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She shrugs and doesn’t open her eyes as she answers, “There’s more than one but they’re all broken.” She sighs and whispers the next part so low that I almost don’t hear it, “Like me.”
But I do hear her.
And her private admission is so much like my own that I feel the strike of those two quietly whispered words as if she ripped open my chest and tattooed them right on my fucking heart. I’m struck so forcefully that I feel like all of the air has been stolen right out of my lungs. As if it’smyheart that’s been ripped from my chest andmybody left to bleed out on the fucking floor.
After a much too long stretch of silence, she finally opens her eyes and looks at me. Our eyes lock and I swear that fucking jolt of electricity slams into my chest and restarts my cold, dead heart. I see every damaged and broken piece of her.
I see the sadness.
The darkness.
The pain.
And I see the lonely truth she tries to hide. I see it and I desperately try to ignore it because the only reason I can see her so fucking clearly is because she’s a direct reflection… of ME. It’s the same goddamn thing I saw and feltthatnight. The night I lost everything.
A knock on the door breaks our charged, silent stand-off and I get up far too eagerly to answer it. For once, grateful for the interruption.
I can feel her curious gaze on my back as I move toward the door. The electricity in the air is palpable and I’m having a hard time with…everything. Fucking everything!
I wrench the door open and practically snarl in Slightly face, “What?”
“It’s all taken care of, Boss,” he dips his head in a slight bow, not entirely out of fear, although I can smell the pungent scent of it on him. No, he bows his head in respect.
“Good. Send Tink up with water and ibuprofen.” I slam the door in his face before I can get a confirmation or any other type of distraction.
I place my hands on the closed door and lean into it, hanging my head, and giving myself a second to regroup. Even though I was just relieved about the interruption, I also desperately want more time alone with her. I fucking swear, my mind is too goddamn twisted when I’m around her. I can’t think straight. And the loss of clarity and control only adds to my burning temper.
“What’s your name?” Her voice is no longer a faraway whisper. She’s no longer stuck in her own head, in her own world of nightmares, but maybe worse… she’s’ stuck in mine.
I let out a frustrated sigh, I’m not used to people questioning me about anything, but I turn around to face her. As soon as I do, as soon as those big, sad yet curious, green eyes lock with mine again, all of my frustration is gone.
“Peter Sinnclair, but you can call me Sinn.”
“I thought so,” she says. “About the Sinn part, I heard someone call you that, but I didn’t know your full name. I’m Wendee Wright but you call me Dee.”
“I know who you are,” I say in as bored a tone as I can manage, which is extremely hard to do since I’m nothing even close to bored when she’s around.
She looks taken aback, eyes go wide and eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You know who I am?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I know everyone who comes into my bar, especially the clingy, stalker ones.”
I immediately regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. Why I even said them, I have no fucking clue. They’re not true and the hurt in her eyes is instantaneous. She recovers quickly though. All openness she had in her face seconds ago is gone. She’s shut down and is just as cold and blank as I am. Well, maybe not that frigid, but close.
“I see,” she says, as she throws the covers off of her and climbs out of my bed, still a little unsteady in the high heels, but she manages to finally get her footing.
I can’t help the direction of my gaze, as my eyes slowly sweep up her long, smooth legs before they disappear into the short, pleated skirt, barely covering her intimate parts. The thought of her parading around downstairs like this,in my fucking bar, with practically no clothing on, irks me beyond my own understanding. I want to bend her over the bed, lift up that slip of a skirt, rip off her panties, and whip her ass with my fucking belt. I want to watch her delicate ass cheeks redden and welt as my belt leaves marks on her perfect skin. I want to punish her for dressing like this and fucking teasing me. Driving me insane and making me feel things I don’t know how to feel.
I want to hear her scream in pain.
And when she finally cries out for me to stop, I want to slide my hand up the back of her thigh and find her soaking fucking wet for me. I want to drag my fingers up her slick pussy, teasing her clit with slow determined strokes, building her up to a writhing, pleading need, until she’s crying out for a release. Then I’ll push my hard, aching dick inside of her and fuck her until she’s begging me to stop.
I want to hear her scream in pleasure.
Fuck that, I want to take her so far over the fucking edge of pleasure that she won’t even have a voice to cry out with.
Once again, I’m left standing feet away from her, clenching my fists and fighting hard against the urge to do all of that and more. How can she come so close to breaking down all of my walls, all of my defenses, all of my control, without even fucking touching me? All she has to do is be here and I’m losing my own battle of wills. I can feel my resolve wanning. I can feel my frozen barriers cracking.
“Why do you hate me so much?” Her voice breaks through my internal battle until I’m once again back in the room with her.
