His eyes are darker now. Ferocious. Ravenous.
Then, before I can breathe, before I can think, his mouth crashes to mine, hard and deep, like he’s staking a claim he never intends to relinquish, swallowing every last shred of reason I had left.
And in this moment, I forget.
I forget that this is wrong. I forget why I ever tried to resist him. I forget everything except the feeling of his hands on me,his breath in my mouth, the way my body folds into his like it’s been waiting for this forever.
His grip tightens at my hips and he walks me backward down the hallway, never breaking the kiss. Then a door opens, his hand on the handle, mine tangled in his hair, and we stumble inside. The lock clicks behind us, and his mouth still stays on mine.
My fingers are buried in his scalp, pulling him closer, while his work the zipper of my dress. The sound is soft, a whisper under the uneven drag of our breathing. His hands slide down my spine, trailing over the skin I don’t like other men to touch.
The skin I’m terrified he’ll see.
I try to shove the thoughts down, to focus on the pleasure, on the dizzying rush of it all, but the moment he drags the fabric lower, they creep in and my muscles tense.
He must feel it because he pauses, eyes cutting sharply to mine, gaze suddenly too focused.
“What is wrong?” That flicker of concern returns again, all too real, digging deep into my marrow
Do I lie? Pretend I’m fine? Maybe it’s better if he sees for himself and changes his mind.
Maybe I want him to. Ishouldwant him to. This is bad.
Right?
I swallow hard.
No. Screw it. If this causes him to stop stalking me, touching me, that’s actually a good thing. I’m not supposed to be enjoying this. Ishouldwant him to stop.
“It’s just…I-I have vitiligo. My skin…”
He freezes. Takes one step back, gaze narrowing.
And there it is. I knew it.
“Are you sick?” he demands, suddenly right in front of me again, both hands framing my face like he’s afraid I might disappear.
His eyes rake over mine, frantic and unblinking, searching for something.
Oh God. Does he think I have a terminal illness? I almost laugh at the sincerity in his tone.
A murderer with a heart. How cliché.
And maybe…kind of sweet? In a twisted, deranged, completely unhinged kind of way.
“No.” I laugh. “Regrettably, I’m in one piece. I just… I have this skin condition. It’s called vitiligo. I have pale patches on one of my hips that wrap around my back. It’s not contagious or anything. But I figured…you should know.”
There’s a beat of silence. A pause so heavy it makes my stomach clench.
Then his jaw tightens like I’ve said something offensive. Like he might kill someone just for making me feel like I had to explain that. And it takes me aback.
Why would he even care?
“You thought, what? You would tell me and I’d stop?” His laugh turns low. Lethal. “That I’d want you less?”
In a flash, he yanks the dress down past my breasts, and I gasp, my lungs locking as his gaze floods me. Not just on the exposed skin. On the very depth of me.
And I couldn’t do a thing to stop it even if I wanted to.
