Page 44 of Little Blue

“What are you talking about?”

“You scurried to the closet like a little mouse.” His eyes twinkle when my shoulders pull back. A mouse? —the ass! “I was gearing up to ravish you.”

My cheeks bloom a hot kind of red that has his eyes roaming slowly over me. Being that he’s claimed the side of the bed closest to the door, and my escape—I’m forced to take the other side. Snapping back the covers, I deliver a threat of my own. “Touch me and I’ll bite you.”

“Can’t say I’m not into blood play,” he replies as he casually slides his laptop to the nightstand. “I might even like it.”

Well, I’m—I’m—I have no words.

He’s deplorable.

A true crazy man. Lunatic. Psychotic. Cert-i-fuck-ing-fiable.

I’m not going to entertain him with a reply.

Instead, I shoot him a hot glare as I flop down on my pillow, pulling the covers all the way up to my chin.

Ilya chuckles, deep, and low, and wholly entertained. Then he flicks off the lamp and floods the room in darkness.

My eyes are saucer wide as I listen to his big body moving in the bed beside mine. The covers do nothing to make me feel protected from him. I’m utterly stupefied by the contented rumble of Lucy’s purr as Ilya settles in.

Then, my heart stops beating and my breath stalls somewhere in my chest. He’s shifted closer, close enough to press his front to my back and he’s—oh God—he’s hard.

“What are you—” The words are cut off with a little shriek as he shoves a big hand up the front of my shirt. The move is so swift, so surprising, I don’t have time to move or fight before his big hand is cradling the side of my neck, his thumb sliding in gentle swipes over my cheek. His bare arm is pressed against my torso, resting in the valley of my breasts.

It’s inappropriate and far too intimate.

“Close your eyes, Little Blue,” he murmurs softly into my hair.

“I don’t like this.” My voice sounds smaller than I feel.

“You’ll get used to it.” He tightens his hold, his forearm pressing into my chest as though to hug me. My heart contracts in a painful, too real squeeze. “Now, sleep.”

“Let go.”

“Never.” It’s a vow that strips me of my will to fight.

I say nothing else. Staring into the darkness of the room with his even breaths sounding behind me, wet hits my eyes. Another string holding my vulnerable heart in place severs as he pulls me tighter into his front, holding me as though—as though he’ll die if he doesn’t.

And I’m devastatingly sad. Because the longer he holds me, the more minutes that pass as I rest here in his strong embrace, I can’t help but feel the sharp pain of years and years of loneliness. I haven’t been held, not with any amount of affection, since I was fifteen.

A silent sob wracks my body. He holds me even tighter.

Minutes pass, and tears fall from my eyes to soak the pillow under me. I cry for the pathetic heart I’ve done my best to nurture in solitude since I lost my parents. I so very clearly failed.

I cry for the lonely child who grew into the socially awkward, untrusting woman who lived in fear of affection so much that the only contact of a physical nature she knew was that of her cat.

I cry for the future I know I won’t have. If this dangerous man keeps stripping the layers of me down to push the blade of himself deep inside the core of me, I’ll never be able to pull it free, lest I bleed out and perish.

“You are safe with me, my sweet Irelynn,” he vows. That blade cuts deeper, sinking through flesh and bone on its path to the core of me.

God, he thinks I’m crying because I’m distressed that he’s holding me like this. And I guess, in a way, I am. But it’s more than that. I’m crying because—even though I shouldn’t, and I know it’s wrong—I like it.

I crave it.

I need it.

I’m crying because it’s been so long since I’ve felt wanted. Like I belong.

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