Page 154 of Only for Him
Or is it to kill me? I know too much for him to let me live—I should turn around, change my name, move to Oregon.
But my body doesn’t seem to sense the risk the way my brain does, because it’s closing around the knob. Unlocked, of course.
My blood hums in my ears as I step into my apartment. It’s dark, even though I’d left the lights on. And lately, I’ve always left the lights on because the dark only reminded me of him. His smell rises over the lemon disinfectant and worn wood.
“Roman?” I call out, wondering if he’s missed hearing his name coming from my mouth. I’d like to think he does, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.
Wishful thinking? That’s a funny way to pronounce “delusion”.
“Welcome back, little viper.”
I gasp at the sound of his voice. That low, rough rumble that rubs like velvet against my skin, leaves my slit dripping. My eyes adjust to the shadows. His frame takes up too much space in my living room, silhouetted by the city lights outside the window.
I want to run to him. My need to touch him is that fierce. My heart beats fast and erratic.
We’ve been apart for three days but it feels like a year. I feel like I’m coming home after deployment, that I’m going to run into his arms and he’ll lift me up and twirl me around like some heartwarming feel-good news story:Local Psychopaths Reunite!
If only there was a labrador here to complete the scene.
He’s not wearing a shirt, the cross tattoo and words on his shoulder hard to discern among all the shadows and his rippling muscles.
I want to scream at him. I want to cry. I want to claw his face and fuck him on the floor and scream:you ruined me, you saved me, you motherfucking bastard, I missed you so bad it hurts.
I want to tell him he makes me feel real again.
Worse than that is the desire to wrap my legs around him and squeeze. I have the sense that even just the brush of his bare flesh on my nipples would send me into convulsions. My palms itch to run down his flesh, feel his heat and let him feel mine.
But I still don’t know why he’s here. I still don’t know if he’s actually forgiven me.
I clear my throat. “Roman.”
The blue of his eyes is brighter than I remember. He’s lost weight, or maybe just sleep. The look he gives me is pure hunger, but not the idle kind. The kind that can’t survive without.
“We have to finish this,” he says. The relief that surges in my chest is shameful.We. There’s still awe.
Has there ever been anything else? Aren’t you basically surgically grafted together at this point, sewn together by blood and wrath?
“Has something happened?” I ask, noting how much stronger my voice sounds now that he’s in front of me. He makes me stronger, more of everything.
Including more of myself.
He lunges at me.
None of my defensive instincts flare. I let him come and let him take my face in his hands.
Something breaks open inside me, and whimpering, I lean into his palm to savor the heat and strength of his fingers on my cheek.
His face is inches from mine, the scars and stubble and pain all magnified. He’s so handsome, and I’m so fuckinghis.
I think I might hate myself for it. My conscience didn’t sign up to be stuck in the mind of someone who’s only satisfied by externalizing her pain onto the world.
Fuck it, though. Roman doesn’t hate me for it.
Maybe that’s why it feels so right to be beside him again.
“This is it, little viper,” he says. “I finally got you what you needed.”
It’s almost enough to shatter me. “But… the DNA? You said we were over.”
