I suck in a ragged, desperate breath, and my entire body convulses at the burn of oxygen flooding my deprived lungs.
Before I can find the air to release a cry for help, icy metal kisses my throat, and my chest seizes again; I don’t dare todraw breath when the knife could pierce my skin at the smallest movement.
Spiky fear dances through my veins in sharp, sparkling snowflakes. The chill is thrilling even as it shreds me. A bizarre urge to release the unspent adrenaline on a maddened laugh bubbles up in my tight chest, but the knife at my throat renders me silent.
The gloved hand slides down the length of my arms, and my nerve endings jump at the perverse caress.
His leather-clad fingers slide over my hair before skating down my nape. I shiver at the gentle contact. It’s so at odds with the violence of the scene that my mind spins into a surreal state. My eyes slide closed, trying hide from what’s happening to me.
I hear him inhale deeply, as though he’s savoring the scent of my abject terror. His chest rumbles at my back when he releases a low hum of primal, masculine satisfaction. The sound of his pleasure vibrates through me, making my heart stutter and my belly quake.
The gloved hand traces my side, exploring the dip at my waist and the soft curve of my hip. It splays possessively over my stomach, and he applies pressure to tuck me more tightly against his hard body.
Time blurs. As he touches me, exploring at his leisure, a strange heat blossoms beneath the surface of my skin. It makes my cheeks burn and my breath come in shallow pants.
“You’re wet.” The observation is as rough as his curse. With disapproval? Or desire?
Something slick coats his glove when he traces the shape of my lips: my own traitorous arousal.
“Look at me.”
I keep my eyes resolutely shut, hiding from the darkest part of my soul.
His fist tangles in my hair, wrenching my head back. Little sparks of pain light up my scalp, and my eyes fly open on a gasp.
“Look at me.”
Forest green eyes glow like some sort of demonic creature, bright points of light glowering from the darkened sockets of the skull. It stands out in macabre contrast to the black ski mask, fixing me with a perpetual, cruel grin.
“You’re so beautiful, Abigail.”
My name lilts on the last. That voice. That accent.
Those eyes…
I jolt awake in my bed, sitting bolt upright. My eyes dart around my darkened apartment, searching the shadows for signs of my attacker.
I hug my arms tightly to my chest and focus on my five senses.
My skin is clammy beneath my hot fingertips. I hear my own sawing breaths echoing in my ears. I taste copper on my tongue and realize that I bit the inside of my cheek during my nightmare. The peeling, pale blue wallpaper in my bedroom reminds me of the peeling paint on my front door. And the scent that surrounds me is musky with my unmistakable arousal.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. It feels filthy, and my fingers itch with the need to scrape the grime away.
I heave in ragged breaths and struggle to purge the nightmare.
The masked man never said my name during the attack. His voice had been low and gravelly, not smooth and cultured with an English accent. His eyes had been black pools in my shadowy apartment; there had been no green glow.
My emotions are a snarled mess. In the stillness of sleep, my subconscious melded my ordeal with the man I’ve fantasized about: Dane.
Because the awful truth is that both turn me on.
My fingernails bite into my upper arms, but I manage to resist the urge to scrape away the toxic sludge that seems to roll beneath the surface of my skin in nauseating waves.
I flex my fingers and force my vise grip to release so that I can reach for the ancient laptop I keep tucked beneath my nightstand. I prop my back against my pillows, and comfort blankets me when the familiar weight of the laptop settles onto my thighs.
My fingers shake as I open it and enter my password. The website where I’ve catalogued my secret shame under an anonymous pen name is bookmarked, so I access it with a single click. Instead of typing out a new erotic story that blurs the lines of consent, I navigate to the messenger service.
My heart sinks when I notice the gray check mark beside my pen pal’s screenname. GentAnon is offline.
