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Something about his command passes through my wall of defenses and burrows into my brain. Deep down, I know it’s the truth. I am his. In ways even I don’t understand. This moment was meant to happen. This connection, no matter how many times severed, was supposed to mend this way.
So, I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Drawing his hips back, Dominic slams into me just as hard, the pain mixing with pleasure as each thrust discovers something new. A rhythm that makes me grip the sheets. An unknown spot that draws cries of his name from my throat. New intimate details that belong only to him.
The more I react, the rougher his thrusts become. Sweat coats our skin, our bodies slipping against each other as we both chase an orgasm I know I’ll never come back from. I fear not only its power, but its aftermath.
“Fuck!” he roars. “Come for me, Angel.”
When his thumb presses hard against my clit and rubs in merciless circles, my last shred of control slips away, and I not only fall over the edge, I run toward it and free fall to the ground with no regard for anything but this feeling of pure ecstasy. Immediately, Dominic’s hips jerk, and he sinks his teeth into my calf, letting out a muffled groan as he comes.
The room falls silent except for our ragged breathing.
“Count it,” he mumbles, kissing the bite mark he left on my skin.
I blink. “Huh?”
“I told you I was going to fuck you at least six different ways tonight, and you were going to count all of them.” Pulling out, he moves my legs off his shoulders and rips off the condom. There’s a wicked gleam in his eye as he climbs off the bed. Taking my hands in his, he drags me to the edge of the mattress until my head tips off the edge. “But I didn’t say where.”
“Dominic, what—”
Fisting his cock, which—holy shit—is already hard again, he gives it a few rough strokes before angling it toward my lips. “Count.”
“One,” I say, barely getting the word out before it’s cut off and drowned out by a satisfied groan.
My feet feel stuck in quicksand. I want to move but I can’t.
Pennies. I don’t like pennies.
Go now. Go now. Go now.
The words break through, and the quicksand goes away. My legs move, and I’m running. Running fast as the wind with the smell of pennies trailing after me. I don’t know where to go, so I go to the only place I feel safe.
I won’t cry. Tears are a tool not a weakness. Sinking to my knees in between my bed and my dresser, I shake, saying the broken pieces of the Lord’s Prayer I can remember. “Otche nash, sushchiy na nebesakh…” I can’t hear anything over the loud noises, so I cover my ears and close my eyes. “Da svyatitsya imya Tvoye.”
I don’t know what makes me look up. It’s a feeling. One that wraps around me like a mother’s arms, but cold. Cold and dark. How can something so beautiful be so dark?
“Are you God?” I ask quietly.
My heart hurts as he shakes his head—this boy with the frozen eyes and sad smile. “No. I’m the Angel of Death.”
I sit up and scream until I can’t breathe. Until my chest hurts, and my voice breaks to barely a whisper. Held down by death, I thrash, fighting for my life, trapped between static and sound and people I don’t know.
“Angel, baby, stop! Jesus, what’s wrong?”
My eyes open, and the first thing I see is Dominic’s face framed by the burned backdrop of a barely lit dawn. His eyes are wide and alarmed, his hands wrapped around my shoulders as if he’s afraid I might disappear into thin air.
It’s only then I look around, realizing I’m in his bedroom, tangled in his sheets.
“Jesus, what the hell were you dreaming about? I thought…” Slumping back, he scrubs a hand down his face. “Never mind.”
I’m still shaking, but the harder I reach for the fragments of the dream, the quicker they dissolve. Pieces filter in, but they don’t fit together. Nothing makes sense. It’s like playing a record backward and skipping every third groove.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, falling into his arms. “But it’s not over.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DOMINIC
