Page 15 of His Gift
"Happiness wasn't the aim."
"What was it, then?"
"Making my parents proud. For some reason… for some reason, they were always disappointed with me. So I became the perfect daughter. I had good grades and proper friends. No wild parties, no boyfriends unless approved by my parents, and when they told me they had the right husband for me, I went with the flow. They were so proud of me on my wedding day. My mom, especially."
Not sure if I'm doing the right thing, I hold her tighter and ask what I know she doesn't want to remember: "Why were they always disappointed with you?"
"I told you, I don't know." Her tone is almost hysterical.
"Why were they always disappointed with you?"
"What is this, a joke?"
"Why were they always disappointed with you?"
She resists my grip, then resorts to kicking my legs and thrashing her head when she can't break free. I was ready, though. I keep her pinned, and I let her exhaust herself.
Rage is such a liberating feeling. You can hide behind it, burn the world down, and never have to admit what really triggered you. Never have to feel vulnerable, because you're the aggressor, not the victim. Because it's your choice to drive others away, not theirs to leave you alone.
I let her spew offenses and curses without even listening to them. And when she finally gives up and lies still, I relent on my grip and caress her—her hair, her shoulders, her back, her legs—slowly, giving her time.
Is this what I saw in her? All that hurt that had no way of pouring out? All that loneliness that felt like it was deserved?
"Why were they always disappointed with you?"
"It wasn't like that when I was little. It started when we moved to Philadelphia."
thirteen
Harper
How could I forget?
It doesn't matter. I don't want to think about it. Taking advantage of his loosened grip on me, I turn around and kiss him. He recoils for just a millisecond, his eyes widening in surprise, and then he grabs my neck with both hands and takes over.
He moans in my mouth, and it goes straight to my head like a glass of fine liquor. I don't know what's with this man, but I want himevery time I see him, and even when he's somewhere else. Right now, I'm his. And he knows it very well. His kiss is perfection—sweet and brutal, slow and frantic. He doesn't kiss me; he devours me. Takes away everything bad that's swirling around in my mind and burns it with lust.
Then he moves one of his hands from my nape and caresses my cheek, trailing down my neck. It circles my breast, his fingers pinch my nipple, harder and harder until I whimper and he moves on, tracing the delicate skin of my thighs and then my pussy lips.
"I want you, sweet girl. Every minute of every day. And you're melting right now. I can make you so much more soaked. I can give you all the pleasure you need."
I want that. I need that. I don't care about anything else.
"Please," I mewl, a puddle of unrestrained desire.
"I will. Not now, though. Now, we must talk."
It's like he threw a bucket of ice over my head. I push him back in disbelief. He kidnapped me, fucked me when I was unconscious, andnowhe wants to talk?
"Less talking, more fucking." He huffs and grabs me again. "I don't want to talk. We're done here and I'm not sharing more personal details with you. Who are you, anyway? A crazy man who lives alone in the wilderness. An asshole who kidnapped me. A fucking stalker who thought he had any right to know my most personal secrets. As far as I can tell, you're just good at fucking and nothing else."
"Nice rant. We must talk."
No, we most surely don't.
Half expecting he'll stop me, I knee him. He didn't see it coming, and that's all I need. In a second, I'm out of his bed and running down the stairs. I don't give a fuck if I'll die in the woods. We're done here.
I'm barely out of the door when an arm coils around my waist and drags me back. Then Conrad pins me to the floor.
