What was he talking about? Ever since they’d found out that she could block him out of her mind, he hadn’t attempted to read her again, so that left their relationship purely physical. As much as it could be anyway. Why did it sound like that wasn’t enough for him? What was going on?
He paused, then laughed a little, a huff of air blowing back the strands of her wig. “I don’t bring flowers, but I hope I offer something…more.”
She flushed with twisted contentment. “You talking about Matt Lonigan again? Why, I didn’t know you cared.”
“Don’t be flippant. Breisi and Kiko are uneasy about him, you realize.”
“And you?”
Instead of answering, he bathed her with swirls of movement, light yet insistent, urging her to stroke herself harder. She bucked, getting wet, slick with vibrating excitement.
Okay…ignoring the whole Matt thing.
Not to be trumped, Dawn reached up with her other hand to part her blouse, showing her undershirt and bra. The last was a pretty standard satin creation, but it didn’t matter. With The Voice’s attentions, she was the hottest lingerie angel on earth.
While still working her, he stretched upward, over her belly, which jumped with his pressure. Fingertip-light sensations traced over her ribs.
Her skin prickled as his touch seemed to go below the skin, saturating it with gnawing heat, flowing to the core of her.
It turned Dawn on so much that she lifted a leg, hooking it under the arm of the chair next to her for balance. Slowly, she opened her legs farther for him, swollen, stiff, aching. Ready. So damned ready.
“How much experience in this”—she blew out a breath—“have you…had?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Why not?” It’d keep her sane, pinned to her old habit of keeping this interaction casual and simple enough to leave behind after she’d gotten what she wanted out of it. “You’ve been in my head. You know I’ve banged a lot of guys.”
“Never say it that way.” His essence went cold. “That’s not what you are to me.”
Power overcame her, building up until it pushed against her skin. It felt good, and bad, to upset him. He’d used her for bait and she could bait him just the same.
“I’ll bet,” she said, shifting her hips and reminding him that she was the one who would or wouldn’t be letting him in, “you’ve had quite a few partners yourself. Your technique tells me you aren’t exactly a virgin.”
Something like a hand came to clasp itself around her throat, harshly, delicately. Body swamped with adrenaline, Dawn swallowed but didn’t back down.
“Many women,” he said, his tone so low it seemed to scratch the surface of hell. “I have had many women. Is that what you’d like to hear?”
He squeezed slightly, and she arched her hips against his invisible form, taking in the escalated danger, the chance of losing everything with her need to push him.
And to push herself.
“Yes, I like to hear that, Jonah.” His name was a reminder of everything he refused to tell her, and she reveled in using it against him. “I’m not surprised you’ve had many women. You seem to like them.”
She was talking about all his female portraits. A collection.
He squeezed again, and she gasped. Immediately, he released her, as if horrified by what she’d brought out in him.
Fascinated, she pushed it even further. “Who’s Kalin, the Friend you talked to when I came in the room?”
“Stop—”
“Do all the other women in your portraits have names, too? Who are they? Why—”
The air rumbled, whipping up a combination of lust and fear around her—in her. Did he compel her so much because she didn’t trust him? Was that another part of his appeal?
She was drawn to his danger, needed it inside of her because that’s what had kept her going for most of her life: fury, confusion, and now terror.
“Come in,” she whispered urgently, fully opening herself to his destruction, his intangible power.
He obeyed, crashing into her with such searing rage that she cried out, devastated and completed.
As if reflecting his fury, the lights blinked out, plunging the room into pitch black. He hammered into every cell of her body, stretching them to the point of explosion. He shredded her membranes, pieced them back together, then ripped them apart again. She allowed him the fevered pleasure, her emotions so scrambled she didn’t know what to cling to or who she was anymore.
As she came, shuddering while she strained against the pressure of him, she reached out and grabbed the leg of the chair, holding on, afraid to let go. When she cried out, she yanked at it, toppling it over, the wood crashing to the ground. Brought down. Beaten.
Panting, she opened her eyes, still electrified, even though something inside of her was dying back to its original form. Inner sparks buzzed on, then off, jittering to the occasional flash of something lost as she lay in the dark.
She felt The Voice hovering above her, his essence clenched in what she thought might still be anger.
“Why can’t it be any other way with you?” he said, his tone edged with devastation.
She couldn’t answer, because she really didn’t know herself.
THE LOV-AH