Chapter 4 #2
Priya forces her eyes away from my chest. She focuses on the bloody mess of my left shoulder. She reaches out. Her hands are trembling.
She presses her fingertips against the bruised, swollen skin around the bullet hole.
Her touch is too warm. It is blistering. The heat of her fingers sears straight through my muscle and sinks into my bones. The decades of ice surrounding my lungs begins to melt. It hurts. The thaw is pure agony. I clench my jaw. The muscles in my neck bulge.
She pushes gently along the collarbone. Assessing the damage. Checking for infection.
"You should have gone to a hospital. This needs stitches."
Her voice is a breathless whisper. Her professional focus wavers, but she forces her attention back to the wound.
"I don't go to hospitals."
She trails her fingers down my bicep. The touch is unnecessary for a medical exam. She is stalling. She is fascinated. She traces the edge of a jagged scar near my collarbone.
"What is this from?"
"A knife. Ten years ago."
She traces another scar on my ribs.
"And this?"
"A bullet. Five years ago."
Her hand flattens against my chest, over my heart. The heat brands my skin. She looks up. Our eyes lock.
"You’re a violent man."
It is not a question. It is a statement of fact. She is accepting the reality of what I am.
"Yes."
She slides her hand up my chest. Her thumb brushes the base of my throat, over the edge of my tattoo. My pulse hammers against her skin. She knows exactly what she is doing to me.
I have been training myself into a weapon since I was fifteen. I have bled without complaint, and never asked for anything for myself.
I’m taking her.
My right arm shoots out. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck. My fingers tangle in her hair.
Priya gasps.
I pull her forward. I drag her flush against my chest.
She collides with my solid muscle. The rolling stool skids backward, abandoning her. She is forced to brace her hands on my bare shoulders to keep her balance. She is trapped right between my thighs.
I lock my legs around her hips. I squeeze my thighs together, pinning her in place. She cannot step back. She can’t run. She’s engulfed by my size.
I need to feel something solid. I need to know she’s real.
Priya whimpers. The sound is a tiny, desperate vibration in the back of her throat. It is a sound of surrender.
I tilt her head back. My thumb presses into the soft hollow under her jaw. Her pulse is erratic, racing wildly under my thumb. Her eyes are blown wide, staring down at me with a mixture of terror and lust.
"Nico."
A warning. A plea. A prayer.
I ignore it.
I bury my face in her neck.
I inhale. Her scent floods my senses, drowning out the last remnants of the cold world outside. My mouth opens against her skin. I scrape my teeth over the soft hollow of her throat.
Priya shudders violently. Her fingers dig into my bare shoulders. Her nails bite into my skin.
I suck a bruising mark into the side of her neck. I claim the territory. I brand her with my mouth. I want the entire world to see the dark purple bruise and know exactly who she belongs to.
She arches her back. Her hips press forward.
The friction is catastrophic.
The soft mound of her center drags across the straining bulge behind my zipper. The denim grinds against the soft fabric of her slacks.
A low growl rips out of my chest. It sounds like an animal tearing through meat.
I grip her hips with both hands. I’m rough. I don’t know how to be gentle. I have forgotten what softness feels like. My large hands span the width of her pelvis, my thumbs digging deeply into her hip bones.
I pull her against my groin.
Priya cries out. Her head falls back, hair cascading over my arm. She grinds against me, chasing the brutal friction of my erection.
I roll my hips upward, meeting her thrust. The solid ridge of my cock presses painfully against my zipper, desperate to break free, desperate to bury itself inside her heat. I want to rip her clothes to shreds. I want to split her open on this sterile therapy table and ruin her for any other man.
My mouth moves from her neck to her jaw. I bite her chin. I drag my lips across her cheek.
"Priya."
I force her name out through clenched teeth. It is not a plea. It is a claim.
She opens her eyes. They are glazed with narcotic lust.
I capture her mouth.
The kiss is not a request. It’s a siege.
I part her lips bruisingly. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting the sweet, hot spice of her breath.
I devour her. I consume her moans. She tastes like life.
She tastes like salvation. I angle my head and kiss her deeper, harder, punishing her mouth with decades of starved desperation.
Priya kisses me back with equal violence. Her hands slide up my neck. Her fingers rake through the close-cropped salt-and-pepper at my nape. She pulls my head down, demanding more pressure. Her tongue battles mine, wet and slick and intoxicating.
My right hand leaves her hip. I sweep my palm up her torso. I grab the front of her tailored blouse. I close my fist around the fabric and rip.
The buttons tear free with a sharp, violent popping sound. They scatter across the linoleum floor like hail.
Priya gasps into my mouth, breaking the kiss. She looks down at her ruined shirt.
The silk hangs open. The delicate lace of her bra is exposed. Her breasts heave with rapid, shallow breaths. The pale skin is flushed with a pink arousal.
She is shivering. The clinic air is cold against her exposed skin.
A ferocious, territorial rage spikes in my blood. No one sees her skin but me. No cold touches her but mine.
I grab the heavy, bloodstained tactical shirt I discarded earlier. I shake it out.
"Put your arms out."
Priya blinks, dazed by the violent shift in momentum. She is trembling. She slowly extends her arms.
I strip the ruined silk blouse off her shoulders. I toss it away. It lands somewhere in the corner, forgotten trash. I pull the tactical shirt over her head and drag it down over her curves, covering her before anyone else can see her exposed.
The hem falls to her mid-thigh. The sleeves swallow her hands. She smells like my blood, my sweat, and the graveyard dirt of my existence.
The visual is devastating. Seeing her wrapped in the tactical shirt I put on her, marked by my hands and my mouth, shatters the last thread of restraint holding my sanity together.
Mine.
I grab the lapels of my shirt. I haul her flush against my chest again. Her soft breasts crush flat against my scarred pecs. The fabric is the only barrier between our skin.
I slide my hands down her back. I grab the swell of her ass. I lift her straight off the floor.
Priya yelps, grabbing my shoulders for purchase.
I set her down on the edge of the therapy table. I step between her spread legs. I am standing now. She is sitting high above me. The angle is perfect. The angle is deadly.
My face is level with her chest. Her thighs bracket my hips, and her center presses against my lower stomach.
My hands push under the hem of my shirt. I find the waistband of her slacks. I pop the clasp. I drag the zipper down. The metal teeth grind loudly in the quiet room.
"Nico."
She breathes my name again. She is begging. I don’t know what she’s begging for. I only know I’m going to give it to her.