As he stares up at me, lips a ghost of a touch away from my skin, the image of him kneeling between my thighs in a similar fashion blindsides me.
Not because I haven’t thought about it since that night, but because it feels an inappropriate memory to have while he’s torturing me.
Heat thrums between my thighs, arousal coiling tight in my pelvis, and I shake with an entirely new fear; that he’ll be able to tell how he affects me.
And for some reason, part of me wants him to.
When he shifts, pulling his head back, a huff of relief decompresses my lungs. The smile that graces his face as he sits up is sinister, replacing the desire with dread, and I blink to try and stave off the whiplash.
“So, that’s how you want to play this.” His thumb flicks across my now-sticky skin—so soft, I’m sure I imagined it.
That makes me ache worse.
“What kind of girl makes up such lies about the man she’s so desperate and needy for?” he asks, but this time his hand stays over my mouth, informing me that it’s a rhetorical question.
The blanket slides lower, passing over my stomach until air hits my belly button. I don’t even have time to react, or freak out about him seeing the scar there, because the blanket doesn’t stop moving. He rips it off once he passes my hips, baring most of my body and soul on the bed, just barely hiding the imperfection by my tattoo.
Gray eyes feast on my naked form; if sight were palpable, I’d be a sobbing explosion of pleasure right now, trembling from the lack of warmth as it mixes with the fire in his gaze.
Nostrils flare. His inked hand grips my knee, bending it slightly.
Opening me.
I make a noise in my throat, something that’s supposed to be a protest, but it cuts off when he leans in.
Eyes on mine, he doesn’t touch me any more than he already is.
He just hovers, watching for my reaction.
And then he inhales.
I gasp so hard my lungs nearly burst. No other thoughts process—not about him seeing my scar, or what he’s doing here, or if he’s going to hurt me.
Just the elation from that singular action.
There’s something so pure and erotic about him smelling me, as if he’s trying to brand my scent into his being, that a tiny wave of euphoria tears through me, threatening to break my spine with its reverb.
Aiden’s smile shifts again, and he licks his lips, glancing down like a man prepping for his next meal.
As my pleasure dissipates, that familiar, comfortable feeling takes hold again, and reality crashes down, shattering the illusion that I’ve crafted around me.
My body stiffens, awareness trickling into the recesses of my brain that were still subdued from the sleeping pill.
This man has broken into my house.
Tracked me here.
Which means he not only knows where I’m at, but my real identity.
And I’m lying here, letting him accost me. Not taking danger seriously, which is what got me in this fucking mess in the first place.
Bucking against his hold as nausea curdles in my gut, I thrash and whimper until he finally loses his grip on my mouth. He shuffles backward, poised as if ready to grab me again, but I lean over the side of the bed just in time for vomit to spew from my mouth.
It puddles on the carpet, right on top of the slightest hint of a boot print, and my chest caves in, buckling as I realize just how fucked I am.
Wiping my lips with the back of my mouth, Aiden’s hand wraps around my hair, pulling it into a tight ponytail; he grips hard, his fist against my scalp, and yanks my head back so I’m forced to blink up at the ceiling.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your scot-free life for the last three years.” His breath washes over my face, minty and fresh, and I swallow around it. “Because all of that is over now, angel. You’re going to atone for what you did, even if I have to coax it from your sweet little cunt. Especially now that I know how badly she still wants me.”
Twisting my head in his direction, he crashes his lips to mine, pushing them open with his tongue. I grunt, trying to shove him out—absolutely horrified by the idea of him tasting puke—but then he pulls back and drops me before I can even blink.
“Remember what I said about telling anyone about this,” he says, pushing to his feet. His clothes are black, his boots clunky, and there’s a degree of savagery behind his eyes that I don’t remember seeing that night in New York City.
Without another word, he stalks from the room, and I collapse against the bed as apprehension breathes through my pores. My tongue shifts, curling around something foreign that wasn’t there seconds ago.
A peppermint.
24
“You’re sure they can’t come any sooner?”
I wipe condensation from the bathroom mirror, glaring at myself when a hole appears. Phone pressed to my ear, I’m dripping on the tile in my post-shower haze, trying to figure out if last night was real or not.
When I woke up, the only evidence was the stain of vomit on the floor, which looked as if it’d been scrubbed—but I can’t remember doing it.
In fact, the last thing I remember is tasting peppermint, but this morning, there was no sticky candy residue left in my mouth.
Not to mention, I had on an oversized Metallica T-shirt, which I definitely wasn’t wearing around Aiden.
I’ve gone most of the day walking on eggshells, afraid to leave the cabin on the off chance my memory is simply failing me again. Every closed door has been cautiously opened, every light left on, and every door locked tight.
If he is here in Lunar Cove, I’m not going to make his access to me easy.
On that same note, if last night wasn’t a dream… wouldn’t he have already been back?
Grasping on to that hope, I reach for the bottle of lotion on my sink, squirting some into my hands as Kal’s voice comes over the line again.