Page 38 of A Storm in Every Heart
On the other hand,onceis like taking a single hit of opium and expecting not to want more. Like expecting a single drop of water to turn a desert into an ocean.I already know it won’t be enough, but I’m past caring.
I feel like I’m cheerfully sprinting to my own execution as I carry Odessa up the stairs to my bedroom. I finally understand why the men who get lured in by the sirens die with smiles on their faces.
“Where are we going?” Odessa asks as we climb the stairs.
“My room,” I say into her skin, unable to stop myself from pressing my face into the curve of her neck, and breathing in her ocean and floral scent.
Dessa shivers but says nothing else until we reach my second-floor bedroom and I shoulder open the door. She twists in my arms, looking around.
The room is neat and clean with very little in the way of personal effects—just the way I prefer it. The furniture is whatever was here when I moved in, and the most I’ve done to change things around is put my clothes in the wardrobe.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Dessa says sarcastically.
“Well, some of us like to see the floor,” I tease her, thinking of her disastrous bedroom.
Looking affronted, she glances up at the ceiling, and her eyebrows pull low.
Fuck.
I see the wheels turning in her mind and I know she realizes that this room is directly below hers, and if I let her think about it too long, she’ll also remember that the walls in the manor are relatively thin and the floors creak. I can always tell when she’s gone to bed, when she’s pacing in the middle of the night and when she trips over that mess on her floor.
Hoping to distract her before she has the chance to put two and two together, I kick the door closed behind me and cross the room in two strides where I put her down on my sharply made bed.
She scrambles onto her knees and looks up at me from beneath her eyelashes, not in a seductive way but more like she’s nervous. For once, I think I understand why.
It’s hard to pretend this is some rash, irresponsible mistake that we can blame on poor judgment in the heat of the moment.The walk between the dining room and my bedroom made it all too clear that whatever this is, it’s a choice.
I reach out and run a hand through her hair, stopping when my fingers graze her throat. I leave them there, not squeezing, just resting against her pounding pulse. “Don’t look at me like that.”
She blinks. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about to bolt at any moment.”
She flushes and bites her lip, her pulse fluttering beneath my fingers. I watch her violet eyes shift from my face, down my chest, and linger around my stomach. My blood heats and my entire body tightens, growing hot with anticipation.
“Is that better?” she asks, teasing.
A growl rumbles through my chest, and I flex my fingers against her throat. “Much, but I still want to hear you say it.”
Siren or not, I need to hear her give over control to me or I won’t be able to justify to myself all the depraved things I’m already planning to do to her.
She smiles wickedly, the heat in her eyes still simmering just below the surface. “I want it…just once.”
Good enough.
My fingers tighten on her throat before I’m sure if I intended to pull her toward me to claim her mouth or shove her backwards against the bed. Somehow, I manage both at once, and our lips collide as she splays on her back, tugging at my shirt until I fall over her with one arm braced over her head.
All hesitance gone, Odessa opens her mouth, tangling her tongue with mine. Her fingers dig into my scalp, nails raking, pulling me impossibly closer until every inch of me aches to be inside her.
My hands roam, mapping the ridges of her ribs, the curve of her waist, memorizing the geography of her skin, knowing this might be the only time I’ll ever be allowed to touch her. Shearches under my touch, breath hitching as I slide my palm up, massaging her breast. She whimpers, and her hand joins mine, trying to tug down the neck of her already-torn gown.
I pull back from her, rocking back on my heels. “Turn around.”
She cocks an eyebrow at me, but twists to show me her back. Her dress has hundreds of infuriatingly tiny buttons.
I groan. “Do you like this dress?”
“Not really,” she says, out of breath. “You already tore it beyond repair.”
