Chapter 27
Imogen
Iwake with my hand between my thighs. The slickness of my arousal coats my fingers. A fine sheen of sweat blankets my skin. My body is wound tight, desperate to release the tension.
The way he moaned my name in pure erotic bliss plays in a torturous loop in my mind.
His scent surrounds me. And as I roll over to his side of the bed where he vacated only moments ago I can still feel the warmth of his body.
My clit pulses, begging to be touched by his fingers.
I should deny myself the pleasure. I shouldn’t give in to this twisted urge. But I’ve never been this madly aroused before. And maybe if I just itch this scratch I will be rid of it.
Closing my eyes I imagine his face as I slowly circle my clit. The bundle of nerves cries for me to go faster, rougher, but I refrain. I want the anticipation to build. And I also want this feeling to last.
My other hand comes to encase my throat. It doesn’t hold the same weight nor the strength of his but it heightens my pleasure.
As I apply pressure I circle my clit faster. My toes curl and everything within me tightens. Faster and rougher I go until I feel myself begin to slip into sweet bliss. I squeeze my throat and imagine his eyes staring directly in mine.
On a breathless cry of his name I come the hardest I ever have.
I stay in post coital bliss for what feels like hours but I know only minutes have passed by.
When I sober reality hits me harder than bricks.
I just touched myself, gave myself the greatest pleasure I have ever felt, to the image of my captor.
Shame should be swirling in my stomach to the point where it makes me sick. But it doesn’t. I don’t even taste regret. If anything, I want to chase that wonderful feeling again. Except I want him to give it to me.
I’ve gone mad. Truly, deeply, and completely mad.
Because it doesn’t make a lick of sense.
We couldn’t be any more different. But there’s something there. An invisible string that keeps him and I bound to one another. And I’m tired of pretending like it doesn’t exist.
I can no longer resist him.
A cold front has moved in and I’ve been suffering the brutal brunt end of it.
Any time I try to get close I’m left with frostbite.
Even now as he cooks breakfast not once has his eyes peeked my way. It’s maddening and frustrating. But worst of all? It wounds me far deeper than it should.
Because despite the man whose reputation is known for being cold and unfeeling he has never presented himself as such to me.
I grew to his very own brand of warmness. Akin to a flower I found myself even blossoming under his praise and kindness.
Without it I’m wilting. Petals falling one by one each moment he deliberately ignores me.
It reminds me all too well of how alone I really am. And loneliness is a hollowing numb feeling I want to be rid of.
“So,” I try my best to strike up a conversation and not receive the silent treatment. “Are we just going to dance around it?”
The whisk stops for one second before he continues to whip up the pancake batter. I groan inwardly. This is insufferable. He’s being insufferable.
I grit down on my teeth. “How long do you plan on ignoring me?”
He finishes whipping up the batter and goes to wash his hands.
His routine I know down to a science. The particular way he cooks.
Even the particular way he washes his dishes.
Rico follows a routine each day that never navigates or changes.
And if it does, if something happens to go awry he’ll excuse himself to isolate for what can be hours at a time.
And I’ve never once been hurt by that. He wasn’t doing it out of malice nor being intentional. He needed that time in order to regroup and process. To be able to function the rest of the day.
But this?
Treating me like I’m not even here is sinister.
“Rico,” I bite out his name.
He unnervingly cocks his head to the side as he regards me with eyes that are a bottomless pit. How contrary to his eyes when he came underneath me. They were feral then. Encased with fire and scorching my skin. I wanted to be consumed in his flames.
“Why are you acting like this?”
He releases a heavy sigh, one of annoyance. “As opposed to what, Imogen?”
“Don’t be obtuse, shadow.” I wait for the hint of a smile but it never comes. The knife he holds wedges itself deeper. “We can talk about what happened last night.”
He levels me with a look that would send any other man shrinking in fear. “Nothing of importance happened last night to be discussed.”
His words slide the knife deeper. They twist in my gut until I feel the taste of nausea burn at the back of my throat. I spew, “Fuck you, Rico. I thought you told me you didn't lie.”
The muscle in his jaw works with tension. He avoids eye contact as he says lowly, “I don’t.”
I raise a challenging brow. “And yet you just fucking did.”
“I see your colorful vocabulary has returned,” he says monotonously. It grates my nerves. Especially when I know he’s expressed softness and warmth to me before. “What I don’t understand is why you’re furious to begin with.”
I sputter with anger and disbelief, “You can’t be serious. Rico you—”
“We both divulged in our bodies natural reaction to release pent up tension due to our forced proximity.” His words simultaneously slice me open and enrage me.
The fire that has been sluicing through my veins turns molten with fury.
“It meant nothing more than that. And you should know better than to think it did.”
A red hue taints my vision. “If you want to dismiss last night because you’re a coward then so be it. But it doesn’t dismiss how you’ve been with me these past few weeks.”
The cooking is all but forgotten now as he leans against the counter and gives his undivided attention to me. “And how have I been with you?”
“Now I know you’re jousting me,” I chortle darkly.
“Am I? Or are you seeing things that aren’t there?”
I balk, “Are you trying to fucking gaslight me?”
“Take it how you want, Imogen,” he drawls my name and I loathe the sound. It’s never been spoken so harshly, like a lash on his tongue. I wince. Asshole. “But whatever you believe is not true.”
Enraged and emotionally wounded I push off the chair wanting nothing more than to smack him across his perfectly crafted stoic face.
I close the distance between us. He stares down at me with eyes as blank as a canvas. I long for the softness to return.
“Want to know what I think?”
“No,” he says. And yet for once his tone contradicts his reply.
“I think you’re developing feelings for me, Rico. And you’re terrified because you don’t know what that means.”
In one swift motion he restrains my wrists above my head and drives me backwards to where my back is pressed against the wall.
He cages me in. His scent engulfs me. Trapped I test his grip on my wrists but he applies the slightest bit of pressure. Only a reminder that he can easily crush my bones if he wanted to.
Those ocean eyes bore into mine with crashing waves of conflicting emotions.
“You’re the enemy’s daughter. My captive.” Him reasoning with facts sounds weak to my own ears. I know they must to him too. How tiresome it must be to deny the charge between us.
I angle my head upwards. Our lips are only a hairbreadth apart. “But that’s not all I am to you, is it?”
His eyes zero in on my lips. And I ache to close the distance. To feel his lips upon my own. To not only taste him but devour him.
The gravitational pull brings us closer. His lips are so close to mine I can practically taste him. I lick mine in anticipation. Goosebumps appear and my heart accelerates. My body craves to feel his flesh upon mine.
He’s so close and yet so far. But I need him to be the one to make the first move. I need him to admit he can’t resist us, that he can’t resist me.
When his lips brush against mine he feeds me poison rather than bliss. “You’re nothing more than a bargaining chip, Imogen. And once your pa concedes you’ll return home to where you belong.”
I splinter before him as I inhale a stuttering breath. The knife he wields impales my already bleeding heart. I’m caught in the undercurrent of devastation and betrayal.
As he removes himself from me I wrap my arms around myself for protection. His eyes return to an empty void. His face is of stone and not clay. Gone is the man I’ve come to know and before me is the notorious Grim Reaper of the east coast.
Cold. Calculating. Ruthless in his methods and even more so in his kills.
“To think I actually saw you.” I try to stay strong but my voice betrays me.
It hiccups. Squeaks. Bleeds in sorrow and bitterness.
Fucking damn him. “To think I was beginning to understand you.” That affects him.
It’s finite but he flinches. Good. “You’re no Grim Reaper of the east coast. You’re not even a man. You’re a fucking coward.”