Rinsing off the blade, I took his face again, shoving it back to where I had it, because he’d dropped it again—probably to watch me.
He stood there silently as I slowly dragged the blade up his throat, the grainy sound filling the room and everything in the distance fading away. My hand shook with the knowledge that at any moment I could cut him.
Deep.
He would deserve it. After what he did to me…
After being everything I craved and needed, he made me fall in love with him, but come to find out, I’d fallen for a lie. A boy who treated me badly and found out how easy it was to hide right under my nose and get me to fuck him. Did he laugh about it after with his friends? Did he have fun?
My eyes pooled with tears as I shaved another strip, the tension in my hand making it ache as I gripped the razor so tightly.
How could he lie like that? The way he was… The words, the kissing, the shower, the way he held me and acted so sad sometimes, the desperation in his body when he took mine over and we were lost in the heat and the need to feel each other.... How could he lie so well? Young girls weren’t hard-hearted. He had to know how easily I would fall. Did he think it would be funny when he got my hopes up and played with me like that? Did he laugh at how pathetic the little blind girl was to think he loved her?
He sucked in a short breath, and I stopped, my tears threatening to spill over as I realized I’d cut him.
He didn’t say anything, though, and he didn’t move. I sat there, my hand in mid-air under his chin as I waited. I actually hadn’t meant to do that. Was it bad?
I heard him swallow and then he said, “Keep going.” But it came out as a whisper.
I blinked away the tears and loosened my grip, trying to relax.
“What’s all the noise downstairs?” I asked him.
“Extra security.”
“To keep me locked in?”
“To keep you safe,” he corrected in a coy tone.
I was sure the disdain was visible on my face. But then I remembered how he denied being in the theater bathroom and Crane denied that anyone was in the house this morning when I ran to St. Killian’s. They had no reason to lie. Was I in more danger than I thought? Was someone else after me? Enemies my father made or something?
I quieted, almost afraid of his answer when I asked, “Is my family really in the Maldives?”
“Yes,” he said.
Pain pricked at the back of my throat.
And while it was unusual my mother was on his honeymoon and not him, I knew why. He had no interest in the Maldives. Everything that interested him was here.
“Why would my mother leave me with you?”
“Because she’s a cunt.”
My hand shook a little, part of me angry and part of me wanting to cry. She left me. She actually left me. Did she fight? Sob? Have to be forced out the door at least? Did he offer her anything? Was she supposed to be back soon?
Why did she let him convince her to leave?
Because she’s a cunt.
My chin trembled for a moment, almost appreciating the genuine anger in his voice. He’d done this. He’d sent them away.
But even though he did what he thought he had to do to get what he wanted, he still didn’t have any respect for my mother for giving in to him. What kind of parent…
“Where do you go when you’re not here?” I pried, changing the subject. “Are you really going into the city? Or New York? Where?”
Or were you close? Always close.
He was gone a lot, and it hadn’t escaped my notice that he barely stayed here at night. Where the hell was he sleeping?
Maybe he had another woman. Another woman other than my sister, I meant.
He hissed again, and I knew I’d cut him again.
Shit.
But he still didn’t move or speak, just breathed, exhaling slow, almost like a sigh of relief.
“Keep going,” he whispered, sounding breathless and raspy this time.
Heat rolled off him, and I could feel his chest under my hand, the slow, steady breaths almost sounding calm and spent, like he enjoyed it.
He liked being cut?
Or he liked the fear?
Again, I was reminded of the night driving his car. I’d loved how he didn’t get mad at my mistakes and waited for me to do things at my pace. Just like now. He wasn’t mad I cut him.
But maybe there was something in it for him, too. He enjoyed toying with death. Fear made us feel alive.
I finished with his neck and rinsed off the blade. “Bend forward a little,” I told him. “I can’t reach your face.”
He came in as close as he could, pressing between my legs, and tipped his head down at me, our bodies chest to chest. His warmth spread across my face with him only inches away, and I felt self-conscious. “Don’t stare at me.”
I could feel his shitty little smile.
Finding my position, I slid the blade up the side of his face, going with the grain, because my father did it that way, and Damon didn’t say to do it differently. I shaved one cheek and moved the other, grazing my fingers over his skin to feel for any missed spots.
His warm breath hit my forehead, the heat of his body everywhere, and I knew he was looking down at me, but I suddenly didn’t want to tell him to stop, because for a split second, I remembered how good his arms and hands felt. Even if it was a lie, I let myself enjoy the intimacy I’d been starved for. For just a moment.
I ran the blade down his skin, shaving everywhere I felt stubble. His cheeks, his chin, above his top lip, and below his bottom one, and I dragged my fingers over every inch of jawline to feel for anything I’d missed, and after seconds of my hand on him, I was drawn back to the ballroom seven years ago when he let me look at him with my hands.
Nothing had changed.
I set the blade down and brought both hands up to cup his face. “Just need to check,” I told him, but it came out so soft I wasn’t sure he heard me.
I touched him, grazing my fingertips across his cheekbones, down to his jaw, up his neck, and over the hollows of his cheeks. He moved into it, meeting my touch by cocking his head and turning it, giving me complete access as I checked my work, and then his words came back to me from all that time ago.
Want to check the rest of my body?
Absently, my fingers fell down his neck, and I dug my fingers in just a little, because I wanted to touch more, and I hated myself for it.
His breathing turned labored, and he pressed his hands into the grooves of my thighs where they met my hips, kneading them.
He leaned down, his nose brushing mine as he pressed his chest into me and growled in a whisper, “Winter…”
I gripped his shoulders, feeling the ridge of his hard cock nudge me between my legs as heat pooled in my groin. My heart pounded. I wanted to run away.
And I wanted him to rip off my clothes, too.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
He fell into me, pushing me back against the mirror, and I rolled myself into him, my clit throbbing with the tease of his muscle through his towel.
And I knew…even with as good as he felt and how lonely I’d been, because I couldn’t trust anyone or myself after the humiliation of that video, once it was done, I’d hate myself. I’d hate myself for letting him have a piece of me again.
I turned away from him, pushing at his body to get free. “Get off me.”
But he stayed there a moment, breathing hard.
“Why?” he finally asked. “You seem to like me.”
“Get off me!” I snapped. “You’re not getting that from me.”
I shoved at him, putting all of my strength against his chest, but he just rumbled with a laugh.
“I’ve already had that,” he said, his voice sharp and threatening. “Now I want your sanity. Just a little turn of the screw…”
I scrambled out from underneath him, stood up, and slammed him in the chest.
He stumbled back, laughing again. “All in good—”
“Yo, Winter!” a shout damn near shook the house from downstairs. “We’re here!”
Huh?
“Who is that?” Damon demanded. “That sounds like Will.”
But he didn’t give me a chance to answer. He shot past me, and I let out a breath, relief washing over me as I remembered my talk with Will last night.