I whimper at the claim, at the heat it sends spiraling through me, and he breathes out a little laugh. “That’s right. Mine. Always wanting to fight, even me, but happy to lose, hm? Tome, and me alone, you want to lose. The struggle is part of the game, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” I pant, and I feel him smirk against my lips.
He finally pulls back when my head is spinning and I’m writhing against him, aching for friction, for more. He pins me to the wall, reclaiming my attention, making sure I’m listening.
“We aren’t good people, Tommy. You’re right about that. Not you, and not me. Because I can’t promise softness, or healthy boundaries, or that I’ll ever try and help you control your rage without me as your willing crutch. But I can promise to keep you. Keep you happy, bratty, safe, sore. Whatever you want. You’re it for me. I’m fucking keeping you.”
I gasp, electrified, and he hesitates to see how I react to his claim. We’re getting dangerously close to traumatic territory with promises like that. But…it’s so…
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I’m such a sick freak.”
It’s so hot to hear him talk like that. It’s disgusting how sexy it is to think about him fucking keeping me, even though that should be my worst nightmare. Why am I like this?
Young-gi’s head tilts like he’s catching a scent. “You told me once that you liked it when I sent my men to drag you back here. That you liked how I wanted you bad enough to take you. Said it made this feel real. Didn’t you?”
My gut lurches with want and shame and desire and all kinds of swirly sick feelings that I can’t handle by myself.
“It’s because I’m fucked in the head,” I insist. “It’s not real. It’s not.”
He knows he’s hit me in a soft spot, found a weak point in my armor. This kidnappy shit, sick as it is, gets past my barriers, makes me feel.
“You’re real, Tommy. This is real. I’m real. And you’re not going anywhere.”
I clutch his biceps, squirming, feeling all topsy-turvy and turned on now because, apparently, I’m all about this Stockholm syndrome bullshit. Lock me up, tell me you’re keeping me forever, and I’d just about marry your ass, I guess. Sick fuck.
“No,” I deny him again, out of reflex. Out of self preservation. But I’m not safe-wording, and he fucking knows it.
“Don’t worry, Tommy,” he coos at me, his voice low and threatening, pressing kisses along my jaw, my cheek. “You need me to prove it, I know. And I will. I’ll make this so fucking real that you never doubt me again.”
He steps back, and I slump against the wall as he retreats until he’s sitting down on the bed. His eyes are embers, hypnotic and powerful. I’m trapped in his gaze.
“You want me to show you how fuckingrealthis is?”
And despite myself, I nod, my heart pounding. Because yes, I want it. I want him to somehow make this feel real to me, so I can fucking relax already.
He smiles, sharp and hungry and threatening. It’s his most dazzling smile yet.
And before he even speaks, I know I’m doomed. I know he’s going to make me believe his truth over mine. I’ve already lost, I just haven’t accepted it yet. I feel this instinctive need to keep fighting, to keep making him prove it, but I can already tell…
I’m going to lose. Just like he said, I love to fight him, but I don’t want to win.
It’s terrifying, thrilling. I’m barely breathing while I wait for him to tell me how he’s going to pull off the impossible; how he’s going to make me trust him.
He gestures toward the door.
“Run.”
Chapter 28
My stomach bottoms out and I feel a throb of terror and longing flood my muscles until I’m frozen with it.
He watches me, his smile fading into that brick-wall stare; so hard to read but so focused on me. “Doesn’t matter how far,” he murmurs. “Doesn’t matter how fast. Run away, Tommy. Or safe word.”
Red.It’s on the tip of my tongue. I feel so mixed up. Run away? While he chases me? Is this like…reliving trauma? Or is this rewiring something inside me? What are we even doing?
And why am I so thrilled at the idea of being hunted by someone who wants me enough to chase me?
Someone that Iwantto want me that badly.
