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I wish I could tell her all these things, but I can’t. Because I’d be lying through my teeth.
Something has awakened inside of me. At the intersection of fear and ecstasy, I’ve found something dangerous. Thrilling.
Inexplicable.
Licking her lips, she hikes up her skirt and pushes her panties down. Taking hold of my partially flaccid cock, she drags my tip over her slit. In the next breath, I’m hard and inside of her, and I spin us around, so she’s against the rock and I’m fucking her.
Hard.
Her screams and moans echo around me, winding down my spine, and the climax pulses through my body again.
I slow my thrusts on a shuddered breath and rest my forehead in the crook of her neck. “What happened to me? Why?”
“In French, the word for orgasm is la petite mort. The little death. Not like real death, from which you never return. This gives new life. Over. And over. And over.” She strokes her hand over my hair and rakes her nails across my back, the sensation intensifying the shiver that ruffles over me. “From this point on, nothing else will compare. No one else.”
Chapter 8
Isadora
Present day …
The sounds of screaming breach the void, and on a gasp of breath, I jolt upright.
Darkness swallows me, confusion clouding my head as I search the unfamiliar surroundings. For a split second, I forget where I am, but with the slow trickle of memory, I settle back onto the plush pillows and exhale a shaky breath.
Running a trembling hand across my brow, I try to recall the last few minutes of my dream.
The dark shadow of a man with intense golden eyes, standing over me, staring down at me.
Lucian?
I lift my head and find the door of my bedroom cracked open, the dim light from the hallway slicing across the floor. I closed it the night before, but didn’t lock it, as Giulia suggested.
A cold sliver of panic ripples over my skin again, and I reach under the pillow, my fingertips prodding the cold metal of a pocketknife I stuffed there before bed. For a while, storing it under the pillow was an attempt to keep my cutting hidden from Aunt Midge. These days, it’s mostly for my own comfort.
Eyes locked on the cracked door, I mentally rewind to sometime in the night when, in dreams, I felt something tickle my arm. The memory of it spurs a phantom sensation that has me scratching at the spot, while a shiver spirals up my spine.
Was someone in my room?
Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed, I sit upright. With light steps, I pad across the room and push the door closed. A twist of the lock clicks it, and for a brief moment, I wonder if I’ve locked myself in with someone. The thought lingers on my mind as I dash across the hardwood floor in the direction of the bed.
When something jams against my toe, I halt, stumbling forward. “Ow! Shit!” In blinding darkness, I lift my foot, setting my hand over the throbbing, and pat around for the bedside lamp.
Finding the chain, I flick it on noting only a small bit of redness at the tip. I wriggle it around to be sure it’s not broken and sigh, as the pulsing swell begins to calm.
An object beneath the nightstand draws my attention there, a welcomed diversion from my throbbing toe.
I bend forward and slip my fingers below the elaborate carved wood, and slide out a picture. Turning it to the side, I study the family, who’re standing in a colorful garden with a stone fountain in the background. A woman with short blonde hair. A small boy with sandy blond tufts, who stands alongside Sampson, the beast I met earlier. But my eyes linger on the man. He’s strikingly handsome. Golden eyes and dark chestnut hair. Broad shoulders stretching the casual polo shirt that shows off toned biceps. His lips pressed to a hard line.
Lucian.
Without the scars.
It’s strange to see him this way, as if I’m looking at a forbidden memory. A forgotten moment in time.
In spite of the slight smile of the woman, the beaming smile on the boy on the verge of laughter, Lucian’s solemn eyes don’t match the sunny disposition of everyone else. The way he stares back at me from the image, it’s as if he’s trying to say something. Plead with his unknowing observer.
For the next couple minutes, I study the image a bit more, running my finger over his flawless face, its perfect symmetry, and focus on the darkness behind those bright eyes. They could be any color, and just as intense, but gold is fitting for him. Exotic, almost. Yes, that’s it. In the image, he looks like an exotic animal that’s been captured as a pet. Caged.
