Chapter 12 Brielle #3
As I settle back down he grips my calves gently.
He takes his strong thumb and slowly strokes it down the center of my calves, then begins kneading each individual calf between his callused palms. The feeling is heavenly, and my muscles sing out with pain and pleasure as they ease into his touch.
He takes his time carefully caressing, pulling the tension tight between us.
Icy electricity builds between our souls.
As he finishes, he trails the fingers of one hand up my inner leg.
My eyes grow wide as I firmly grip the table in anticipation of what he might do, but I scold the half of my soul that wants him to creep further up toward my heat.
His fingertips cease at the inside of my middle thigh.
I hold my breath, in hopes that he’ll dare to venture higher. I fight the succubus within me that wants to beg and plead.
His thumb branches out across the back of my thigh as he applies sinful pressure to the tight knot in my hamstring.
I bite back a moan, my teeth digging into my lower lip, refusing to let him see what he does to me.
He massages with the perfect amount of languid pressure.
Then he carefully grasps the sheet and pulls it back down over my lower half, returning to my side.
He knows though—no matter how hard I try to hide it—he knows what he’s doing to me.
I couldn’t help the small whimpers and moans that escaped, that begged for him to touch me.
I wonder if he can tell I fantasized about him.
That my traitorous body had been longing with curiosity to know how those hands felt.
Everett moves the sheet back, returning to my hideous scars and continuing his ministrations, causing the insecurities to creep back to the front of my mind.
Everett finally speaks as he caresses my back. “You are running from yourself and your thoughts, aren’t you? Because of your past? Because of your husband?”
I feel my skin prickle across my back with each question, the tiny hairs on my nape simultaneously standing up.
He knows. Somehow, he knows. He begins using the palm of his hand, rubbing my back with the perfect amount of pressure.
I understand what he’s trying to do now.
This isn’t just about showing me how much he’s in control.
It’s to abuse my vulnerable position and prove how easily things could turn violent.
Again, he’s playing with his prey and I’m playing with fire.
The thought doesn’t scare me though. Instead, it sends arousal through the lower pit of my abdomen.
Even though I remain face down on the massage bench, my mind wanders to a dangerous place.
I want the sheet to fall to the floor, to expose my body to him, to see how far he would go.
He told me to order him , demand him . I could do that now.
His voice breaks into my dirty thoughts. “I have connections. I find out everything about any one , any where , any time ,” he drawls out in a low, seductive voice. “So why don’t you tell me everything before I tell you what I know. ”
At this moment, I feel his weight shift. His stone-hard form is closer to me, his breath upon my ear. I can feel the brush of his shirt against my skin. His hands are still languidly finding my scars and tracing them. Stroking them like a lover’s touch.
“Let me challenge that filthy, lying tongue of yours to tell the truth.”
My breath catches in my throat. I feel like I can’t speak, as if my voice box has left the room in a fit of fear.
Is this a ploy? A test?
Maybe he doesn’t know anything, and this is one way to pressure me. When he sits up to continue his ministrations, something tugs within me. I miss his hovering force and his close proximity.
My breathing becomes ragged, fighting the panic attack that wants to rear its ugly head, but he keeps working my muscles.
Kneading the tension away as my body begins to slowly shake beneath his touch from the anxiety.
He moves so calculatingly to the front of my head and I feel the small gust of air as his body crouches down.
His head is next to mine as he lazily claws one hand through my hair and gently pulls my head up, toward his face.
“Fine, if you won’t tell me, then let’s really begin.
” He tightens his grasp in my hair, sending small sparks of pleasure down my spine.
I should be scared.
This shouldn’t feel good, it shouldn’t feel… right .
Maybe I want someone to know my story, finally. Maybe .
His low, smooth voice filters through my ears like a devilish, seductive song. “Your husband died in a fire, but it wasn’t by chance, was it? The papers say he was asleep, and the fire engulfed the house.”
I see the expression in his face, even though he tries to remain as icy as possible. His handsome, stark features try to exude malice, but I can see what’s hidden beneath his irises. The compassion held within his eyes, reaching out to me.
He continues his interrogation. “He was too tired to notice the flames engulfing your home, too tired to recognize he was being burned alive? You killed him, didn’t you?
” He raises an eyebrow in question. “You don’t run from our business.
You don’t cower in fear at our dealings. You’re like us, aren’t you, dove?”
Dove —I still don’t understand his nickname for me, its meaning, but a small pang of terror flickers inside me at his question. Am I like them ?
I’ve always been a bit “off”—certain things don’t faze me the way they do others.
Like death and destruction.
When I speak of the war and what I saw, others are appalled, so I ceased sharing my stories when people asked. They would only end up upset by the graphic details.
An unfamiliar feeling begins to blossom inside my chest: a small dose of courage, as I felt him re-grip the strands of my hair ever so delectably.
I stare at his hardened amber eyes and confess, “I had to kill him, before he killed me.”
We stare at one another. Our breaths hold as silence swarms us.
Something unspoken is shared as he loosens the grip on my hair but does not let go.
I stay lying flat on the massage table, hands clenching the bench as I prop myself up on my forearms. A single traitorous tear slips down my cheek as I continue, “You saw my back. Those are not all from the war. You experienced the real war like I did, and you know which scars are from shrapnel and which ones are from the knife of a lover.”
My brows begin to furrow at the memories, but I keep my courage and fight on, staring him straight in the eyes with ferocity. Commanding myself to tell him my story—the story no one else knows.
“You see the H burned into my skin, like on a broodmare? That’s all I was to him.
Property . A thing he could use and abuse.
That night I tried my damnedest to work late so I could come home to a sleeping drunk, but instead I came home to a thrashing demon.
” The memory of the night flashes in my head.
My mind wants to protectively block it out and cease my admission, but I press on, choking on my words.
“I decided that he had hurt me for the last time that night. I refused to let him berate me, rape me, hit me and spit on me. So, when he finished overpowering me and choking me, I…” I trail off, my eyesight beginning to haze at the stress and the rush of past emotions clouding my mind, but I fight to finish what he started.
“You what?” he mutters, expression softening as his grip on my hair changes from clutching my scalp to holding my head. I feel his hand slide down the nape of my neck, his thumb slowly caressing my jawline.
“I took the same fire iron he branded me with and struck him multiple times in the head. I bathed him in his beloved alcohol. Then I returned to the hospital and acted like I was working the rest of the night. After gathering some small items, I turned back for the last time and let the fucker burn. Everything that tried to kill my spirit died in those flames.” My voice begins to shake at the end of my retelling.
The memory causes a rush of pain to my skull as the stress brings on a tension headache, but I try to breathe through the pain.
I try to keep my gaze on him, challenging and ready for whatever judgment he will deliver.
Maybe it would be my last day, but as I stare at him, nostrils flaring as I try to keep my composure, I see something change within him.
Something I can’t quite grasp, but yes, something has changed.
He tilts my head within his soft grasp, assessing me, and states, “You did what you had to, to survive.” Then he leans in close and feathers his lips upon mine.
My mouth welcomes him, leaning into his touch, his smell, his spirit.
I open for him as he presses his tongue into me. A low moan comes from his throat.
I only shudder at the pure pleasure that I derive from his touch. The icy atmosphere melts as our bodies radiate with illicit heat.