Page 40 of Unbind

That takes the wind out of her sails. I see the moment she decides to believe me. She swallows, her arms loosening in defeat, fingers swallowed up in the frothy layers of her skirt.

‘What are you doing here, Natalie?’

‘I don’t have to justify myself to you. I work here.’

‘So you do. I’m just curious, because I thought you didn’t “fraternise”. Wasn’t that the term you used? Want to know what I think?’

‘Not really, but I assume you’re going to mansplain it to me anyway.’

I take a step towards her, and she instinctively steps backwards, her back hitting the wall and her head tilting upwards so she can keep her eyes on me as I close the gap. I’m not some dickhead who wilfully misreads women’s signals, but it’s not contempt I see on her beautiful face as she stares at me, nor is it fear.

Not even close.

I stop a foot or so away from her, planting my hands on the wall and caging her in before I dip my head so I can whisper close to her ear.

‘You don’t need me to “mansplain” it to you, because your own body is telling you loud and clear. I think you came in to find me, because I think you’ve been wondering about my question all evening. Wondering what would happen if you did come in.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. ‘I’m not attracted to violent thugs.’

I dip my head even further so my lips graze her ear, and I swear to God she shivers. ‘That’s not who I am these days, and I think you know that. I’ve done a lot of work on myself,and my self-control is positively monastic. So you never, ever need to worry about that.

‘In any case, I think you’re talking bullshit. But I’ll be mature enough to admit it for both of us. I want you so badly I barely know my own name right now, and I would bet a lot of money that if I reached under that little dress and felt your panties, they would be absolutelysoaked.’

Her breaths are ragged. The perfume emanating from the heat of her skin is subtle enough to suggest she put it on a few hours ago, but it still makes me dizzy.

‘I hate you,’ she whispers. ‘Remember?’

I close my eyes. ‘I don’t doubt that for a second. But I also don’t doubt you want me—maybe even as badly as I want you. And you know I would never, ever hurt you. So why don’t you let me make you feel good?’ I lower my voice to a barely audible level, so that my words are little more than a caress. ‘Because I think you want me to take you to places you rarely let yourself visit, yousweetlittle uptight thing, and the only thing standing in your way of complete and utter transcendence is your own pig-headedness.’

I change tack, straightening up and standing back so I can regard her. Her eyes are huge, beseeching, and her entire posture speaks of defeat, slumped as she is against the wall as though she can barely hold herself up. Her little dress is exquisite: boned satin and glittering accents and the softest, most ethereal skirt—a skirt that would prove no defence against me. It reminds me of her brand.

Gossamer.

It’s so perfect for her. Delicate and feminine and ephemeral. She’s the dark ballerina in the music box tonight, a beautiful, fragile doll I want to wrench free from her self-imposed captivity and prevail over while I coax unspeakable pleasure from her body.

We stand like this for a moment, my head bowed, my entire body arched towards her, hers open and pliant against the wall. It’s as if her body already knows the secrets still evading her head.

She opens her mouth, but the next words out of it take me by surprise.

‘I shouldn’t want this,’ she whispers, almost to herself, as those huge eyes take me in. ‘Seriously. Not with you, of all people. What thefuckis wrong with me?’

No no no no no. I can’t have this. Can’t have her beating herself up because I’ve broken her will. A sudden surge of self-loathing courses through me, as chilling as the flood of relief was warm just now, when she finally acknowledged her internal struggle.

I step forward again and slide my hands under her long earrings and up her neck, finding and cupping her jaw. ‘No, sweetheart. Absolutely nothing is wrong with you, you hear me? You are fuckingperfect.’

She’s still staring at me. She looks dazed. Slowly enough to give her space and deliberately enough that she understands I’m in complete control of myself, I bend and press my lips to the side of her neck.

22

ADAM

Ilinger there a moment. Desire may be an angry scarlet river coursing keenly through my veins, but there’s stillness here in this sacred spot. There’s peace in the flicker of her pulse, in the elusive ghost of her perfume, in the smooth surface of her skin. She’s a shadowy hollow in the woods on a too-warm day; she’s a balm for this weary traveller. I part my lips just enough to let the very tip of my tongue slide over her skin with the lightest of tracks.

The sound she makes in her throat is involuntary and shuddery and incredulous, the purest form of surrender. She’s acquiesced to me, even if she’s not ready to admit it to herself quite yet.

My hands are still braced on either side of her head. Our only points of touch are my lips and tongue against her neck, and the tip of my nose, already dampening as my breath condenses against her skin. I draw one last tiny line with my tongue and reluctantly straighten up to admire the effects of my handiwork.

It’s what I wanted to see: her pupils dilating as ink soaks through blotting paper, gaining ground against the deep,clear chocolate of her irises as she trains her eyes squarely on my mouth. Her lips are parted, and I trace the line of her lower lip with my fingertip, just as faintly as my tongue traced the trembling contours of her neck.

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