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After today, I didn’t think that was right.
I’d hated every moment. I’d panicked the moment Kyle started cutting me. I’d almost passed out from the agony as he shot me with those horrible paintballs.
I didn’t like pain.
In fact, I could safely say I loathed it and had had enough to last me a lifetime.
But…I liked him.
Oh God…
Memories from earlier tonight flooded me.
The way the drug made me swell with fondness and burn with friendship.
I didn’t just like him.
I love—
Whoa!
I couldn’t. Not possible. I could accept I lusted for him. I could tolerate appreciating him when he defended me, but love?
Nuh-uh. No way.
How could I love the man responsible for this tragedy?
I couldn’t.
Ever.
But…you can like him.
I paused, sinking back into need.
Yes, it was tolerable to like him.
I liked his particular brand of pain. Delivered with feelings and fears—his feelings and fears. I liked that each time he touched me, he left little souvenirs of his lust, bruises of his desire, and scars of his affection.
A tidal wave of want flowed far too swift and savage.
I trembled on his lap.
My skin burned with the need to be marked, gripped, squeezed, and autographed. Facets of myself unlocked in the dark, unfurling and embracing without scorn or worries.
Who cared about right and wrong, love or hate?
Right now, I wanted him.
I wanted him to deliver bliss as well as brutality.
I wanted him to kiss me, then bite me, caress me, then fuck me.
No, I wasn’t a masochist.
I was a Mercerchist…or a Wardchist… whichever surname he now went by.
I laughed under my breath.
