appropriately. My body is waging war with my mind, and the effort to keep from leaning into him has me shaking. He may think the tremors are from fear, and he’d be right, though it’s fear of my pull to him, not at the thought of him hurting me. Well, some of my trepidation comes from that, but it’s being overrun. My mind is screaming at me to stay silent and not provoke him further, adding more stress to my already fractured logic. I know I shouldn’t enjoy any of this, and a part of me doesn’t, but it is overshadowed by the rest of me, which wants to experience more.
More conversation.
More contact.
More connection.
