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My home.
Suddenly, I felt like I didn’t have a home. Like I didn’t fit there any longer. This was the only place I fit.
With him.
He didn’t kick me out after we were done. Because we were never done. The entire night was fucking, him demanding that I cut myself open and show him every part of me, tell him everything. He offered nothing. Yet that didn’t bother me. In fact, I liked it. It was akin to someone fucking you while you were completely naked and vulnerable, and they still had all of their clothes on.
It wasn’t awkward either. The stark light of day had a way of chasing away whatever intimacy had been created in the darkness. Something about him called to the darkness inside of me.
So the light of day only brought more. I was able to explore his body. The hard ridges of muscle. The dark hair on his chest. The tattoo that covered his entire back. It surprised me, the ink.
I’d had him pegged as the exquisite, put together man who was in control of anything and everything. That he was a part of a generation who thought that tattoos were meant for criminals and sailors.
Every other part of his skin was devoid of ink. Tanned, smooth, muscled. Except his back. Every inch was marked. The art was exquisite. A statuesque woman wearing wings that went shoulder to shoulder. Flames and skulls surrounding the peaceful, elegant design. A hint at who he was. A clue to the depths of him. It represented something. Someone, maybe. Someone angelic surrounded by death.
I didn’t ask him about that. Parts of me were afraid to ask questions. Not because I feared I wouldn’t like the answers, but because I would. The feelings I had about this man were already intense, overwhelming and dangerous.
So I let him take more of me. Let him fuck my ass in the shower. Let him empty himself inside of me, mark every inch of my insides. I could barely dress myself, my limbs were that heavy, every part of me gloriously aching.
I watched him put on a shirt, a suit, moving fluidly, confidently. This was a man who was confident, self-assured. While I looked around the ornate bedroom with a fireplace, a balcony overlooking acres of grounds on the outskirts of one of the poorest cities in the world, I wondered what he did for a living.
Something told me he wasn’t a banker. Or a lawyer.
The walk through the house—no, fucking mansion—told me this was not earned legitimately. I may not have been overly worldly, but I knew that one did not accumulate this amount of wealth without breaking laws. Without possibly spilling blood.
Still, I didn’t ask.
Not even for a name.
He knew mine, he knew everything about me. Therefore, as desperate as I was to see him again, I didn’t ask a single question. I couldn’t see him again. He’d ruin my life.
Of that I was certain.
The destruction would be lovely. I craved to be taken apart by him. But I had a feeling he was not the kind of man who would pick up the pieces, put me back together. He was the kind of man who’d like seeing me broken.
When we walked out the front door, in the driveway was the black car we rode in from the restaurant. Warmth crept over my skin as the driver got out and opened the door. It was the same man who drove us last night. Who had been less than a foot away from us as we fucked.
I had been too overwhelmed to pay any attention to the man last night.
How I hadn’t noticed him spoke volumes about the man beside me. Because the driver was a man you noticed. A man who awakened survival instincts that had lain dormant for years.
He wasn’t wearing a suit like the man beside me, like a driver typically wore. He had on dark, ripped jeans, Doc Martens and a Modest Mouse band tee. Every inch of his visible skin was covered in ink. His hair was shock white and slicked back on his head, his sharp bone structure all the more prominent. He could be a fucking model with his slim, tall, powerful stature. His unusual yet captivating features. But it was his eyes that set him apart. That showed this was not a man who was suited to any kind of mainstream life. There was something off there. Something wild. Possibly sociopathic.
And he was staring right at me. Like he knew what I sounded like when I came.
Because he did.
My stomach dropped, and something inside of me sparked under his scrutiny.
But my attention was not on him for long. Another man demanded my attention.
“I will see you again, Sienna,” he murmured, eyes tethered to mine. His hands settled on my hips easily, as if such a gesture were natural. As if we weren’t strangers.
