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He stares down at me with a glassy look, the hazel in his eyes muted and his shoulder and chest muscles flexing. One hand grabs my shoulder and the other shoots to my throat. But he doesn’t grab the sides of it, where I get a bit lightheaded but absolutely delirious with pleasure, like he usually does.
This time, he chokes my windpipe.
As if his sole purpose is to suffocate the hell out of me.
My lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and I try to thrash beneath him, my nails digging into his arm, but it’s like an ant is wrestling a buffalo. I’m unable to move him even an inch.
And the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to be seeing me.
“K-Knox…” I choke out.
He blinks a few times and he freezes. He doesn’t release me, but he’s not actively trying to suffocate me to death either.
Slowly, too slowly, the golden gleam seeps into his eyes and he pushes off of me with a sudden shove, then scrambles to his feet and runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck!”
I drag in copious amounts of air through my nose and wince at the burn of every inhale and exhale.
Before I’m able to get my bearings, strong hands grab me by the shoulders, pulling me into a sitting position. I stare into Knox’s eyes and a wild sense of comfort slams through me.
The thought that I’d lost him even for a moment filled me with damning trepidation.
“Are you okay?” He inspects me, then his face scrunches with pain when he focuses on my neck. “Bloody hell.”
“I’m fine.”
“The red marks on your neck indicate otherwise.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not fucking nothing. I almost choked you to death just now.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Why the fuck did you even touch me? You’re usually out of it until the morning.”
“Wait…does that mean this happens a lot?”
He’s silent, his sharp jaw flexing as if he’s suppressing something.
Inching closer, I place my unsteady fingers on his cheeks, cupping them. “What’s plaguing you so much that you have constant nightmares about it?”
“Why would you care?” There’s no accusation in his tone. In fact, it sounds a bit vulnerable, as if he wants me to care but is scared that I don’t.
“Why wouldn’t I? I don’t want you in pain.” I stroke my fingers over his cheeks and he leans into it.
He often does when I touch him lately, whether I’m reading fantasy books to him or we’re watching movies or bingeing on some crime show. As per his rules, he always gets to touch me until even I can’t concentrate on what I’m reading, but it feels more intimate now.
We’ve fallen into a peaceful rhythm that scares the shit out of me sometimes. It feels too real and too different from the no-strings-attached arrangement we started with.
There are so many strings attached now that I can’t count them.
“I’m fine,” he says coolly, seeming to be more in control of himself.
“You’re obviously not. Tell me, Knox. What is it?”
“If I do, if I bare myself to you, will you do the same?”
I gulp, my fingers freezing on his face. “I can’t talk about my past. It’s dangerous.”
