I arch a defiant eyebrow. “Clothes,” I demand.
Without warning, he grips my waist, effortlessly lifting me onto the countertop. My nails dig into his forearm, and he easily pries my hand away, turning my wrist over between us. With an unnerving tenderness, he examines every scrape and bruise.
A charged current snaps with too much tension between us. His touch is too intimate, too familiar, rousing an unwanted heat between my thighs, my body too aware of him and each pass of his sure fingers over my skin.
He silently reaches above my head to retrieve alcohol and gauze from behind the vanity, and his aftershave invades my senses. It’s clean, enticing, a blend of woods and ocean, and I imagine this is his scent—how he always smelled before incarceration. For some strange reason, this thought is tantalizing.
“First you hurt me, then you mend me,” I say, layering a hintof derision in my voice. “Your diagnosis is ever evolving, Grayson.”
His fingers graze over the sensitive skin of my scraped inner wrist, provoking an involuntary shiver. “A predator prefers healthy prey.” He glances up. “It’s more satisfying when there’s a little resistance.”
Lips pressed together, I try to snatch my hand away, but his grip tightens. “Hold still.”
I straighten my spine. “You’re enjoying this—breaking your prey, getting off on my pain.”
“Nothing has ever gotten me hotter.” A devastating smile curves his lips, annihilating what’s left of my defiance. My heart rate accelerates beneath his touch, and he knowingly settles his thumb over the pulse point in my wrist.
Steadying my breath, I allow him to treat and bandage me. He’s meticulous in everything he does, even caring for my wounds.
I try to ignore the fact his bare chest is mere inches from me, but I can’t help staring at his scars. One diagonal slash on top of the other—eleven marks in all. He catches me staring. “They’re self-inflicted,” I say, the question implied.
“Yes,” he answers without looking.
During one of our sessions, he confessed to imposing a self-inflicted punishment for his deviant compulsions. “Is that the number of lives you’ve taken?” I ask delicately.
“Yes.”
Grayson was convicted of nine murders, yet he brandishes two additional scars. My throat tightens, and I swallow past the ache. “Am I going to be number twelve?”
A muscle flexes along his jaw, and his fierce gaze captures mine. “I won’t let that happen.”
Our eyes remain locked for an extended heartbeat. As he resumes wrapping my left wrist, I say, “How can you preventthat from happening when you have no control over your compulsions. That’s how I ended up here, because you obsessed over me, fantasized about us. You fantasized about your prison escape until you made it a reality, so?—”
He braces his hands on either side of my thighs, bringing his face close to mine. The flicker of candlelight casts his features in dark, predatory beauty. “You think I’ve escaped my prison.” His gaze heats. “Whoever said love sets you free clearly never fell for their therapist.” He licks his lips slowly, his intense eyes dropping to my mouth. “I want you more than freedom, London.”
I feel trapped, caged by his arms, his eyes issuing a dare. My fingers pick at the hem of my towel until I unravel a loose thread, winding it tightly around my finger. “A less intelligent person with your psychopathy would simply be labeled criminally insane and locked away long ago. But your intelligence distorts the madness, Grayson. It may feel like love, even mimic it, but it’s still psychosis.”
His head tilts slightly, bringing him even closer. “Just molecules and impulses, all an illusion,” he says, gaze tracing a hungry path over my face. “Love is insanity,a stóirín.”
A heavy pulse builds in my veins. “You buried me alive,” I accuse. “How could that ever be love?”
His hips push between my knees, forcefully inching my thighs apart. “Is that an invitation to show you how crazy you make me.” His words brush across my lips with heated friction.
Fingers ghosting along my bare thighs, he drags the towel higher. I plant my palms against his chest, grasping for control. “Not when your touch aims to hurt,” I say, effectively halting his advance.
He pulls back slightly, chin lifting as he removes my hand from his chest. He grips my finger with the wound string and moves it toward the candle, slowly passing it through the flame.
The thread singes and burns away, and I jerk my hand back before the fire can sear my skin, yet Grayson holds his finger there a moment longer. Shadows dance across his features, something primal darkening his gaze.
“Touching you is like daring the fire to burn me.” He taunts the flame, finger swiping the wick until it’s nearly extinguished. “Only I crave your pain, London.”
He returns his hand to the counter, his thumbs skimming the sensitive skin of my thighs—the barest touch, but the impact rocks through me. I inhale deeply, breathing in his scent and the lingering smoke, emboldened as I widen my legs. A dare. My own fucking taunt.
Grayson craves my pain—I can give him pain.
“Fuck, you’ve always been too tempting,” he says, voice thick, his accent roughened with need. “Did you know seduction is one of your sins? Are you aware of the power you have over me?”
I lick my lips, hyperaware of the way his gaze tracks the movement. A fierce throb settles between my thighs. I’m treading a dangerous line, testing just how far I can push him without tipping him over the edge.
