20. Mila
MILA
A s it turns out, I can’t sleep.
Christian dozed off while I was reading to him, and though my eyes felt heavy, I found that once I got to bed, sleep was nearly impossible.
I can’t get him out of my head.
The touch of his hands on my body. The taste of his skin under my tongue.
I also can’t stop thinking about how I want to feel those same hands doing other things to me.
I’ve laid awake for what feels like hours, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the jagged rocks below the cliff and attempting to ignore the dull ache in my core.
It’s Christian. The man who broke my heart.
The man I shot.
I shouldn’t be feeling anything for him other than fear because he kidnapped me.
Just when I think I’ve got him figured out, he surprises me. Just when I think he’s the biggest asshole in the world, like with his little caveman show for Collin—who, might I add, was just being nice—he goes and does something like finds The Phantom of the Opera novel, just so I’ll read it to him.
Which brings me to my next dilemma. The way my heart ached for him when he explained how hard reading is for him. I had thought when I started reading, he would have checked out, but he stayed silent, listening to me read for almost two hours before he finally fell asleep.
I know he’s not resting well enough. It’s a fact I’ve felt guilty about since he brought me here. I’m sleeping in the big, giant bed by myself while he’s roughing it on the couch every night, despite my pleas for him to take the room.
He’s just . . . a contradiction. How a man can be selfish enough to kidnap me, but also one of the most selfless people I know, is confusing to me. My brain doesn’t know how to label him because he’s never been inherently good or bad. He’s just . . . Christian. One foot in the dark and the other teetering on the edge.
Somehow, I know the longer I stay here with him, the further I’ll be forced to step over that edge, too.
I watch the moon in the sky outside the window, wishing it was raining. I’ve found the rain on the metal roof helps me sleep and keeps the nightmares away. At least most of the time.
I’m struggling to decide if my dream after my nightmare last night was just that. A dream? Or if Christian had really held me in the dark when I thought surely I was going to suffocate from the invisible hands that had wrapped around my throat.
He’d seemed so . . . cold at breakfast, and then when he dragged me into the shower, he was like an inferno, swallowing me whole.
The way his fingers glided along my wet skin. The way he held me, letting me control what happened . . .
“Goddamnit,” I grumble to myself when my core pulses, remembering how he’d made me tell him my . . . body belonged to him.
I could just do it myself. What’s the shame in that? I’m in bed alone. Well . . . Phantom’s beside me, but I could always politely ask him to move to the floor.
Somehow, though, I know it would only piss me off because my hands aren’t his and I’d be left unsatisfied.
I have to try, though.
Slipping my hand under the covers, I brush them along the planes of my stomach, slipping under the waistband of my panties. My core is soaked and burning hot, and the moment I touch myself, my cheeks burn with shame.
I haven’t done this in nearly a year. Not that I exactly had the desire to before Christian came along and fucked with my libido.
Now, it’s all I can think about.
And that’s going to be a problem.
I withdraw my hand, falling back and staring at the ceiling.
If I go out there right now and ask him to . . . help me, there’s a chance he could deny me, and that would make breakfast tomorrow really awkward.
There’s also a chance he could laugh in my face. I know my body is damaged. I know my scars make people uncomfortable. I can barely look at them myself.
But to see that look in Christian’s eyes?
I’m not sure I would survive that kind of humiliation.
Closing my eyes, I lay in bed and count backward from one hundred.
When I open them, I’m still wide awake and burning up, so I kick the covers off and let out a deep sigh.
“This is ridiculous.”
Clambering from the bed, I roll my shoulders and pad towards the stairs. If Christian Cross doesn’t find me attractive anymore because of the scars that litter my body that I have no control over, then he doesn’t have a right to say what I do with it.
Making my way down the stairs, the fire has died down, but the embers glow enough to light Christian still asleep, where I’d left him on the couch. He’s got a throw over him from when I went to bed, but right now, with him asleep, it’s almost easy to picture him as the scared teen who had just lost his mother.
I know he wasn’t a bad kid. No kids are born bad. It’s the world that makes them behave the way they do when they lash out. When my father died, I was too young to remember him. My mother and my stepfather were the only real parents I ever knew and look how that turned out.
