He didn't ask for my permission; it was clear he didn't need it.
Darius carried me in his arms to his bedroom, and the second I realized what was happening, I tried to squirm away from him. But that realization came too late. He had already tossed me onto the black silk sheets of the bed.
I immediately rolled, getting on my hands and knees in an attempt to scramble to the other side of the bed. Desperate to put some space between us.
His hand wrapped around my ankle and pulled me back.
No matter how hard I tried to grip the bed and pull myself away, my fingers only slipped on the silky sheets.
He grabbed my other ankle and with one swift movement, he flipped me over. I was briefly airborne before landing on my back, the air punching out of my lungs.
"Don't move," he ordered, his eyes pinning me in place.
He turned his back to me for a moment and strode to the closet, so confident that I was going to obey him.
My heart thundered in my chest, and my mind screamed at me to get on my feet and run. But my body refused to move.
Especially when he stripped off his crisp black button-down shirt, revealing long, toned muscles accentuated by the fine lines of his tattoos.
I knew he had ink, I'd seen it peeking from beneath his shirt, but I could never have anticipated the work of art that he was.
His tattoos were curated. I knew each of them had a meaning, some carefully planned story or symbolism that was important only to him.
The artistry was part of him. It melted into his skin, highlighting his strength with the markings of a predator. The stars on his shoulders stressed their breadth, and I had a feeling those were not given, but earned, through acts I didn't dare consider. On his spine was a dagger with a serpent that coiled around it in a figure eight before eating its own tail.
I wasn't unfamiliar with the Ouroboros imagery, but I had never seen one so beautiful and threatening.
The snake seemed to shift, coming to life with his movements as he hung his shirt. The thin gold necklace around his neck glinted where it caught the light, and my breath caught in my throat.
I didn't understand why I was still on the bed. I should have run. I should have been out of the hotel room halfway to the elevator. But I couldn't move.
He turned back toward me, his chest and abs just as honed with lean, hard muscle and carefully chosen, carefully placed tattoos. A black-and-gray chess piece with a long shadow on his ribs, the Roman numerals “XXIII” placed just below his left pec.
The question was on the tip of my tongue.
I wanted to know why twenty-three was important, but when my eyes met his, the question fell away. He was staring at me, watching me watch him, with an intensity that told me I wasn't leaving this room until he allowed it.
"Come here," he demanded.
As if he had a direct link to my body that bypassed my mind, my free will, I scrambled off the bed to stand in front of him.
He motioned for me to turn, and I did.
There was a large floor-length mirror on the other side of the room. I watched him sweep my hair to one side and slide his hands from my shoulders down my back, the soft whisper of the zipper on the dress being pulled down following his motion.
Then he pushed the dress off my shoulders and it fluttered to the floor, leaving me staring at myself in the mirror, standing in nothing but a simple cream-colored bra and pale-pink panties.
His eyes met mine in the mirror, and it felt too real.
It was too much. I looked down at the floor and moved to cover myself.
He didn't let me. Instead, he grabbed my arms and spun me back around to face him, and the knot in my stomach loosened a little.
Staring into his eyes in the mirror had been overwhelming. Too intimate, as if he could see into my mind, or maybe it was that I saw too much in my reflection.
"Tell me,maya soloveyka, have you ever been touched by a man before?"
My cheeks burned; I shifted my gaze back down to stare at the floor again. Somehow, I knew he wasn't only asking that question because he knew the answer was no.
