But the softness? The feelings?Love?
That’s where I struggle. It feels so alien to touch him like this, to see him gaze at me with care and warmth.
It used to feel so cold when he’d turn his eyes my way. Now, I finally understand why he’s like the sun, because now, I’m only cold when he looks away.
A part of me still resents that, though, which is why I can’t find the voice to say how I feel. He’s said nothing about it since after the cottage, but I have a feeling it’s only bothering him because he knows I love him yet refuse to say it.
But how can I tell him I love him when a little part of me still hates him? Or maybe I just hate what he’s done to me—and that I don’t hate him despite it.
“Severen is going to be here the whole time,” I say quietly. “Our schedules work out pretty well, since most of his midterms are online.”
“It’s not enough,” he argues. “I trust Severen with my life, and I trust him with yours, but he’s only one man, and we don’t know how many people Lionel has helping him. We still don’t know who threw the box at the window, and it’s really fucking hard to keep you safe when we don’t know who we should keep you safefrom. Maybe you should ask Barry to get another agent to watch over you or something. Someone who’s trained and can see?—”
“I’ll ask him,” I say quickly. “I get it. Lionel is clearly escalating, and I’ve been thinking about it. He’s said before that he has friends outside of prison, and even though I don’t remember him ever bringing any of them around when I was a kid, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. But I’m also wondering if it’s someone he connected with in prison. Maybe someone who got out and benefited from Lionel’s nonprofit or something? I could see why they might feel like they owe it to Lionel. Or who knows, Lionel could’ve found an abundance of ways to gain favors from prisoners over the past decade. If the man is anything, he’s resourceful. So you’re right—we have no idea who we’re dealing with.”
He nods slowly, but his concern has only deepened. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned a possible ex-con stalking me, but it’s exactly why it’s stupid to continue to reject extra help from Barry.
Until the black box, I convinced myself Lionel wouldn’t possibly risk having so many people help him, but clearly, I was being naïve. Despite it still feeling wrong, I can’t claim to know Lionel best. He’s spent over a decade in prison. Who knows the ways he’s changed over the years? It’s obvious I no longer recognize the monster I once knew.
Without thinking, I lean forward and press my mouth against Dread’s, driven purely by the inherent need to ease his worry.
Except, it’s a huge mistake, because as soon as the first spark ignites, it’s impossible to let it die. I grasp either side of his face, moving my lips with his in a slow, sensual dance that leaves us both breathless.
I’ve trained for this moment, and he was built for it. Neither of us needs to come up for air, content to drown so slowly in one another, we’ll never feel the agony in dying, only the peace in ascending.
His muscles swell with tension, and I can feel him restraining himself. His hands tighten around my calves, as if to both keep him grounded and refrain from moving them elsewhere, to more dangerous places. For once, he allows me to lead, despite his constant need to dominate me. It’s rare for him, and it makes it all the more gratifying when his lips part for me and I lick his tongue.
His immediate whimper tastes divine, making it impossible to resist going back for more. His grip becomes bruising, but I hardly feel it in the wake of inhaling his staggered breath.
It’s criminal how my body lights up for him, how it gives no fucks how battered I feel after the past thirty-six hours of him fucking me in every position he could think of. Orgasms were becoming painful, and I was getting incredibly lightheaded from trying to temper my screaming so as not to wake the entire building, which included a lot of holding my breath. He even depleted his phone’s battery at one point from the array of pictures and videos he took, and I’m positive some of them would even make the fucking devil blush.
Yet, here I am, still getting wet for him. It’s never enough, and that’s my biggest fear concerning this man. I cannot fathom a life of being folded into a pretzel and not needing realignment surgery. And then what? Needing it again in another decade?
He nips at my bottom lip with a light, sensual moan, as if reading my mind and confirming that’s exactly what will happen, and he will show no mercy nor make any apologies.
I’m doomed.
Especially because my natural response is to widen my legs to fit his body in between, prompting him to drop his knees to the floor and rise on them so he’s only a few inches below eye level. Then, he runs his palms up to the crease of my knees and drags me closer to the edge of the bed with one, harsh tug.
I’m an idiot for hooking my legs around his hips and even more stupid for pressing my chest against him as I circle my arms around his neck, holding him to me tightly.
As a result, the kiss becomes more urgent, hotter, our tongues tirelessly clashing and our bodies leaving no room for air.
A groan vibrates my tongue as his hands frantically roam across my thighs to my ass, up my back, and down again. They’re relentless in their pursuit to curb a craving that cannot ever be satisfied. There will never be a moment when our touch brings completion—only more need.
“Fuck, I love you,” he growls into my mouth before diving his tongue beyond my teeth again, tasting an undeniable mirrored answer.
The absence of sound and physical manifestation does not mean it doesn’t exist, just as we cannot hear or see the smell of roses. But it’s there, as prominently as the oxygen in our lungs and the blood in our veins.
I can’t say the words—not yet—but I can show him by letting him drink my needy whimper before salaciously licking the roof of his mouth in a come-hither motion. I can ensure he feels my body press further into him and my hold tighten, bringing him closer and kissing him deeper. Nothing about my reaction is running away from him, even if my voice is.
One of his hands delves into my hair, which is—was—piled into a bun on the top of my head but is now beginning to fall around my shoulders from his tugging. The other grasps my throat, keeping me firmly held in place so he can ravage my mouth with a ferocity that lights my entire body on fire.
Our tongues clash with greedy whimpers, and I’m fully prepared to say fuck it and tackle him when a loud knock vibrates the door.
My heart flies up in my throat, and I rear back with a startled scream. My hand slaps over my mouth, eyes wide and heart pounding hard enough to bruise. Dread flinches, but rather than going backward, he surges toward me, getting to his feet and crowding over me, as if to protect me from a bullet.
Half of me absolutely hates him having that reaction—because we’re not simply two incredibly horny but normal college students interrupted from having sex. Rather, we’re two deeply traumatized people who constantly feel like we’re under attack. But that’s why the other half of me instantly wants to say those three words right here and now.
