25 #3
If that’s true—if this all-encompassing, soul-shredding desire is wholly my own—then I’m so deeply fucked.
There’s no way this can result in anything other than mutual destruction.
If I’m fool enough to allow it, he’ll chew me up and spit me out.
If this is what kissing him feels like, then sex with Slade might ruin me completely.
His desire, surely, is fleeting, while I suspect my own won’t be so easily sated.
If I let this go any further, I risk it becoming too easy to forget what tomorrow brings.
But I am hideously weak, and forgetting is a relief.
Slade pulls back before I can, studying me with heavy-lidded eyes. His pupils are blown wide. “I can feel you thinking, Talin.”
“No, you can’t.” The words come out weak, pathetic, like I’ve just run a race. My lips are swollen, my fingernails still embedded in the back of his neck. I should have been the one to pull away. It was the only way to ensure I retained any sort of power, and now I’ve lost it.
And some tiny, twisted part of me fucking loves that.
“Stop it.” Slade’s voice is heavy with command.
The air changes when he gives that order, and something in me changes.
My pulse skyrockets irrespective of my attempt to control it.
He releases my legs and lets me slide down the wall, his attention sharpening like a predator homing in on a kill.
All my instincts scream of danger, but I’m just as locked in.
I know I should leave. I know he’d let me go, if I really wanted to.
I can’t, though, and it has nothing to do with any lingering fear of him.
I stop thinking, stop arguing with myself, and he somehow knows it.
“Good girl.”
My teeth come together with an audible click. The usual version of me would resent every order that leaves his lips and make him sorry for daring to give it. I don’t know where the hell that version went. Because this version of me is pliant, deferential, desperate to please him.
I think I hate her.
I think I hate us both.
One corner of Slade’s mouth tilts up in a wicked smile. “That’s what I thought.”
He moves to brace his hands on either side of my head, fingers curled against the wall. He lets his head dip forward, putting his cheek close to mine. Listening to my quick breaths, no doubt. Then, after a collision of heartbeats, he steps away again.
He looks too calm. Too confident. Too smug. I glare at him, but there’s little weight behind it. He’s dismantling my defenses piece by piece, and he knows it.
“I hate you,” I tell him, a harsh whisper.
That smile widens. “I know, little sinner. That’s what makes this so fucking good.” Then, so abruptly that I almost miss the shift, something in his face darkens. “Get on your knees.”
It’s a test. I know that as I slowly sink to the ground, glaring at him all the while.
I’m familiar with this role. I’ve played it before, although not with a man.
I didn’t think I would ever be here. I shouldn’t be here.
That much is obvious, even as I rest my hands on my thighs, my gaze lowered.
The power imbalance between us is already a chasm. I can’t let him have this too.
And yet I’m going to. If this is a war with myself, I’ve already lost.
Slade’s cool fingers slide beneath my chin, tilting it up. A shiver ripples through me as my eyes meet his. They’re no longer cold, but rather liquid heat. Like a flame that burns so hot it turns blue.
“Interesting,” he purrs. “So very interesting.”
My traitorous body is already responding to him in a way that has nothing to do with the kiss. My desire has always been a violent thing. One that can’t be assuaged by what most people associate with romance.
I don’t want romance at all, in fact. I need something different. Something more.
I need it to hurt.
He brushes a thumb over my lower lip, hissing when I bite down on it. It’s not a hiss of pain, but of desire. But then he withdraws, stepping back with a knowing smirk, and I growl—actually growl—in frustration.
“Not here,” Slade says as I leap to my feet, about ready to throttle him. “I daresay Emeric and Ceri have already heard enough. Besides, I think it’ll be good for both of us to exercise some patience.” His eyes flash. “I’m not generally so…unrestrained.”
Logically I know he’s right about the location being less than ideal, but I’m finding it hard to care. Still, I’m sure as hell not about to beg him to fuck me, and it’s pride that eventually wins out.
“Fine.” I try to look as unruffled as possible. I’m positive I don’t succeed, given that I’m practically panting. “I’ll go to bed then. Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” he says, a single, severe syllable. He looks almost amused as I adjust my clothes and turn away. He’s doing this on purpose—making me wait, testing my resolve. My suspicions are only cemented when he adds, “Try not to think about me.”
I want to hit him. I want him to hit me. “I won’t need to try.”
But a few moments later, alone in my bed, it takes me no time at all to finish what he started.