I draw in breath and try to calm the machine-gun beat of my heart. I sit up straight, my hands on my thighs. My skirt is hitched up a bit, and I clutch tight to the bare skin above my knees, digging my nails in tighter and tighter, using the pain to help pull me out of this fog.
I breathe deep. “My mother,” I say. “Whoever is doing this got these from my mother.”
Beside me, Damien gently plucks one hand off my thigh and holds it tight. Guiltily, I relax my other hand.
“Your mother?” he says. “What are you talking about?”
I relay Jamie’s conversation with my mother.
“This is good,” Damien says, releasing me long enough to type out a text on his phone. “It’s solid information,” he adds, since I must look confused. “A definitive connection. I’m going to have Ryan speak with your mother. I think he’ll have better luck getting her to cooperate than I will.”
I nod, then arch my neck as I look toward the desk. There is nothing there. “Where—”
“I put it away.” His voice is as gentle as the hand that eases my fingers once again off my thigh. I jump a bit; I hadn’t realized I’d started again, but I can see the small red crescents where my nails cut into my skin.
“I—” I look away. I’m too transparent, my wounds far too visible. I desperately wish that I didn’t need the pain, but I do. I do exist, goddammit, and if I’m going to have any chance of pulling back to myself, I need it desperately.
“Tell me,” he says softly. “Tell me what you need.”
I look down at the fading crescents. “You know,” I say, my voice low.
“I do, baby.” He slides off the love seat to kneel on the floor. His hands are on my knees and he gently spreads my legs. “You want me to touch you.” His voice is as gentle as the pressure of his thumb upon my inner thigh. “You want me to fuck you. You want to feel the sting of my hand against your ass or the burn of a rope around your wrist.”
His words mesmerize me. They slide over me like warm water, seductive yet dangerous. So deep I could drown in them.
“You want to draw in the pain—to turn it around inside you.” His hands slide roughly over my thighs, pushing the skirt up around my hips to expose the white lace triangle over my sex.
My breath comes faster now and I am hyperaware of my body. Of the way the nubby upholstery presses into my thighs. Of the heat coursing through me, running in vibrant currents from Damien’s hand to my cunt, to my breasts, to my nipples. I arch my back and slide forward a bit with my hips. I want to feel his hands upon me. Hell, I just want to feel. I want the explosion, and yet at the same time, I want this. His touch. His words. His slow build to passion and that sharp sting of pain mingled with pleasure that I know is coming.
He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head in one swift, violent motion. I hear myself moan and feel my breasts tighten with need as the muscles of my sex clench with longing. Damien tosses the shirt aside and grabs my hip with one hand, shoving the skirt up around my waist. With the other hand, he fingers me over the lace panties, rubbing and teasing me through the delicate material as I spread my legs wider in shameless, wanton greed.
I want it hard and fast. I want to latch on to the pain—to use it as a rope to find my way back. I want it—and I am certain that Damien understands it.
His fingers glide over bare skin on either side of the thong, so close to my sex and my clit—but without actually touching—that my frustration is almost as keen as the pain he knows I am craving. He slides the hand on my hip up to my breast, then pinches my nipple through my bra as he yanks the thong to one side and slides three fingers deep inside me.
My breath comes in shudders and I squirm against him. I’m no longer sure what I need anymore except him. And now. Oh, please, now.