Chapter 3 #2
"Neither should you," I shoot back, before I can stop myself.
It's true. He's like some dark god of war, out of place in the mundane space of a bedroom. I don't understand my own reaction – I should be terrified of him, running away, not climbing into his bed. But there's something about him that draws me in, that makes me feel safer than I should.
He sits up, all sharp edges. I don't move, and I can see him processing it.
Measuring how stubborn he thinks I'll be.
His bare chest is a landscape of lean muscle, tattoos, and faint scars, illuminated by the dim light filtering through the blinds.
The sight of him makes my mouth go dry, sends my heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
"Out," he says. "Now."
His voice is low and dangerous, but I don't care. There's something else there too – a flicker of heat in his eyes when they rake over me, lingering for a beat too long.
"I had a nightmare," I say.
It's more than that, but I don't know how to explain it. His proximity is intoxicating, a drug I shouldn't want but can't seem to resist.
"Still not my problem."
He's lying. I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his fists clench in the sheets. He cares, even if he doesn't want to.
"Maddy's dead," I blurt out. The words taste like poison. "Her body—"
But I can't finish. My throat closes up again. I pull the blanket tighter, around my shoulders this time, hiding in it. It's the only way I can breathe. I sound weak and small, and I hate myself for it.
He exhales, rubs a hand over his jaw.
"You're fucking crazy," he mutters.
"Probably." I hear the unhinged edge in my voice, know he hears it too. "I couldn't stand it." I pause, swallow hard. "Being by myself."
"Doesn't mean you get to barge in here," he says, still angry.
He drags a hand through his hair, and I watch his muscles bunch and flex with the motion.
I feel every inch of the bed, every inch of him.
A pulse of heat shoots through me, settling low in my belly.
I shouldn't be reacting this way to him, not when I'm grieving, not when he's pushing me away. But I can't help it.
"I need to stay." It sounds desperate. It is. "I need—"
"You need to leave."
His face is a mask of conflict – anger warring with something that looks almost like hunger.
He leans closer, and for a moment, his gaze drops to my lips.
My breath catches, anticipation thrumming through me like electricity.
The air between us is thick, charged with a tension that has nothing to do with anger.
For a heartbeat, I think he's going to kiss me. His breath fans across my face, warm and enticing. My eyes flutter closed, and I sway toward him, drawn by a magnetism I can't explain.
Then he pulls back sharply, like he's been burned. The moment shatters.
He grabs my wrist, yanking me toward the edge of the bed. He thinks I'm breakable.
"No." I struggle out of his grip, heart racing faster. "I won't. I won't do it."
He looks like he might shake me. Or throw me over his shoulder and toss me back into that tiny room himself.
"Jesus, Sloane."
I clutch his arm, hard. My fingertips register the heat of his skin, the solid muscle beneath. The contact sends a spark through my entire body, and from the way his pupils dilate, I know he feels it too.
"Please."
The word feels like sawdust in my mouth.
His eyes narrow, and I see the moment his will crumbles. He lets go, disgusted. At himself, or at me. Maybe both. I don't care, as long as I get to stay.
The blanket slips off me as I lie back. It's cool on my skin, against the damp heat. He feels like a fire next to me, wild and consuming. I start to shiver again, and my teeth clatter together, a frantic drumbeat in my head.
"Are you going to freak out all night?" he asks, shifting away, but I can't tell if it's so he won't touch me, or if it's to get a better look at how wrecked I am.
"Probably."
"You're a goddamn mess."
He tries to sound harsh, but I can hear the resignation under it. It's almost relief. I swallow down the laugh that bubbles up in my throat, and it tastes hysterical.
Then, somehow, it's all turning inside out. The fear is still there, the terror and panic, but they're changing shape. Changing into something else. Something hungry.
It's Rafaele. So close I can feel the heat off him, feel the wild, powerful rhythm of him. I can smell him – that intoxicating blend of leather and musk and something darker that makes my head spin. The sheet whispers between us, too thin a barrier.
And then my hands are on him.
He jerks, shocked, but I'm already there. It's fire under my skin. His chest is hard beneath my palms, skin burning hot.
"Sloane," he says, like he's sure I'm losing my mind.
I am. I've lost it all, and there's nothing left but him.
I straddle his hips, hear him suck in a breath, feel him grow hard under me. My whole body responds, alive and electric. It shoots through me like a drug. Heat pools low in my belly, and I rock against him, seeking friction, seeking relief from this fever building inside me.
I rock forward, feel him through the thin fabric of his shorts.
His fingers dig into my thighs, half trying to hold me off, half pulling me closer.
My nipples tighten beneath my tank top, the fabric suddenly too rough, too restrictive.
I want to feel his skin against mine, want to drown in the sensation.
"Sloane." It sounds different now. His eyes are dark and knowing, pupils blown wide with desire. "You don't want this."
"I do." I can barely hear myself over the pounding of my heart. "I do want it."
He hesitates, and I know I have him. I move again, closer, closer, finding the hot length of him, feeling it so near to me. My head swims. I think I'm drowning.
But then he's pushing me back, hard and sudden.
"Stop," he says, a rough edge in his voice. "This isn't happening."
His palm cups my cheek for the briefest moment, his thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch so tender it breaks something inside me. Our eyes lock, and I see the battle raging within him – desire fighting against some kind of twisted honor.
My mind is spinning, body catching up with it. I want to crawl back onto him, but the way he looks at me—so sure I'm losing it—stops me.
"You don't know what you're doing," he says, trying to put space between us. I'm still panting. Shaking. "Get out."
His hands are on my shoulders, guiding me off him, off the bed. It feels cold everywhere we're not touching.
"Leave," he says again.
But all I can think is that I'm going to get him. One way or another.
I'm going to get him.