Page 131 of Ruthless Intent

My nails dig into his shoulder, and he laughs, a ragged sound that I feel through my entire body.

“I want to see you fall.” His words are a rough whisper. “Don’t fight it.”

He adds a second finger to the first, and his thumb sweeps over my clit. “Fall for me, Firecracker.”

And I do.

I freefall over the edge of the cliff.

While I’m still falling, he gets to his feet, and lifts me up into his arms. I’m a limp, sodden mess, with no fight left in me, so I don’t even try to stop him, and he carries me back through the bedroom, and places me on the bed.

I expect him to join me, but he stands there, looking down at me. Then he nods.

One long finger strokes over my cheek, along my jaw, around my lips. He leans forward and kisses me. It’s almost tender, gentle, and over before it really begins.

“Go to sleep.”

He straightens, and walks back into the bathroom. The door closes behind him, and the faint line of light beneath the door disappears.

As the tremors wracking my body slowly fade, as the heat of passion dissipates, self-disgust takes its place.

What did I just do?

Why did I do it?

And why didn’t he take it any further?

Rolling onto my side, I draw my legs up to my stomach. My thighs are wet, my heart is still racing.

I can’t even blame the wine. I sobered up hours ago.

How am I going to face him in the morning? What is he going to say?

My last thought before falling into a fitful sleep is how is he going to use what just happened against me?

When I next open my eyes, the sun is shining through the curtains. It takes me a second or two to wake up, but the moment I do the memories from the night before flood my mind.

I sit up, and look around.

The bathroom door is wide open, the light is off, and I can’t hear any noise from within the room. At the end of the bed, my pajama pants are neatly folded.

My stomach churns.

He must have come in while I was still sleeping, and put them there.

How long did he stand there and watch me sleep?

The thought sends a shot of anxiety through me.

I’m not looking forward to going downstairs and facing him. But the sooner I do it, the sooner it’s over with.

Throwing back the sheets, I swing my legs off the bed, and my eyes catch on the bottle of water on the nightstand. Beside it there are two small white pills, and a folded piece of paper.

My hand is shaking when I pick up the note.

Tylenol and water for your hangover. The interview is at twelve. Don’t be late.

It’s not signed, but the bluntness of the message makes it clear it’s from Zain.

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