AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I stand still, my hold tightening on Fiona as blood drips from my arm onto her pink ballet flats, staining the material and splashing against the exposed skin.
God, she looks good in red.
Pain splices up and down my arm as we wait for everyone on this floor to leave; when the elevator dings closed with the last person on it, I tangle my fist in Fiona’s curls and drag her into my office, slamming the door shut with my foot and flipping the lock.
Her chest heaves when I shove her into the desk; she whirls on her heels, pressing her palms against the wooden surface, and glares at me. “Why did you do that?”
“Sit down and shut the fuck up, Fiona.”
I ignore the shocked look that flashes across her face as I make my way to the private bathroom in the back. Pulling the first aid kid from the vanity, I inspect the cut, noting that it’s merely a scrape since she didn’t get a very good angle, and clean it up, strapping a large piece of gauze over the site, rolling my sleeves back down, and heading back into the office.
When I return, she’s still standing, arms folded tight against her chest, making her tits press obscenely against the neckline of the light pink tank top she’s wearing. I stop several feet away, putting my hands on my hips as I wait for her explanation.
I want to know what happened out there—what made her finally snap. I want her to admit that there’s darkness inside of her, to give a name to the side of her I’m inexplicably drawn to, to form a concrete, coherent thought about what it is we’re doing here.
Up to this point, I’ll admit she’s called a lot of the shots. It’s all been new, exciting, and we’ve been lost in the passion of exploration. I wanted to ease her into what it’s like to be with me, wanted her to come willingly, but there are some things that need to be forced.
Some cords that have to be severed before someone finally sets themselves free.
If I continue waiting for the paranoia that racks her every thought and drives her every action to subside, we’ll never progress at all. I tried comfort, tried existing in her orbit, and it doesn’t seem to have been enough.
She needs the decision to be taken away, for control to be out of reach so she isn’t constantly grasping for it.
She needs me.
“So,” I say, dragging my eyes over her curves, drinking in the sight of her gloriously untouched body. The slender slope of her neck, so rich and pale that a single bite would likely cause immediate bruising.
Her legs, long and smooth roads I want to spend my night driving between, and the gentle swell of her tits as they rise and fall with each stuttered breath. My mouth salivates, my tongue thick against the roof of my mouth, as I imagine all the things I want to do to her.
Hunger burns through me, an uncontrollable fire that can’t be put out, and I know she sees it. The air crackles between us, hot and electric as I take a step forward, her eyes flaring with defiance and lust.
It’s the lust I focus on as I rack my brain for the best way to proceed.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” she spits, her frown deepening when I smirk—that’s what I’d expected her to say. “Unless you want me to stab you again.”
“With what? Your knife’s out in the lobby, and I’ve got a gun.” Reaching around, I slip the pistol from my slacks and hold it up.
She doesn’t even blink. “I’m adaptable. I’ll find a way.”
Chuckling, I walk to the other side of the desk and place the gun in the drawer, typing in the code so it locks back. I take a deep, cleansing breath and prowl back to the side she’s on, gliding my finger along the wooden surface, not missing the way she tracks its movement.
“What were you planning to do, Fiona? Kill Chelsea? There were a half dozen witnesses out there, for Christ’s sake.”
Clicking my tongue, I round her body and stop directly behind her, less than a foot away. Her rosy perfume wafts from her skin in soft waves, and her broken fingernails tap silently against the desk.
Tap, tap, tap.
“I don’t know,” she says softly, turning her head to look at me over her shoulder.
My hand lashes out, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at the wall across from us where my degree hangs. But the rest of me isn’t touching her. Not yet.
“You don’t know,” I say. “That sounds like a great thing to get yourself thrown into jail over.”
“She’s sleeping with my dad!” she squeals, frustration bleeding into the coarseness of her words. They seem to tear from her throat, her jaw vibrating as she spews vitriol from the places inside of her she tries to keep hidden.
“So, she deserved to be attacked?”