I can’t imagine having to do it alone. Having to find your place in a world that is designed to hate you because your family is dead.
With my stomach in my toes and a fire coursing through my veins that can only be described as Christian Fever, I sink down to the couch on my knees beside him, my fingers reaching out to brush over the ink on his arm.
Only the moment I touch him, I’m thrown onto my back, a very big, very angry Christian looming over me.
It’s the cold steel of a gun pressed to my temple, though, that sends a shiver through me.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Mila,” he growls, dropping the gun to the floor. I don’t miss the tremor that moves through his hands the moment he releases me. “I almost fucking shot you.”
He sinks back to the couch and lets out a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, rising and pressing my back to the couch cushions. I won’t lie and say my heart’s not racing from having a gun pointed at my head, but I can say I’m not afraid because I know he didn’t do it on purpose. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, my cheeks burning hot when his eyes finally slide over me. He takes in my lack of pants, the thin strip of lace covering the center of my thighs, then the T-shirt that rests just on my hips from where it’s bunched up, and his eyes darken.
The silence hums in the air between us.
“Mila?” His voice is noticeably huskier now, his gaze penetrating through the darkness.
“I . . .” Can’t speak, apparently.
Guilt washes through me. I woke him up and I can’t even say why.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I whisper finally, like the Pope is hiding around the corner to condemn me for speaking about it out loud.
Christian’s jaw feathers, his eyes never leaving mine, despite my inability to meet his gaze head-on for more than a few moments.
“How can I help?”
I chew on my bottom lip, my stomach fluttering with butterflies.
My gaze flicks to his.
“Are you horny, little devil?”
God, I should have never come down here.
“Mila.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. This was a mistake. I move to stand. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
He snatches my hand, halting me. He’s quiet for a moment, studying me, while I study the design in the armchair behind him like my life depends on it.
“Don’t be sorry for needing me.”
My gaze shoots to his. Neither of us move, my heartbeat stalling in my chest under those eyes.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
I swallow past the thick lump of embarrassment in my throat. I shift uncomfortably on the couch, the action creating enough friction between my legs to turn the low, smoldering fire into a dull roar.
I nod, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood.
“Use your words, Mila.”
Fuck.
Why do I have to use words when he can already see what I want?
“Yes,” I breathe. And then, because I feel like it needs to be said. “I’m not ready for . . . that . . . but we could try something else?”
Christian’s jaw ticks. His shoulders tight.
Time stands still, and I’m not sure either of us breathes. This changes things. Big things.
“Sit back.”
I don’t move for a long moment, but when Christian locks eyes with me, the glimmer of the fire in his eyes, it almost feels like a dare. Like he doesn’t believe I’ll actually do it.
Falling back on my ass. I sit back against the arm of the couch. Christian’s face is a mask of indifference when he slips from the couch and moves to the coffee table in front of us instead.
“You’re sure?”
Yes.
No.
“I think so.”
“I need you to be sure, Mila.”
Fuck.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Actually, scratch that. We all know that never ends well.
“I’m sure,” I nod slowly.
“Sit in front of me. Put your legs up on either side of the coffee table.”
I blow out a shaky breath but comply, my bare feet on either side of his hips and my knees locked together in front of him. Christian slips his fingers up my calves, over the goosebumps pebbling my flesh, and for a brief, shining moment, I thank Paulina for thinking of bringing me razors.
“Spread your legs, Mila.”
I hadn’t realized I had been clenching my knees together like there was a piece of paper being held between them. I release them, letting them fall on either side.
Christian rubs a hand over his mouth, his gaze locked on the center of my thighs.
“Tell me you want me to touch you.”
I already did that.
“Please, touch me . . .” I breathe again.
Holding my gaze, he slips from the coffee table, falling to his knees between mine. Reaching behind him, he tugs his shirt over his head, and it’s really not fair. He may as well be chiseled marble. I’m sure there are thousands of women who would pay money to see what I’m seeing right now. Christian Cross on his knees in front of me.
He tosses his shirt aside before his hands find my legs again. I have to spread my legs almost painfully wide to keep my feet on the coffee table, but when his hands slide up my bare thighs, I realize that’s the least of my worries.
