“I need you,” I growl against her throat. “Need to feel you so fucking badly.”
“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay, yes?—”
I interrupt her by thrusting inside her, no warm-up, no teasing—just burying myself to the hilt in one hard stroke. She cries out, her back arching, her nails digging hard into my shoulders.
“Jesus! God, Nate?—”
It’s an exquisite string of words, but I don’t let her finish. I’m already moving, fucking her hard and fast, that dark energy from the dream pouring through me like an inky current. I grab her wrists, pin them above her head, and feel her pulse hammering against my palms. Her eyes are wide, her breath coming in sharp gasps, and some distant part of me registers that this is too much, too rough, but I can’t stop.
Don’t want to stop.
“Who do you belong to?” The words come out guttural, barely human. “Say it. Tell me who you belong to!”
“You—oh God—I’m yours?—”
“Louder.”
But her words are choked as my hand closes around her throat, not squeezing—not yet—just resting there, feeling her swallow, feeling the vibration of her moans. The power of it is intoxicating. I could crush her windpipe without effort, could watch the light fade from her eyes while I’m still inside her.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Her pulse races against my palm. Her eyes are locked on mine, and I see something shift in them, concern now bleeding into fear.
She’s afraid.
She fears me.
My hand tightens. Just a little.
“Nate—” Her voice is strained now against my palm. “Nate, wait?—”
I don’t wait. I thrust harder, my grip on her throat increasing, that darkness howling through me like a storm. She’s struggling now, trying to push at my chest, but I’m too strong. I’m always too strong, and some part of me is screaming to stop, but I can’t find the brakes?—
Her mouth opens. She’s trying to say something, lips forming around a word, but nothing comes out except a choked rasp. Her face is going red, eyes too large, and still, I can’t make myself stop. Can’t find the off switch. Can’t?—
She stops struggling.
For one, horrifying instant, I think I’ve killed her.
Then, her hand shoots up and two fingers drive hard into the soft hollow at the base of my throat.
Right into my windpipe.
I gag. My grip releases instinctively as I rear back, gasping, and in that same instant, she brings her palm up under my chin, snapping my head back. The blow would break a normal man’s neck. For me, it’s just enough to create space.
She scrambles out from under me, coughing, gulping air, and I’m about to lunge after her, hunt her down when?—
“Milkshake.” The word tears out of her ravaged throat—hoarse, desperate, but loud enough to fill the room. “Milkshake, milkshake,milkshake?—”
I freeze, every muscle locking. The darkness?—
It recedes. Slowly, like a tide going out, leaving behind only horror.
She’s pressed against the headboard now, one hand at her throat, the other raised in front of her like she’s ready to fight again. Ready to defend herself.
From me.
Some distant part of my brain registers what just happened. That wasn’t a panicked move. That was training. She was precise with her hit. She knew the right pressure points to disable an attacker who outweighs you by at least a hundred pounds. Where and when did Mia learn to do this?
