Chapter 5 Dahlia #2
Eyes locked, the tension stretching between us threatening to catch fire. His gaze flickers with gasoline, my breath quickens with oxygen, and all we keep repressed lights the match. Together, we’re combustible, and the passion will burn us up—completely.
I gulp, returning to my task. It’s not an easy endeavor as I gently pad his bloody knuckles while his eyes are fixed on me, jeopardizing my focus.
Leaning back, he relaxes, and I caress along his thigh, needing to touch him.
I almost pour the disinfectant on the floor, but catch the bottle at the last moment when I notice the bulge stretching his pants. He’s massive. Even knowing I took him, it still feels unrealistic that I could.
“Stop,” he groans as if in pain.
“Your cobra is in my face, trying to get free,” I mumble, finishing cleaning his split knuckles. He hasn’t hissed once, so unfazed by pain, it breaks my heart.
He shakes his head at me good-naturedly, chuckling. “Cobra, huh? Ignore it.”
Oh yeah, let’s ignore it. Fabulous idea. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
I dab a generous amount of soothing cream, careful not to hurt him, and push the tube to the side.
“Like you have been?” I snap.
My heart is certain there was no one else. But my brain is more pragmatic, thinking that if he wanted, he would have found a solution.
He raises a sharp eyebrow, telling of his annoyance. “Fishing for answers to questions you know?”
“Who was your last?” I push the words out through the lump stuck in my throat.
His arm shoots to the back of my neck, and he grabs me by the nape. Chest panting, he lowers his face just one inch away from mine. “You.”
Goose bumps pepper my skin as our eyes clash. His deep silver ones set off a tsunami of emotion in my insides. His desperation emboldens me, so I dig my fingers into his thighs, lifting myself up. I don’t ask for permission he won’t grant me, and I straddle his lap.
His other arm snakes around my back, low enough that he splays it over my ass. “What are you doing?”
I gulp, instinct taking over. “Nothing.”
He squeezes one cheek, sounding pained. “Stop grinding on my cock.”
How I would love to take care of every one of his aches.
“Stop fighting me,” I murmur, savoring his touch.
It’s a major win that he lets me, so I don’t push him further. Instead, I lean my head against his chest, and he strokes my back while the other hand remains firmly in place—on my ass.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, feeling him hard beneath me.
A deep sigh rocks his chest. “What I did to you hurt.”
I seek his eyes. “You’re punishing your cock for that? It wasn’t—”
His head hangs, every muscle in his body straining with agony. “Stop telling yourself that. I was there. I saw your terror. You were afraid of me.”
Needing to comfort him, I cup his face and caress along his cheeks. Bringing his face to mine so our eyes lock, I try to make him understand my reason. “Of course I was terrified. But never of you. I was afraid for you…knowing I would lose you either way.”
He places a sweet kiss on my forehead. “You could never lose me.”
Like I could never have you. I don’t need to say that.
The sigh rocking my chest says it all. He senses my distress and stiffens, but I am greedy for a bit more of us like this, so I lean my cheek back against his chest. Taking advantage before he drops the barrier between us once again, I slip my palm inside his shirt that stretches with his heavy breathing.
He got more ink, and how I would love to undress him, taking my time to study each. Every symbol he has painted represents something, as it should if you commit to painting your body, but he created a world—his world, and I am sure the tattoo artist did a spectacular job.
I wish he had removed his shirt at the pool. The bachelor/bachelorette party at the Vintage would have been the perfect occasion to see his chest, arms, and back in their tattooed glory. Instead, the grump preferred to scowl at me and drink a bottle of vodka on his own.
“Will you ever uncover for me?” I murmur.
He must get tired because he rasps. “No.”
“Why?” I don’t even care that I sound whiny.
“That would be all you need to discover the truth. And if you do, we’ll both be screwed.”
I ponder his reply, but I can’t find any logical explanation for that. Watching his breathing deepen and his chest falling and rising in a deep rhythm, I am about to unbutton his shirt when he grips my wrists and clicks his tongue, tsking. “Bad girl.”
“You knew I would go for it.” I pout.
He smirks, so damn proud that he knows me this well. That was a test designed to make me lose.
Cupping the back of my neck, he brings my cheek back to his chest. With my palm flat on his beating heart, I place a tender kiss as if wanting to seduce and thank the organ for keeping him alive. He caresses my back, knowing exactly what to do to subdue me.
“It’s not fair.”
“Shhh, baby girl. Just close your eyes. I’m here.”
“But you won’t be once I wake up. You never stay… I want you to stay,” I sound just like I feel—needy.
He inhales so deeply that his chest expands under me.
I am losing him, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. As he lifts me up, carrying me to bed, I hold on to him, knowing I have to let him go. And it kills me. The moon peering through the window is the only witness to the agony transpiring inside.
“A goodnight kiss?” I ask, pouring all my innocence into the question.
He eyes me through a glint of suspicion, but he lowers his face to kiss my forehead. I smack his lips instead. Stealing the kiss, I smile at him.
A growl rumbles in his throat, the sound sexy and virile, awakening the dormant volcano that is ready to explode.
I am still grinning, proud of myself, when a slap lands on my ass cheek. A yelp rushes out of my mouth. I blink, completely taken by surprise.
Did he spank me? He did.
And ouch. That wasn’t gentle.
He rubs his palm over the sensitive skin, kneading the afflicted skin. “A small reminder of who you’re playing with.”
As if I could forget. Damn. His proclivity for rough sex is not something I could have forgotten. I lived through that even though I am pretty sure he went easier with me even then.
I roll onto my back, the bite of discomfort reminding me of his loss of control. “Do you miss it?”
“Stop it, Dahlia,” he groans low.
I sigh in the dimly lit room. “I’ll crack you, Mikail Morozov. You will give me what I want. What I deserve and what you can’t deny. I will make you face what you keep hidden until you won’t be able to hide.”
His answer is to slam the door closed. Cruel, leaving me aching. The sadist to my masochist. Is there another way?
Just as I am about to drift to sleep, I hear him pacing up and down the hall.
“Come to me,” I whisper.
But he doesn’t.