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The tears still sting my eyes, but less this time. My body jolts as the stabbing continues, but this time he thrusts, I focus on what his cock is doing to my body instead of the pain in my neck.
“You’re mine, beautiful,” he moans as he continues.
“Yours,” I whisper back, knowing exactly how true my words are.
I don’t care about being a lawyer again.
I don’t care about returning to my old boring life.
I care about him. Because he’s the only one that has made me feel alive.
He’s protected me against Armas. He’s taken care of me when I needed help the most. He’s done everything for me. More than anyone else in my life ever has.
I can see myself painting again here. I can run. I can study history again. I’m stronger here. No longer afraid of anything. Because I know I can handle any pain or nightmares. I’m stronger than I ever realized.
Matteo showed me that.
I’m more alive here than I ever was back home. Matteo is my new home. I don’t ever want to go back.
I might even love him.
It’s a crazy thought.
One I shouldn’t have.
I probably have Stockholm syndrome. I just fell in love with my captor, and when I get free, I’ll realize how crazy these feelings are. But I don’t think so.
I’ve seen other women who
had feelings for their captor. This is different. I still despise him for taking me against my will. I won’t ever forgive him for that, but I can’t ignore the caring man he can be when he’s not pretending to be a monster.
All the feelings in my body intensify. The pain. The pleasure. The heartache. It all comes to a head.
“Come, Eden,” Matteo commands.
I don’t think it’s possible. I can’t when I’m in this much pain. But I feel the tightening of my body. My toes curl, my breath catches. And I come like I haven’t ever before.
I come hard on his cock as the pain slowly subsides and the kisses on my neck stop.
I come, and it’s an experience I never want to forget. It’s the first time I’ve come while in love. And I want to remember it forever.
Matteo doesn’t let me collapse against the bed. He grabs my arm and drags me off the bed and into his arms. I’m too exhausted to walk. He knows, so he scoops me into his arms to carry me to the bathroom, most likely to clean up.
“Look in the mirror,” Matteo commands, and he brushes my hair off my neck.
I glance in the mirror, out of the corner of my eye.
My eyes widen when I see the marks he left in black ink.
Matteo Carini’s.
It’s a crude tattoo. Blood is oozing down my back, and the lettering isn’t perfect or dark, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s a perfect way to mark how I feel.
He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He doesn’t speak any other words either. He simply kisses my forehead and then carries me back to bed.
He didn’t say I love you. I didn’t either.
He didn’t ask if I liked the tattoo or if it was okay.
