In the tawny light I came to witness his naked chest.
Oh freckles, he looked good.
Shoulders broad and so wide he could have carried wings on his back. The perfect figure of his torso held chiselled definition of abdominal muscles, andhis waist tapered down flat and smooth to his pelvic bones. An array of tattoos sprinkled over his chest along with a tapestry of scars, some ivory, some pink. Some from years ago, some still healing.
There was only one blank spot on his skin.
His heart.
The skin covering over his beating organ was plain and untouched as if waiting patiently for an insignia that would show his connection to a Soulmate. It was as if he had left that space bare, as if he were anticipating his Soulmate would find him and they would become one.
I looked up at the majesty of this seraphic creature, this man of wickedness, this being who had stolen endless lives. His black hair tousled down his cheeks, his pink lips pulled into a sly grin, he cocked his head with wolfish delight.
“So, Princess.” He pulled on the waistband on his pants. The bulge of his cock kicked under the material, eager to be released. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
He looked how he had seven years ago.
That night when he had climbed into my bedroom; those same sunglasses and that same grin. It was a moment I had replayed over and over in my head.
At first there had been a spike of fear. Rolling over the thoughts of this man taking me hostage with his blade, drowning in the sound of his deep voice and thundering laugh. But the more those thoughts impeded all others, the more I realised… I was daydreaming about him. I played that night like a broken record through my mind with a sly, stupid smile, running my fingers over my skin, touching in all the places that brought me into a sigh. I lingered on his scent of blood and leather, wrapped my bedsheets over my body, trying to soak his presence into me. For weeks I lived in those same unwashed sheets, looking at his picture wearing his red heart-shaped sunglasses with my hand down my legs. It did not matter how many times I forced myself to come, it did not solve this fixation. My nerves were humming. Constantly humming with need.
Some part of me grieved that night.
What would it have been like, if I had not stopped him?
Would his hands have explored every crevice of my body like they had done so dutifully before? Would he have whispered haunting words into my ear, forcing me to tremble? Would his tongue have lapped up my wetness? And how would he take me?
There.
There at 2am in my bedroom. After crawling through my lace curtains, getting blood all over my antique rug. I had worn my silk pyjamas, his bloody knife would have slashed them into threads, he would have pulled down his belt, slammed his cock inside of me and fucked me there upon my pink flower-speckled sheets, holding his hand over my mouth so that my screams of terror and bliss and desire and release could not be heard by my brother or personal guards.
After that… I realised I needed something.
I needed therapy.
“I need you.” I reached out my hand to him.
Screw therapy.
29
“Take it off,” Dig said. An order, a command.
Standing over me, on the edge of the bed, his shadow blanketed against the wall behind him as if he wore a pair of dark wings. He leaned his head, losing his smug smirk, offering me only a glower until I responded.
I did as I was told and took off his t-shirt. Once it was over my head, he snatched it from me and threw it over his shoulder as if the piece of material offended him. A small smile replaced his glower.
I smiled in return, happy he was pleased.
He reached down and stroked my cheek, a caressing reward for doing what he had asked.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
“Yes, that is true.” My cheeks went hotter than the heat between my legs.
He laughed a dark laugh, and while holding my chin and brushing his thumb over my lips he used his other hand to pull down the waistband of his sweatpants. Moving my chin down, he forced me to look.
His cock, thick and long and gleaming. He was hard, solid as rock, the tip already wet. Was he as aroused as I?
