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Mercifully, although it seems to have sparked a protectiveness in him I’d have never guessed was there, especially toward me, what that nighthasn’tdone is tamed his aggressiveness sexually.
He still chases me. He still fucks the living shit out of me in brutal, punishing ways, pushing me to my absolute limit. Which I crave, and need. I really like that. I like that the events of that night haven’t dampened that wild, animalistic side of him.
We don’t share a bed—at least, not by the end of the night. I’m staying in his guest room, which was literally empty until the morning after I was chased, when he had a queen-sized bed delivered.
That’s the only thing in the room. And I’m still not sure if Deimos’ aversion to furniture is because he doesn’t want to bump into things when he chases me around or due to some weird phobia when it comes to tables and chairs.
Either way, a week after the night in the park, this is where we’re at. My new daily schedule involves waking up at my boss’ apartment, either being ordered to bend over the arm of the couch so that Deimos can eat me or fuck me, or else being forced to my knees with his cock rammed down my throat. Then I go to work—mostly in a separate car from him, which I’m reasonably sure is both of our bizarre ways of hanging onto a modicum of distance between us so we’re not spendingallof our time together. At the office, I either put together more furniture or keep screening resumes, taking at least two breaks during the day for Deimos to make me orgasm in vicious and heart-stopping ways.
Then we go home, where he chases me through the dark, fucks me until my sanity breaks, and then feeds me whatever dinner he’s had delivered before giving me a bath and putting me to bed.
I mean, there are worse ways to spend your time.
And yet, for all our physical intimacy, that’s where it stops. We don’t “chit-chat” or talk about our days. We’re not cuddling on the couch watching a movie or anything like that.
It’s purely sex—raw, rough, heart-stopping, animalfucking. We haven’t even kissed again since that first and only time.
…It’s interesting how often I find myself wanting more of that, though.
But for now, the purely sexual nature of our…whatever you want to call this…might be exactly what I need. It’s cathartic. It’s freeing. When he pushes me screaming past my limits as I shatter for him, it’s like mental, emotional medicine.
It’s also still a secret, and an unspoken one, at that. We’ve never had “the conversation”, but it’s beyond clear that neither of us is telling anyone in our families what’s going on. And I’mmorethan okay with that.
It’s Callie I worry the most about finding out. The idea that one of my best friends might figure out that I’m sleeping with her brother—let alone the dark and depravedflavorof what we do together—is enough to give me a mild panic attack.
So: a secret it remains. A dark, twisted, forbidden little secret.
* * *
I’m workingon some homework on my laptop, sitting on my bed in Deimos’ guest room, when my phone pings with a FaceTime call. I grin when I see Uncle Adrian’s name on the screen and answer immediately.
“Well hey there, stranger,” I grin. “Long time no see!”
Adrian Cross isn’treallymy uncle by blood. But he might as well be. With the way things were when I was a baby, all of us pretending that Celeste was my mother while my real mom was just the nanny, Mom and Celeste grew to be closer than sisters. I’ve always just called her “Auntie Celeste”, so it makes sense that Adrian is “Uncle Adrian”.
He’s ridiculously handsome—dark hair that’s now tinged with silver at the temples, piercing blue eyes, and a lean, muscled build that you’d never imagine belongs to a man of fifty. With the stylish suits he wears and the clean-cut scruff on his square jaw, I’ve always thought he had a suave David Beckham thing going on.
I know a lot of people are scared of Adrian. And I don’t blame them. I mean, the man is the head of the entire Cross family—one of Britain’s most powerful mafia empires. But I’m not. I’ve never been. To me, he’s just Uncle Adrian, who saved my life as a toddler and helped pull my mom and I out of a life of imprisonment.
I grin at the screen. When he doesn’t smile back, mine falters.
“Uncle Adrian?”
“Dahlia,” he growls quietly. “Look, I don’t want to scare you, and your mother isfine—”
“Oh my God—” I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth as my eyes go wide.
Adrian shakes his head, forcing a calming smile to his lips.
“No-no, listen. She’s okay. She’s unhurt.”
“What happened?!”
He clears his throat. “Someone broke into her townhouse in Paris while she was home. Luckily, as you know, I have my own people always watching your mother from the periphery, and they were able to jump in and stop the two fuckers who got in before anything happened to her.”
His brow worries as his lips thin.
“I wish I could tell you this was just an attempted break and enter, a robbery by a couple of morons who didn’t realize anyone was home. But… They were both carrying guns fitted with silencers.”
