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He’s gripping my jaw so tight it’s hard to talk, and when he notices that, he loosens his hold on me.
But that only makes it worse. Because now his touch feels almost like a caress—too intimate, too tender.
“I was… at Club 47 with a few friends that night,” I say slowly, my voice rough and quiet. “It was… I didn’t want to be there anymore, so I slipped out the back. I smoked a cigarette in the alley, then decided to get a cab home. I was heading down the sidewalk when I passed you and your friends. And that’s when”—pop pop pop—“I heard gunshots. That’s when I fell.” I meet his gaze, forcing my voice to remain steady even though I can barely catch my breath. “I was walking past you. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all. It was an accident.”
He freezes. His leg is still shoved between mine, grinding against my clit, and I try to ignore the dull ache building between my thighs as he stares down at me.
I can see him processing every word I’ve said, measuring it against some internal barometer.
Believe me. Please fucking believe me.
The words slipped off my tongue easily enough. And why shouldn’t they?
I’ve told myself that exact same story hundreds of times over the past two and a half years, rearranging small details here and there to support the version of events I want to believe.
That it was an accident.
That I didn’t choose to step between this man and three bullets.
That I was simply a girl who went out with some friends and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
That it was bad luck, and nothing more.
Marcus considers my words for so long I start to feel like we’ve been trapped in some kind of bubble where time no longer exists.
Nothing else can penetrate my consciousness. There are only the burning points of contact where his skin meets mine, his large hand framing my jawline. The feel of his broad, muscular frame pressed against me, his chest brushing mine. The steady pressure of his leg between my thighs, the feeling of being pinned by him.
Then he shakes his head suddenly, the movement sharp and decisive.
“Lie.”
“It’s not!” My voice comes out louder than I mean for it to, fear and anger mixing with the uncomfortable arousal swirling in the pit of my stomach. I grit my teeth, trying to pull my raging emotions under control. “Listen, you asshole, I answered your fucking question. I told you exactly what happened. I’m sorry if it’s not the fucking fairy tale you were hoping to hear, but—”
He cuts me off again, looping his other arm around my back and nearly lifting me off my feet as he immobilizes me completely. My clit rides his leg as he hauls me closer to him, and I have to bite back a gasp at the shock of sensation that tears through me.
“I said no lies, Ayla.” His voice is low, soft, but no less dangerous because of that. “You weren’t the only one who was there that night, remember? I was there too. I saw exactly what happened. You’re not filling out a goddamn police report right now. I’m not falling for your bullshit, even if the cops might.”
“It’s not… bullshit,” I gasp.
It’s getting harder to speak.
Harder to think.
Memories of that night are swirling around in my mind, dredged up by his presence and his forceful questions. They mix with the dreams I’ve had almost nightly for the past two and a half years, sending my body a confusing mix of signals.
I remember the heavy thud of the bullets as they pierced my flesh, shoving me backward.
I remember Marcus’s face hovering above mine, and the way the blood on my fingertips smeared over his cheek.
I remember him kissing me, how pain mixed so perfectly with pleasure.
I remember him fucking me, stretching me, invading me. Breaking me apart.
No. No, that didn’t happen. You’re fucked in the head, Ayla.
Those parts of my memories aren’t real. I know that. But they’ve replayed over and over in my dreams so many times that they feel real.
Marcus’s body this close to mine, his thigh pressing hard against my clit, his scent enveloping me—it all feels terrifyingly familiar.
