Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
He lets go of my throat, his hand finding the other side of my face so he’s cradling it. “Show me.”
I don’t understand what he means at first, but there’s heat in his eyes. He may be on the psycho spectrum, but he does want me. That part is definitely true.
So I give him what he wants.
I close the distance between our mouths, and at the first brush of our lips, he takes control. It’s not the first time he’s kissed me, but it’s the first time I’ve known there’s probably a reason he shouldn’t. It’s the first time he’s tasted my resistance and rejected it. It’s the first time he’s really kissed me as himself.
This kiss makes the others feel a little like performances, and my mind races, but my heart does, too. There’s an intensity to his kiss this time, a demand. It’s not something he’s giving me, but something he’s making me give him. The dynamic is completely different.
He breaks the kiss to look down at me, his gaze appraising, maybe a little skeptical. It feels like I’m taking a test, but I studied the wrong book.
I can’t tell if he finds what he needs, but his mouth drifts closer. He steals a kiss just to see how I react, then he takes another, longer one.
He pulls back to look at me again. He keeps doing it—pushing me, kissing me, seeing how much I’ll give him. When his palm squeezes my breast through my shirt, I’m not sure if my heart is racing from excitement or fear.
I get the feeling he’s deciding how far he wants to take this, and I’m terrified because he’s in the driver’s seat. Whatever he demands right now, I’ll give him—not because I want to, but because I’m afraid not to. Because I’m realizing he might be dangerous in a way I didn’t expect, and I don’t know how to navigate it without getting hurt.
He tweaks my nipple through the fabric, and I gasp, drawing his observant gaze back to my face. I think he knows he could fuck me right now and I wouldn’t stop him, but maybe he also knows I wouldn’t want it. Maybe that matters to him. After everything with his brother, surely it does, but none of that feels relevant to the decision he’s making now.
His voice is low, husky with desire when he murmurs, “Do you forgive me?”
My heart sinks, but I don’t even have to think about my response before I nod.
“Yeah?”
I nod again.
“You promise?” he murmurs.
“I promise,” I whisper, my heart pounding in my throat.
This feels extremely unfair because I know there’s only one answer he’ll accept, and I don’t know what will happen if I don’t give it to him. It doesn’t feel like it should count, but he accepts my forgiveness—even if he forced it out of me.
“Good.” He seals the deal with another kiss, and though his lips feel so tender, I feel the danger vibrating just beneath the surface. He kisses me with so much care that my body gets swept up and pulled under his spell, but my mind pulls back, reminding me that this could have gone a very different way if I hadn’t given in to him.
I have to catch my breath when he finally pulls away.
His gaze is soft now, but earlier it betrayed a ruthlessness I must have known was there since the moment he saw his brother bleeding on the ground and didn’t move to help him. I’m only really feeling it for the first time tonight, though. I didn’t care about his brother. I was emotionally removed from his death in a way that made it easy to overlook the obvious, but my vision isn’t blurry when I look at this picture.
He killed someone in cold blood last night. Someone who hadn’t harmed him, who hadn’t deserved it. He did it for me.
And now, he’s holding me captive against my garage door and kissing me until I forgive him.
I’m kissing a killer.
I guess that’s true for him, too, but I can’t help thinking it’s different.
Not that it matters.
They’re both dead, and we’re both responsible.
What an absolute fucking mess.
I guess he’s satisfied now because he finally releases me.
He tells me to get some rest and that I’ll feel better tomorrow.
I intend to—rest, at least. I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow.
Right now, I am depleted.
He lets me go inside the house, and I’m relieved when the door closes without interruption. I turn the deadbolt, knowing he’s still likely out there and heard it, but too drained to care. Emotionally, my body feels hollowed out, and energy? What’s that?
When I get to my room, I collapse onto my bed, my whole world spinning out of control. Lacking the will to reach for it, to even try to steady it, I close my eyes and lose my second battle of the night—this time, to exhaustion.