My stomach tightens when he reaches my hips, his fingers kneading the flesh. He tugs me to the edge of the couch, his hands sliding around to brush along my inner thighs.
“Relax, Mila.”
My gaze locks with his. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath this entire time.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, voice shaky.
“What I’ve been thinking about since the moment I brought you home.”
Oh, God.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh, right above my knee. I’ve never been kissed there, and with the warmth that slips through me, I fear he just created a new fetish.
As if he’s testing the water, he moves just a little bit higher, dragging his lips along my skin. My gaze stays locked on his, and when I don’t push him away, his tongue darts out, licking my skin up to my inner thigh.
I let out a breath through my teeth, a shiver slipping through me, and Christian chuckles sinisterly.
“Can you focus on my tongue? Focus on how it feels on your skin.”
“Y-yes.”
“Good girl. Give me a word.”
“What?”
“A word to let me know if you get overwhelmed. Or if something doesn’t feel right. You say that word, and I’ll stop immediately.”
I suck in a deep breath, but he waits patiently, eyes on mine.
“Shipwreck,” I exhale, finally.
Christian smirks, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh, much, much higher than the other.
“Shipwreck,” he repeats.
My throat threatens to close when his fingers hook in the waistband of my thong, his thumbs dragging the material down my legs. He leans back, pulling them off completely until I’m exposed to him, and tosses them behind him.
His gaze centers on my open thighs and heats to a scorching burn.
“Fuck , ” he murmurs under his breath, bringing his lips back to my skin. He continues to press kisses and swipe his tongue over my inner thighs, avoiding my pussy completely. When I arch my back in an effort to move him closer, he nips the tender flesh of my thigh.
“Patience, little devil,” he warns, and my cheeks burn with the heat of a thousand suns. “Can you do that for me?”
God, why does he have to be so hot when he speaks like that?
“Yes.” I’m only a little embarrassed about the breathlessness of my voice.
“Good girl,” he says again, and it’s at that moment I realize I’d do anything to hear him call me his good girl.
Holding my gaze, he slips his hand between us, his thumb swirling through my arousal and coating his finger when he dips it inside me. He continues to kiss up my thigh, getting higher and higher, and just when I think I’m going to lose my mind, he delivers the first swipe of his tongue, licking me from where his fingers enter me to my clit in one fluid motion.
My head sinks back into the couch, my eyes fluttering at the sensation.
He lets out a satisfied groan that rumbles straight through me to my core.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathes against my pussy, swiping his tongue through my folds and spearing it inside me.
Those old familiar feelings start to rush in through the cracks. The voices telling me to fight him off. To rake my nails across his face and fight with everything I have. My hands tighten to fists in the throw and the couch below, my mind running rampant now that he’s touching me.
“Focus on me, Mila,” Christian murmurs from between my thighs. He pulls back, slipping one long, thick finger inside me instead. “Feel me. Not them. They can’t get to you.”
I nod, sucking in a breath through my rapidly closing throat.
“They’ll never get to you again,” he continues, pushing his finger in and out of me, letting me adjust to the size. “Just feel what we’re doing. What we want.”
Smile for the camera, little whore.
“Please,” I whimper, but even as I beg for him to stop, I know I don’t want him to. I knew what I was asking for when I came down here. I knew the struggle it would be.
I also knew that the moment he made me come this morning, I didn’t want to live in the shadows of what they’d done to me anymore.
Christian shakes his head, his eyes boring into mine.
“You know how to make it stop, Mila.”
I nod, drawing my lip between my teeth. I know if I said the word, he would stop, no questions asked.
Keeping his fingers inside me, he reaches for the book still on the coffee table, placing it in my hand.
“Read.”
“What?”
Has he lost his mind? I can barely form a coherent sentence.
“Read it aloud while I make you come.”
“Christian . . .” My voice is husky with both want and devastation. The hair on the back of my neck stands up like those demons are hiding just beyond the reach of the light from the fireplace.
“Do you trust me?”
Do I trust him?
I may not trust him with my heart, but with my demons, there’s not another soul on this planet that could chase them away quite like him.
“Yes.”
“Then be a good girl and read that book while I enjoy my pussy.”
