Page 72 of The Ecstasy of Sin
Sleeping outside isn’t peaceful, either. The noise of downtown Toronto can be deafening, especially early in the morning. It’s often a distracting cacophony of a hundred lives overlapping; conversations fighting to be heard over the endless drone of traffic.
Sleep usually only comes if you’re used to the chaos, or you’re just too exhausted to care.
It’s the silence that pulls me from my dreamless sleep, demanding that I open my eyes and figure out if I’ve died and slipped away into the nothingness I believe awaits me.
Forcing my dry eyes open, it takes me nearly a minute to blink away the residual blurriness before a bedroom I don’t recognize comes into view.
Where am I?
I’m sinking into a plush mattress, wrapped in the softest sheets I’ve ever touched. The black silk glides over my bare thighs as I shift beneath them.
I turn my head to one side, taking in the room. It’s decorated simply; in shades of grey, silver and deep black. It’s masculine, and quite cozy.
A familiar scent lingers in the air, clinging to the dark sheets surrounding me. Clean, masculine, with a hint of smokiness. Not like cigarette smoke, but the scent that lingers on a man’s jacket after a cold autumn night spent beside a fire.
Everything smells like Dominic Kael.
And just like that, memories of the last twenty-four hours slam into me. Burning through me like a wildfire ignited by the intoxicating smell of the man that drugged me with the promise to bring me home.
My fingers lift to my throat, pressing against the phantom sting where the needle pierced my skin. My heart begins to race, and I remember the possessive glint in his dark eyes as he promised to take my fear away.
“You’re safe.”
My head jerks toward the voice, my eyes locking onto a pair of forest green ones. His gaze is intense, watching me from where he lays next to me on the bed, his head resting on his fist. He’s wearing nothing but his black cargo pants, his black tattoos on full display.
His body is out of this world. It’s the kind of physique that belongs in bloodstained arenas, not in quiet bedrooms in the middle of civilization.
Forcing myself to stop drooling over my stalker’s body, I drag my eyes back to his and level him with an incredulous stare. “You drugged me.”
He nods. “You had a panic attack. I took away your fear.”
I try to sit up, but my head starts to swim, which forces me back down. I push the covers down my body, hoping the cooler air will snap me out of the fog—only to realize I’m naked from the waist down.
A sick twist curls through my gut as I tug the sheet back over my hips. “Did you…” I let the accusation hang between us.
“No. Somnophilia isn’t my kink.”
I turn my face away from his, unable to hold his intense gaze. I’m staring up at the ceiling, my mind racing as I work through the conflict I’m feeling. “You can’t drug me again.”
He shifts closer, his hand finding my hip, fingers toying with the edge of the silk sheet. “Don’t run from me, and I’ll never need to.”
I close my eyes, drawing in a deep, steadying breath before turning my head to face him again. “This isn’t normal. This isn’t how relationships are supposed to work.”
He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Nothing about our lives is normal. You should stop trying to fit into whatever box society convinced you was the only way to be loved. Just embrace what we have, what we’re building.”
I laugh—the sound shaky, edged with disbelief and a touch of hysteria. “You could be a serial killer,” I point out.
“Iama serial killer,” he says, nodding like he’s confirming a well-known fact.
This time, I laugh for real. “Luckily, killing to protect someone from being murdered doesn’t count toward the official statistics.”
He smiles, and it lights up his unfairly beautiful face.
“This is crazy,” I murmur, dragging my hands over my face. “I can’t believe I’m not punching you in the throat and running out the door.”
“You could try, but I’d just hunt you down, fuck you until you cry, and drag you right back to this bed.”
I stare at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “You’re insane.”
