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I keep staring at her bare wrist where the dazzled shackle should be as the sun rises. It’s only taken me twenty-four hours to consider forsaking the rest of her family because the thought of abandoning her, even at her own request, destroys me. He was my enemy. It was never a pain that she and I were meant to suffer together.
I’d already organized a few meetings upon my return to New York. I had to ensure I didn’t make a move out of desperation because it would also impact my mother and grandfather. But nor could I resist my urgency.
My phone buzzes, and I check the screen.
Layla: I’m still alive. And mission accomplished. I hooked the client up with her future beau and convinced her we deserved a decent paycheck. I might’ve missed my calling.
Me: Why are you only checking in at this hour of the morning?
Layla: Smirking Emoji
Layla: How’s she doing?
My grip tightens on Elanee. Mixed emotions stir. She seemed happy when I made her come. But everything else… Not good. How could she be? And why do I have the impression this is the most soundlessly she’s slept in a long time?
Me: She’s safe.
For now.
Elanee stirs in my arms and grumbles a complaint about the hard pillow. That pillow being my chest. I can’t stop stroking her smooth skin and inhaling her sweet vanilla musk scent. I was infatuated, having never thought the day would come when I’d have her in my arms.
“It’s creepy when you stare.” Her voice is gravelly, but she makes no attempt to open her eyes. I chuckle.
I go to kiss her, brushing my lips against hers, but retract. “Oh my gosh, your breath.”
Her eyes burst open. “Shut up!” She jerks back to check as she breathes into her hand, and I smirk.
“I was only kidding,” I say, pulling her back in for a kiss.
She pulls away as if punishing me but gives in with a chuckle. A genuine chuckle that I hadn’t heard since she’d returned to New York.
We both seem to notice it because she immediately freezes and tucks the blanket around herself self-consciously. It’s as if the light moment is immediately swallowed by the ominous shadow that looms over us—the mood for any type of kissing sucked in by it.
“Is Layla okay?” she asks, her voice is laced with guilt. I might’ve been able to get her here, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t still thinking of her sister and the possibilities of what could go wrong.
“Yes. I was just messaging her. I told you everything’s okay for this weekend.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “About last night…”
My stomach twists. She’s going to say it was a mistake. She despises me, after all. Or so she says. But the truth of being unworthy of her remained. Although I’d never dealt with rejection before, I knew that this woman was the only one I’d care about it coming from.
“Do you not think I’ll be able to satisfy you?” she asks. Is that really what plagues her mind?
“The problem, Cricket, is that once I have a taste, I know it will never be enough,” I confess. It shouldn’t be her doubting being able to pleasure me but the other way around.
I know without doubt she will be the only woman I will be possessive of. If I’m not already. And it’s a cruel reality to have to let her go once again. I’m fighting against every primal urge to protect her.
She bites her bottom lip and the act in itself has my cock twitching.
“And what are your… tastes?” she asks curiously. I shouldn’t want it. Shouldn’t act on it. She hasn’t gone into detail as to what’s been done to her, but on the tail end of my father, how can I suggest my tastes, which depend on pleasure that’s built around pain? Won’t that hurt her, scare her, trigger her?
Can I refrain even myself just to be with her?
“I like things… rough. My sexual partners are submissive, and our activities often involve chains and tools that will inflict pain,” I admit as I push back strands of her hair. She swallows, and I notice the conflict in her gaze and the tension in her body.
I’m too much for her. I’ll protect her, but I know the better man for her is one who can provide nurturing and healing, not one who wants to bend her over and break her for my own sexual pleasure.
I go to stand, for the first time in my life, somewhat ashamed of my particular tastes, but her nails dig into my arm. “Wait,” she says breathlessly. She swallows hard. “I don’t like pain very much.” And an unsaid story laces those words.