Did he just . . .
“You’re insane,” I whisper, and his eyes light with wicked amusement.
“Oh, sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.”
He nods toward the book, and with a shaky voice, I start reading where we left off. He lowers back down, his gaze locked on mine, and draws his tongue along my clit. I gasp, gripping the book tightly in one hand, the other diving into his hair while he sucks me into his mouth.
He groans, using his free hand to push my knee up beside my breast, the other slipping out of me to spread me open for him.
Warmth rushes through me when his tongue finds my clit again, my head lulling back against the cushions and a moan escaping my lips.
Then, he pulls back.
Fuck, I forgot to read.
I resume from a new paragraph, not even sure where I’d left off and Christian circles my clit with his tongue.
“ Fuck, Mila. Like fucking candy, sweetheart ,” he growls against my skin. The roughness of his voice shoves any of my reservations away, replacing them with a heat that threatens to scorch me alive.
My nails dig into his scalp, my fingers fisting the roots of his hair to drag him closer. His slide under my ass, raising me up to meet his tongue, and my head falls back on a moan.
“Christian,” I whimper, eyes clenched shut and skin flushed.
“No, you look at me when you moan my name,” he growls, and my eyes spring open to meet his. “That’s it,” he purrs, his voice sending a shiver down my spine. “You aren’t reading.”
A tremble moves through me, my legs shaking. He lifts one, positioning it over his shoulder and opening me wide before he flattens his tongue and runs it along my pussy.
My head falls back, the book all but forgotten beside me when my hand falls, my back bowing off the couch.
“Oh, God . . .” His teeth graze my clit, before he sucks it into his mouth, fluttering his tongue over the sensitive bud.
“That’s it, Mila,” he murmurs. “Pray for me, sweetheart. Show me how it feels to be your god.”
My eyes roll back, my spine arching to get him closer. Fire spreads through my veins, making my toes curl as the pressure expands and expands, drawing up until I know I’m either going to explode or have the strongest orgasm I’ve ever had before.
“Christian, please,” I whimper, and he must know exactly what I need because he latches around my clit, sliding two fingers inside me and curling them up to brush over a spot I didn’t even know existed.
Stars burn in my eyes, the sound of his rough growl, his tongue fluttering over my clit—it’s all too much. My core pulses around his fingers, and the final moment that drives me over the edge is when his teeth lightly graze my clit, before he swirls his tongue through my slickness and sends me over the edge.
“ Christian . . .” My head falls back to the couch. A moan rips free from my throat, and the pressure expands, forcing the orgasm to rip through me.
This orgasm is different, sliding through me in wave after wave of mind-numbing release. I don’t think. I can’t think about anything but him as my hips move against his tongue, and he growls against me, continuing his torture until I’m nearly shaking and pushing him away.
The moment his tongue leaves me, and he climbs up my body, a heavy sense of relief washes over me.
I’m not broken.
I’m. Not. Broken.
“Good fucking girl,” he praises, kissing a path up the side of my neck, rimming the shell of my ear, and then finally, nipping over the pulse point in my throat.
All the while, shivers roll through me, and I collapse back on the couch.
When he pulls back, he’s watching me with a darkness in his eyes I’ve never seen before. This look is different. Tinged in possession and something softer. Something that makes my heart beat wildly in my chest, and my toes tingle.
“I’m sorry for waking you,” I whisper because now that I’ve come, the guilt is starting to wash through me. The shame that I could enjoy something like that, despite the marks on my body saying that’s exactly what I am.
“Come here.”
I stare at him blankly when he rises, sitting on the couch beside me.
Watching me carefully, he leans back, holding out a hand.
A shiver ghosts through me, and slowly, I place my hand in his, letting him pull me into him. His arms come around me, his chin on top of my head while mine is against his bare chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart.
“What . . . about you?” I ask quietly, the prospect of touching him almost as terrifying as not touching him. As not allowing myself to give into the experience and stop being afraid of what might happen afterward.
I’ve been on this island for nearly a month and already, I feel like I’m a completely different person than I was when I ran. Revenge or not, I know it’s because of him.
He presses his lips to my forehead, his voice rough and raspy. “Sleep.”