Page 64 of A Game So Reckless

No. What a stupid thought. He isn’t a sheltered virgin like I am, waiting to be married off to the first man rich and powerful enough to tempt my father.

He’s probably fucked dozens of women. Hundreds. Who the hell knows.

He might not even be single for all I know.

What the hell am I doing?

My heart stalls, sinking down into a stomach that now feels like it’s full of nauseating acid. And then I feel even worse, because how terrible of a person am I? The fact that Darragh killed someone tonight didn’t stop me from touching him.

But the fact he might be dating or sleeping with other women while he taunts me does.

Maybe I shouldn’t expect to be anything but a terrible person with genetics like mine.

I release my hand from Darragh’s cock and let it fall, palm-up, into my lap. My palm and fingers glisten with a pearlescent shine that catches strands of moonlight. He looks beautiful on my skin and that makes this all feel so much worse.

I stare at my hand so long that I don’t realize Darragh has left until he returns. His pants are done up once more.

“Stand up,” he says quietly.

Kicking me out already, I guess.

I do so quickly. Too quickly. My legs are noodles, nowhere near capable of holding up my body right now. My knees buckle, but Darragh is there, his viper-quick arm snaking around my waist to hold me steady against the solid heat of his frame.

I breathe out, closing my eyes for a moment.

When was the last time I was held by someone like this? Not a quick, drunken, friendship hug like I’d give to Lucia or Giulia or Deirdre. It doesn’t feel like a hug I’d give to one of my parents.

It feels like safety. And now I know I’m truly fucked. Because how can anyone but the damned feel such sacred shelter in the devil’s arms?

Or, arm, I suppose. Darragh’s got something in his other hand that I didn’t notice before. He nudges it between my thighs, and with a leap of my breath in my throat I realize it’s a warm, damp cloth.

Darragh is wiping me off.

Cruel Darragh, Mad Darragh, the man with a soul so sullied it might not even exist, is trying to make me clean again.

He’s taking care of me.

I’m starting to think, in his own fucked-up way, he’s been taking care of me this entire time. Starting with saving my life on that rooftop.

The cloth glides gently across my agonized flesh, and my chest suddenly seizes with the panicky feeling that I can’t breathe. It’s like a hiccup getting caught somewhere inside me. I don’t know how to release it.

When the breath finally does claw its way out of me, it comes out as a shuddering sob. My eyes well, and salty moisture spills from them.

I’m weeping.

I’m still held tightly against Darragh’s chest, so I feel the tension slice through his body like a guillotine in response. Oh, Jesus. I’m crying in front of Darragh. I have to stop. He’s going to hate this. I should never be so vulnerable in front of him.

Coming is one thing.

Weeping against his chest is entirely another.

I move to pull myself out of his grip, but he won’t let me go. His hand shoots up my back, seizing on the base of my skull. He holds the damp cloth between my legs while he lowers his face close to mine.

“Why are you crying?” The question comes like a stab.

I sniff and try to stop, twisting my head in his grip in an attempt to hide my face.

“Why do you care if I’m crying?” I choke out.

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