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Isaac watches me and the crease between his eyebrows deepens. I reach up, smoothing it out.
“You look so sad.” And he does. I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed before now. “Are you sad?”
His lashes flutter closed and he breathes deeply, his fingers digging into the soft roundness of my cheeks. When his eyes blink open once more, they’re molten. Fire and lava. Deep, cavernous pools dragging me down, down, down, into their depths.
“I don’t want to talk about it, sweetheart.” The words are barely audible, but with the distance between us closing by the second, I hear them just the same.
I nod into his hands and let my fingers glide down his cheek, learning. Exploring.
“Okay,” I whisper. “What do you want to talk about?”
My heart is hammering in my chest, my skin covered in goosebumps, but I lean in closer, addicted to the feeling.
Alive. I feel alive.
For the first time in forever, I’m alive.
This thrill is the same I feel when I cam. That moment just before I come, knowing someone out there is coming with me, because of me. Power. It feels like power and in a world where I have so little, it’s addicting.
But this—him—it’s more. It’s not power, or addiction. It’s this indescribable ache building in my chest, and it’s all because of him.
Isaac shakes his head, his tongue darting out and wetting his lower lip. My gaze tracks it as my body trembles in response.
“I don’t think I want to talk at all.”
His hands shift and it feels like time stands still as I wait for him to lead, to choose where this goes. Long fingers slide down my cheek, wiping away any remaining tears covering my skin before settling around my lower jaw. His fingers flex, their length reaching all the way around my neck, and I moan, sinking into his touch.
My eyes droop and my head grows dizzy. He’s not squeezing my throat, but the threat—the possession—is there.
And like the willing lamb I am, I submit myself to his slaughter.
Isaac leans in, finally eating up those few inches I despised so much. His breath ghosts across my lips. My eyes flutter closed.
“Do you want to talk, Eve?”
My hands grip his wrists tightly, not to pull away, not to remove them. Not to beg for mercy.
But to demand more.
I push his hands harder against my throat, whimpering with my silent, obvious plea.
“I need to hear you say it,” he growls, even as his fingers flex against my racing pulse. Not tightening, not the way I want them to. Just a gentle reminder that he’s holding me, controlling me. “Say it.”
I try to breathe, try to swallow, try to do anything other than focus on the ache pulsating between my legs. With my eyes locked on his, my nails clawing into his too-perfect skin and his intoxicating scent permeating my every nerve, I give in.
I give in to the desires that have writhed between us for the last few weeks, maybe longer, ebbing and flowing like a living, breathing thing. Give in to the weakness clouding my judgment, whether from the wine or just because I know in my heart I want this—him. I don’t know or care.
Maybe in the morning I’ll lie to myself and say it was just the wine, that the alcohol made me stupid. Maybe I’ll question myself and my morals, and tell myself something that’ll make up for tonight’s mistakes.
But right now, I don’t care.
Right now, I need to feel good. I need to forget. I need him to make me forget.
I need to give in to the newfound recklessness that constantly flows beneath my skin, begging the world to hear me, see me, remember me.
But mostly, I give in to my need for him.
Isaac.
