I clear my throat before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
I am about to turn when he grips my hand and strokes up and down my palm. His touch fires cannons of butterflies, assaulting my insides.
“How bad do you intend to make me suffer?” he groans, yet keeps caressing me. This man is such a conundrum.
“Where would the fun be in behaving?” I sass.
“My death amuses you, baby girl? That is where we’re heading if you don’t stop,” he says low, sounding final.
The butterflies drop from my chest, crashing at the bottom of my stomach. I remain rooted in the middle of the foyer until he shoulders my side, lacking any force. “I thought you wanted to make sure I don’t die from split knuckles.” He even rolls his eyes, trying for levity.
I’ve learned to smile with a broken heart since I knew that the age difference would make it impossible for Mika to wait for me, to see me as anything more than his best friend’s little sister. If it weren’t for my kidnapping, forcing him into taking me, he would have never spared me a second glance as a woman. I will never be his woman, but I will always be his friend.
I nod, conveying as much strength as I can.
The house is silent as we take the curved staircase. I bypass his room and open mine.
I changed the furniture after he stopped coming. He was there in the beginning, sleeping by my side while my brother sat in the armchair. Night after night. He was the only one I truly needed. Trauma binds people. I thought maybe together we’d overcome it.
But once he withdrew, I realized I had been naïve.
He takes my bedroom in, his eyes touching everything in reverence. It’s less princessy and more neutral and minimalist—white furniture and soft gray walls—whereas in the past it was all pink and girly.
A piano rests by the window. On the other side of the room, my desk with the laptop sits, delineating the pianist from the watcher.
He drops into the plush armchair, and I go to the en suite bathroom, grabbing everything I need from the cabinet. Placing the disinfectant pads and soothing cream by his thigh, I step between his legs.
Holding his gaze, I lower to my knees, and his reaction is instant. His pupils dilate, the black enveloping the silver. The darkness thrills me, a current zapping through me. Lightheaded, I clench my thighs, wanting to prolong the exquisite sensation.
His throat rumbles with a groan. “Don’t get on your knees for me.”
“I love getting on my knees for you,” I breathe out.
“Careful, baby girl, playing these kinds of games is dangerous.”
I wet my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, making me thirsty. “Should I play them with someone else?”
In one instant, he bends over, gripping my chin.
I love it when he loses his composure, feeding me crumbs I greedily swallow not to die of starvation.
“Get on your knees for another man and his head will roll at your feet,” his voice low, leaving no room for doubt.
A tremor rocks my body. He would. There must be something wrong with me if I love his unhinged ass so utterly and irrevocably.
Eyes locked, the tension stretching between us threatening to catch fire. His gaze flickers with gasoline, my breath quickens with oxygen, and all we keep repressed lights the match. Together, we’re combustible, and the passion will burn us up—completely.
I gulp, returning to my task. It’s not an easy endeavor as I gently pad his bloody knuckles while his eyes are fixed on me, jeopardizing my focus.
Leaning back, he relaxes, and I caress along his thigh, needing to touch him.
I almost pour the disinfectant on the floor, but catch the bottle at the last moment when I notice the bulge stretching his pants. He’s massive. Even knowing I took him, it still feels unrealistic that I could.
“Stop,” he groans as if in pain.
“Your cobra is in my face, trying to get free,” I mumble, finishing cleaning his split knuckles. He hasn’t hissed once, so unfazed by pain, it breaks my heart.
He shakes his head at me good-naturedly, chuckling. “Cobra, huh? Ignore it.”
