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I punch his shoulder playfully, and it makes him cackle a laugh. His brown eyes dance between mine and he puts a flat hand on my cheek. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs as the air thickens with sexual tension.
“And I’m a good fuck too,” I tease.
“Only one way to find that out.”
He gets out and opens my door. He holds my hand as he leads me inside his cabin, and I’m practically laughing at myself.
Really, Rose? Following a stranger into a lost cabin in the woods for a bit of attention? Just because he looks like Sam? You have fallen very low, girl.
The interior is made of wood and stones. Faux-fur rugs and comfortable furniture accompany the rustic feeling. There’s a fire burning in the stone fireplace, and some antiques are settled on a shelf on top of it. The lighting is dimmed, and we settle on a cozy sofa covered with soft, plaid throws. Instead of facing a TV or other furniture, the sofa faces a floor-to-ceiling window that leads to a porch with an amazing view of a lake and the rest of the forest.
“Wait, is that Stoneview Lake?” I ask. It’s hard to see in the dark of the night.
He seems to hesitate for a moment before he nods. “Yeah, that’s it.”
I get up from the sofa and walk to the tall window. With the low light inside, I can faintly see the lake and, far away, is the other shore, aka Stoneview. I can see the glints from the lights inside what I know are luxurious lake houses.
I feel him before I see his reflection in the window. He grabs my hips and pulls me into him. My back crashes against his chest and his lips fall to my neck. He’s so imposing, so big and strong. If I close my eyes, I can truly imagine it’s Sam. And if I focus, he kind of smells like him. A top note of grapefruit mixed with the base notes of patchouli and cedar. A strong cologne Sam uses to hide the scent of cigarettes. His tongue traces from the base of my neck to my ear, and I sigh as I roll my head to the side to give him more access. His hand slides under my top and reaches my uncovered nipples. I rarely wear bras. Considering the size of my boobs, it’s not exactly necessary.
“Not even gonna offer me a drink?” I joke. He suddenly seems in a rush.
His other hand unbuttons my slacks and slips under my thong. He presses a finger against my entrance, and I shudder.
“Why? You seem all ready to proceed. Such a wet girl.” He’s wrong, I’m really not that wet, and the fact that he thinks I am portrays a lack of experience. Or simply a very macho selfism.
His finger slides inside, not easily.
“So tight,” he hisses.
I wince slightly and grab his wrist. “Slow down…” Maybe I went into this a little too quickly. It was easier to have reckless sex before escaping the Volkovs. A lot of drugs and alcohol would always relax me. Since I left their compound, I’m all clean, and my thoughts get a little too loud.
He presses harder against my back and pushes me into the window. Fuck, why is he in such a rush suddenly?
“Relax,” he tells me, his breath against my ear.
Is that how Sam would fuck me? Yeah, I think so. He would push me against the window harshly, put a hand around my throat, and order me to relax. The only taste I ever got of Sam was the day I got taken. Before they found me, I was with him. He kissed me for the first time in my life, and the world disappeared for a minute. It was everything I thought it would be and more. All I’ve been left with is imagining what would have happened if he hadn’t been such a coward.
I hate him. Fuck, I hate him so much for leaving me that day. For pushing me away, for rejecting me. For choosing someone else over me when all I had ever wanted from him was to chooseme.
He abandoned me, like everyone always does. And now I’m left with a hatred pulsing in me like a dull ache. Always there at the back of my mind. An old injury you never forget. That is really all I have left. That, and imagining other men to be him.
But sometimes, even that doesn’t work.
“Wait,” I rasp when he tries to insert another finger way too early. I’m not fucking ready, so I try to stall him a little. “You didn’t even tell me your name. What is it? I only know your last name.”
“Why does it matter? He isn’t me.”
That voice… I recognize it all too well. The British accent, the undertone of American that, desperately, tries to sneak behind his tongue. Confusion and surprise make me freeze. Why is Sam here?
12
ROSE
Blood on Your Hands– Veda, Adam Arcadia
Mattock and I both jump out of our current position. We flip around, and I fumble with my zipper for a few seconds before looking up.
My heart doesn’t skip a beat, but it does skip about twelve.
