Page 8 of Marked

“See, you’re not ‘that kind of girl’ after all,” he reveals eventually. “You’re not truly reckless, just adventurous.”

I smile, and it’s only in part for his benefit.

“I like that word a lot better,” I say, casting a smile at him now. “You’re right.”

He reciprocates my smile with a smirk, as if to say, ‘I told you so,’ and reaches out to touch me. I flinch just a tad when the palm of his hand lands on my shoulder, only resting there for a moment before he starts tracing along my collarbone, gently moving the fabric of the cashmere cardigan aside to meet my bare skin with his fingertips. I add an audible inhale when he reaches my neck, placing his large palm at the vertebra right beneath my hairline.

“Adventurous girls still get in trouble. You know that, right?” The tone of his voice has changed. It’s darker, calmer—and the menace lacing it is so palpable that it makes my heart speed up.

I nod. “Yes, of course.”

“You got yourself in a lot of trouble,” he goes on, squeezing slightly as he closes his fingers around my neck from where he’s standing behind me. “You got fired because of me. You got into this mess because of me. You’re fucking scared because of me. And now you want me to make you feel better?”

I nod again, casting him a coy look from underneath my lashes in lieu of a verbal response.

“Isn’t that a little fucked up?”

I bite my lower lip, trying to ignore the subtle kiss of worry that emerges in response to his question.

“Maybe, but you’re the only one who can make me feel better. You’re the only one who knows how.”

“Is that so?” he prods, his grip on my neck tightening. “And what exactly does that mean?”

My heart flutters. Of course, he’s going to make me spell it out. Of course, I’ll have to say it, admit it, and be ashamed of my own desires.

“Tell me, Riley,” he presses. I grimace when he intensifies the pressure on my neck, his strong fingers digging into the sensitive skin around my throat.

“Tell me how I make you feel better.”

Quick. Think. Speak! I have to give him a response, but I’m so torn between the flicker of excitement that sparks inside my chest and the fear of losing control if I give in to it—to him—that I find my tongue tied. My mind races as I try to think of answers that would please him, answers that hold the right amount of truth without being either too honest or too farfetched.

Once again, I’m disappointed in my ability to think on my feet.

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