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Alana
My cover-up falls to the ground, and my hands find the lapels of Damion’s jacket. The back door, or what I assume is the back door, shuts, and whoever was with Damion is now gone. “Answer, Alana,” Damion presses. “Why would I let you what?”
“Go again,” I dare, the feel of him next to my scantily clad body softening me inside and out. “Why would you let me go again? You promised—”
“I didn’t let you go. You let me go. You left me.”
I’m angry all over again, my temper flaring and my body hot for all kinds of reasons right about now. “As if you haven’t left me over and over my entire life?! I was trying to protect you.” I do my best to try to twist away from him.
He holds me firmly, his hand splaying on my lower back. “And I didn’t you?” he demands. “That’s all I’ve done my entire life is try to protect you.”
“Dividing us is not protecting me.”
“Then what did you just do, Alana?”
I feel the words as the slap intended, but I stand my ground. “You can’t kill him. That’s not an answer, and one of us has to end him. That has to be me.”
“You think what you did hurt him? It didn’t. It won’t end him. He’ll end you. Which is exactly why your little plan ends now.”
“You don’t make my decisions, Damion.”
“I am now. If you think I won’t tie you to the bed in the other room and keep you there until this is over, you’re wrong. You’re staying here until this is over.”
“You can’t make me stay, and Adam already told me they won’t be my kidnappers.”
“But I will,” he promises.
His arrogance and promise to all but imprison me are infuriating. “Fuck you, Damion.”
“I’d like that very much, Alana.” His voice is low, rough, and laden with emotions that steal my breath as they read one part like love and another like hate. His eyes glint hard as steel, seconds ticking by, before he releases me and hands me my cover-up. “I’d like that very much. Put this on before I forget just how broken we are and fuck you anyway.”
It’s one of the coldest things he’s ever said to me, but he doesn’t move away. I can feel how much he doesn’t want to move and am conflicted enough to both want to push him back and pull him close. He stares down at me with his bluer-than-blue eyes and waits for a reaction. I don’t know what he wants from me, what he expects, but I toss the cover-up away, my chin lifting in defiance of his command. “You’re such an asshole. You’ve really always been an asshole, haven’t you?”
The next thing I know, I’m planted against the wall, my hands over my head, his bigger hand gripping my wrists, his powerful body pressed to mine. “And you, Alana, just keep coming back for more, don’t you?”
He rips down the slash of black covering my breast, his gaze raking over my naked breast and my puckered nipple, even as he pinches it roughly. I cry out with the pain of it, and he leans in close, his lips at my ear. “You like the way I hurt you, don’t you, Alana?” He drags down the other cup to my top and finds my nipple, pinching it roughly until I’m gasping.
“Damion, damn it, it hurts.”
“But it hurts so good, baby, or we wouldn’t keep coming back for more,” he murmurs, and then he’s released my hands, his fingers tangling roughly in my hair. “I think we’re addicted to the pain.” When I try to object to what denies any love between us, his mouth closes down on mine, and the lick of his tongue is a bittersweet, brutal punishment.
He’s angry with me, so very angry, and I’m angry with him, too, and that should mean the taste of his brutality turns me off, but it’s downright addictive. I don’t pull back; I lean into him, lost in the hunger of his kiss, lost in the wildness suddenly between us. And this time, when his fingers pinch my nipples, the ache really does hurt so good. I moan into his mouth, my sex clenching with demand.
He shoves me back against the wall, and he is far from gentle, his fingers catching in the sides of my bottoms, and he goes down on one knee, dragging them down to my feet. I have the briefest of moments to moan over his hot breath on my belly before he turns me to the wall and smacks my backside. I yelp and arch into the sting, but then his fingers are between my legs, delving between my sex, sensations whipping through me with the lashing of wicked pleasure.
He smacks my backside again, harder this time, and I have a wicked hot memory of him promising to spank me, filling me with a mix of trepidation and red-hot arousal. I arch into the touch, into his fingers exploring me, only to feel his palm again. I cry out, and his fingers delve deeper, his mouth and teeth scraping my hip. And just that easily, I’m trembling into orgasm, the depth of which is no more gentle than he has been. It’s long and intense, and when it’s over, Damion rotates me and licks my clit.
I cry out with the velvet touch on my sensitive flesh. “Please, Damion. Come here.”
He kisses my belly and then pushes to his feet, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it and his tie before he cups my face. “You know I love it when you say please.”
“Then please forgive me, and please be naked.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly timbre, and a dart stabs at my heart at something in his voice. My fear that his reply speaks more about his blame of himself than it does his forgiveness of me. We are still not okay. And I fear we never will be again. I’m not sure we ever have been, either. We both just pretended we were. We both wanted what the universe seems to always take from us.
Each other.
Chapter Eight
