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He palms my thighs, a touch so light I don’t understand why my legs part. If he’s not forcing them, then is it me?
Survival.
That’s what it is.
With one hand, he lifts my black tank top, and with the other, he traces the point of the blade against my skin, making me shiver.
“Here”—he presses a little harder—“is the third costal cartilage. I can reach the base of your heart if I push all the way.” He drags the tip lower and a little to the left. “Spleen.” And lower again. “Kidney.” He stops when the tip reaches the band of my black jeans.
When he presses his hips into me, I feel his hard dick through his pants, lodged against my ass cheeks.
“Tell me what you want me to fuck first, Kayla. Your pussy or your ass?”
“I don’t want you to fuck me,” I grit out. It’s getting harder to control my breathing with my chest crushed against the island, and his knife at my back.
“I’ve been told the Kings are liars, so I think I should check for myself.”
He doesn’t rip my jeans or hurt me. I’ll only learn later that when Nathan White uses violence, it’s calculated. Justified. At least to himself.
Nothing is violent now, only the calm, lingering threat of a knife against my lower back.
My black jeans end up just below my ass.
He doesn’t even need to take off the lace covering my pussy to feel my wetness. His fingertips graze along the sodden material, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut and look for an excuse.
There’s a low chuckle in my ear, making me stay in the present. “So NSC was right after all. Kayla King can’t be trusted. Such a wet liar.”
My lips part when he pushes the lace to the side and presses a finger at my entrance.
It hurts.
That’s not right. My first night with Nate didn’t hurt. It was just pleasure. Being brought to heaven by the devil for a taste of paradise before he dragged me back down to hell.
But this…
Something feels wrong.
Fight!
I sit up in bed so quickly, my eyes aren’t even open when I grab the gun under my pillow and point it at whoever is close to me.
I aim at the shadow I now see.
Safety off.
Finger on the trigger.
Whoever is here is going to be dead in—
“Babe! What the fuck are you doing?”
My boyfriend is right between my legs, his head popping out from under the covers.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
Rolling away, his hand shoots across the bed and to the bedside table. He fiddles with the wire connecting the lamp to the wall before a yellow light illuminates the room.
“You were having a nightmare,” he rushes out. “I was trying to…you know”—he waves his hand toward me—“make it better.”
