Page 25 of Possess Me

“Nikki—”

“It’s okay.” Her teeth grazed her lower lip before she offered him a seductive smile. “I know you’re only using me. You’ve only ever used me.”

She pushed the photo back into his hand, then traced her fingers over his shoulders and down his arms. “I’m only using you, too. You know that, Damien,” she whispered as she slid one hand down to cup his cock. “You’ve always known that.”

“Nikki.” He could barely get her name out. His breath had gone ragged. His skin hot with need, his cock hard. He wanted to take her, to fuck her, to punish the bit—

No.

The word cut through his thoughts, and for a moment he felt in control of himself again. He’d never once used that word to her. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t him.

But the thought vanished almost as quickly as it had come, replaced by the truth of her words. They did use each other. They always had. Because that’s what they were. That’s who they were. That’s how they’d saved each other. That was the deep, bright kernel of their love. The source that fed the intensity of their passion.

And now the little bitch was making a mockery of it. Who the hell did she think she was—

No. No, dammit, no!

Cold horror ran through his veins, and as he lurched backward the realization flashed inside him like a beacon.

Something was in him.

He dropped the photo, the sharp crash of shattering glass burying the thought. He bent to pick up the broken frame, then cursed as he sliced his thumb on a shard.

“Hush,” she said, sidling up to him as he stood. He started to turn away, intending to search out a bandage, but she caught his arm, holding him in place. He froze, watching as she bent down, then picked up another shard.

She studied it, her head tilting as she considered it.

“No,” he whispered as she put the edge of the glass against the heel of her hand. He thought of the scars on her legs. Of the need she’d spent most of her life battling. “No,” he whispered. “Nikki, no.”

She lifted her head and met his eyes. Then she dropped the shard, and for a moment he thought he saw both clarity and fear reflected on her face. Then it vanished, and she was someone else again. Vivien, Nikki, he didn’t know. All he knew was that she was close enough that he felt her heat. Close enough to lift his thumb to her lips. And then, with a soft moan, to lick the blood off.

He ought to be disgusted or afraid.

He wasn’t. He felt hot. Wild. Aroused.

“Nikki,” he whispered, as wildfire seemed to fill him. “What are you—” But he didn’t finish the question. How could he when he was too mesmerized by this woman who now took his thumb and painted her lips with his blood?

This woman who leaned in and kissed him so that he tasted the salty sweetness. So that he felt the surge of an unfamiliar, dangerous passion.

This woman who wasn’t his wife, because he was no longer Damien. He was need and longing.

Most of all, he was a desire so potent it could only be quenched with blood.

11

Nikki’s lips crashed against his in a kiss that was fierce, predatory, and tinged with the metallic taste of blood. A blood that seemed to cut through him like fire, making his head swim and his cock strain against his jeans. He felt wild. Lost. And as their tongues warred—wild and desperate—her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as if through the force of sheer will she could make their bodies one.

Nikki.

The taste of her. The heat of her. He couldn’t remember ever wanting her more, and yet a voice in the back of his head cried out that this was wrong. Off.

Dangerous.

He didn’t care.

This wasn’t Nikki—somehow he knew that. The woman who burned so hot against him wasn’t his wife. She wasn’t the woman who knew him, loved him, matched him in every way.

And yet she was…