Page 96 of Drowning in Darkness

“One hundred percent.”

I pull her arms higher, forcing her onto her tiptoes. “I want you on your knees. I want you to wear my handprints on your ass for days. I want to drive you to the edge and keep you begging for release until it hurts. I want to drive my cock inside your pussy until you’re aching and sore. I want your throat bruised, your nipples raw, your lips swollen. I want to tie you to my bed and torment you, winding you tighter and higher. I want to ruin you.”

I press myself against her, chest to chest, groin to groin, allowing her to feel exactly what she does to me. I glide the tip of my nose up her neck, breathing her in before murmuring, “Now is the time to run screaming, sweetheart.”

“But what if I want those things too?”

Fuck.

THIRTY-TWO

STEPHANIE

All hypotheses should be tested. It’s basically a crime otherwise.

It’s been an hour, and he’s still outside splitting wood like it could solve his problems. By the look on his face, it’s not helping. My blood is still heated from his words, from the fantasies he described meant to make me run screaming. But he miscalculated because I want all those things and so much more. I refuse to be ashamed of the desires stirring in my mind. I spent too long feeling that way in the aftermath of my attack. Dirty, angry, broken. I worked damn hard to leave all that behind, but I’ve been clueless how to go about asking for the things I need.

But now he’s here handing it to me on a platter, and most importantly, I trust him. I trust him to stop with one word. I trust him not to judge how my body reacts to thoughts of rough handling, and I trust him not to hurt me. But getting him to believe in himself is the mountain to climb.

I float around the lodge looking for something to distract myself. I contemplate marching outside and demanding he get his ass back inside to give us both what we need. But he’s working through his feelings, and that can’t be rushed, no matter how hard I urge him to believe me when I say “yes, please” to all the things he’s described.

I drift into the one room infused with warmth and personality. It’s an odd find in the magazine-worthy place. Books line the shelves, everything from the classics to recent releases, some indie books, other blockbusters. Dragons to vampires, cute to dark. There’s something for every appetite and mood just waiting to be devoured. A long, plush, pink velvet sofa invites you to curl up and get lost in a fantasy world. I think this might be my favorite room, not just in the lodge, but ever.

I blink and find myself on the padded stool with the piano lid open, my fingers resting on the keys of the instrument I haven’t played since college. I wait for the panic that accompanies something I once found pleasure in. It doesn’t come. I suck in a breath, close my eyes, and play without thought. My heart thumps steady and sure to the notes of a pop song I know by heart.

I sway my head and sing the words. Like the song declares, something’s got to give.

This is my wood chopping. The clarity of thought I always found appears between the first verse and chorus as I claim a part of myself I thought long lost. One song blurs into another, and I can feel the press of lips against my own, the hardening length grinding against my core, the not giving a shit that it was the middle of the day in a busy parking lot. All I could see was him, all I could feel was the way his body heat felt against me, the way our tongues glided together. My ears hummed with my rapid pulse and my skin flushed with anticipation.

It’s my first kiss since my attack, and my only one not shared with someone who went on to hurt me, and now it’s ruined me and made a mess of my future. Measuring up to that is going to be impossible. Maybe it’s because it was our first kiss, and it would have felt the same with anyone else. I should test my theory by kissing someone else. My mind rebels at that idea. By kissing him again? Yes, that’s what needs to happen. Then I can adjust the expectations in my mind. It won’t be something to live up to.

I come to the end of the song, unsure how long I’ve been here, but resolute in what needs to happen next. I snap my eyes open, spin on the seat, and come face to face with the man in question. He leans against the door frame with his arms folded as if he’s been there a long time.

“You played,” he murmurs. He’s not sweaty. In fact, he’s changed, which means he probably showered before coming in here.

I ignore the obvious statement. He heard me, so it’s not up for question. I stand and stalk toward him, my mind clearer than it’s been in years.

He quirks a brow as I stop in front of him, rather than going around and escaping like he expects.

Silly man. He needs to let go of expectations when it comes to me.

I wrap my hands around his neck and suck in a lungful of his spicy fresh scent.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Testing a theory.” I press my lips against his. If he doesn’t reciprocate, it will diminish the feeling that nothing will beat him. I’m torn between wanting that and the alternative.

One of his hands winds in my hair and tugs, while the other snakes around my back. He takes a few steps, and my back hits a wall. Then he devours every moan and every gasp, growling as I arch my spine to push against him.

His fingers dig into my hip. Heat unfurls low as competing fantasies curl around us. I want to lose control while he takes it, but most of all, I want him to be right there with me. Desperate, trembling, addicted. I can’t be the only one lost.

His hand slams into the wall beside my head as he tears his mouth from mine. “What theory?” he snaps.

What? Oh, fuck. The theory.

“I thought maybe the way that kiss made me feel was because it was the first one I'd given willingly.”

He sucks in a breath as I tell him without being explicit about my lack of experience. What he doesn’t realize is that night was my only experience, and for the first time, I want to replace those memories with new ones.