I can’t deny I wanted to be the girl who offered him pleasure. To watch from my knees, as he took my mouth and used it for his pleasure. To have that power over him would be surreal. Every fantasy I’ve had since has confirmed to me that I wanted to be the girl who made him grunt and growl like a feral animal.
But I can’t show him. I can’t admit it because, if I do, I know he’ll break me. He’s not the type of guy you introduce to your folks. Not the type of man that my mother wants me to be married to. So, instead of admitting it out loud, that I crave his touch, I’ve only ever allowed myself to think it in the darkness of my bedroom.
Shaking my head, I focus on the task at hand. I tentatively run my fingers along the petals and smile. A beautiful, soft pink that looks too fragile to touch. I smile when I inhale the sweet fragrance, my eyes closing in enjoyment.
The sweet, lingering scent reminds me of my mother’s garden before she became far too important to bother with it. I smile when I recall the past when I remember just how happy we were.
But then a more recent memory takes hold of me. One of which is the cause of my twisted need and darkest fantasies. The night of the reception. When I first laid eyes on Damien Thorne.
Even the gentle perfume of the flower doesn’t change the feeling that’s gnawing in my gut, reminding me that, even though I’m living in this impressive house, he will also always be around.
And for some reason, Damien Thorne has made it his mission to taunt me at every turn. As handsome, charming, and intelligent as he is, I need to stay away from him. But even though I chastise myself for thinking about him, I still find myself caught in his web.
Lured in by the sparkling blue eyes and charismatic smirk.
“You look good bent over like that.” His deep, seductive voice comes from behind me. Spinning on my heel, I meet his cerulean gaze, and it burns right through me. The memory that scampered in earlier, now returning, as I look at the wolfish smirk that tilts his lips.
Dressed in a pair of black jeans, a crisp light blue shirt—which is teasingly unbuttoned, offering just enough smooth, tanned skin to taunt me—and heavy black boots, I wonder briefly where he’s headed.
“What are you doing in here?” It’s stupid to ask him that since it’s his home. I’m the newcomer. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he takes a few steps toward the opposite corner from where I’m standing and picks up a pot that holds a dark red rose. This one is alone in the soil, with thorns threatening anyone who dares come near it.
“Your mother enjoys looking at pretty things,” he muses, as he twists the flower this way and that. His focus is on the plant, but still, my heart feels like it’s about to break free from my rib cage.
“You didn’t answer me.” My voice comes out softer than I intend, but it causes him to turn around. When those deep blue eyes are on me, I feel like I’m being scrutinized. Perhaps I am. One thing’s for sure, Damien Thorne doesn’t play around when it comes to any actions he makes. I know this because his eyes narrow, assessing me before he sets down the rose and turns fully toward me.
He takes three long strides before he’s inches from me. The scent of his cologne reminds me of rain and freshly cut grass. It’s a refreshing scent that’s mingled with citrus.
“I like pretty things, too,” he murmurs, as he reaches for a loose curl that’s escaped my messy bun. He twines it around his finger, until there’s no more give, and then tugs hard until tears sting my eyes.
But I don’t allow myself to make a sound. He likes toying with girls, I’m sure of it, just like he’s doing to me. I’m convinced he can hear my thoughts because he twists his hand even harder, forcing wetness to form on my lashes from the sting. A sly smirk graces his classically handsome face, joy in my agony.
Perhaps he wants me to cry, to beg him to stop, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me shed a tear or hearing me plead for mercy.
If only he knew why I can’t cry. Pain prickles my scalp, for a moment, before Damien releases me as if I’ve burned him.
His eyes spark with a flame so destructive, it threatens to engulf me in its inferno. The way his mouth tilts, his full lips curling into a sinister smirk, makes every nerve in my body come alive.
“Are you going to be my pretty thing, Nesrin?” he asks, as he tips his head to the side. “Will you let me have you, enjoy you, until I’ve had my fill, even though I really shouldn’t?” He regards me through a shrewd gaze. His question diminishes any need that burned through me seconds ago.