Page 82 of Kept in the Dark
I’m so screwed.
If it had just been this crazy attraction, maybe I could deal. Everyone knows nothing kills a fantasy you’ve built up in your head quite like the mundane realities of actually having sex with another person. No matter how intense the buildup, there’s no way to get around the awkwardclothing removal, the cold toes, the cramping positions, the slapping sounds...
Even good sex, where I’m actually able to come, is still just a thing you do and then you can move on, in my experience. And maybe I’ve never been quite this on edge for quite this long, but the higher the pedestal I build for him, the harder he’ll hit the ground when he gets knocked off.
So why did he have to be legitimately charming? And funny? And endearing without trying to be? Why did he have to be interesting and attentive and thoughtful and generous? Why did he have to be caring and broken?
It’s not fair.
I didn’t want to like him. Ishouldn’tlike him.
I thought “ruining me” would be violent—powerful and savage, like him. In a good way, of course, but in a thoroughlyphysicalsense of the word. I didn’t think he meant he’d ruin me with anticipation, or with gifts, or little acts of service like bringing me coffee and washing and folding my clothes for me, or with smoldering looks of masculine appreciation of my body, or with soft little forehead kisses.
Fucking forehead kisses? That’snot fair.
I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to fall in like with my kidnapper, and it’s definitely a terrible idea. Because when all of this is over, I’m leaving. Disappearing. It’s safer for everyone that way. All this can be is temporary—scratching that purely physical itch.
But now, as I sit here, waiting for him to find me, I’m genuinely worried about what’s going to happen when we do have sex. What if it’s bad? Worse, what if it’s as good as I’ve imagined? Worst of all, what if it’s sort of justokay—the kind of sex where you convince yourself it might get better with practice, and you end up dating a loser for months because it’s got “such potential.”
If there’s anything worse than a disappointment, it’s a disappointment after you’ve wasted your time.
A shuffling noise on my left startles me, and I turn. All thoughts and worries disappear as Dimitri settles next to me on the bench and his heat seeps into my body despite several inches of separation. I shift a little closer.
My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and we’re facing the brightest thing in the sky, so I can make out some of his features. Same strong jaw and cheekbones, same down-turned lips, same thick brow and pensive frown. He hardly ever sleeps in, but on the few times I have woken before him, I just… stare.
It’s such an interesting face. Strong, powerful features.
“You found me,” I say softly, hoping to show my approval.
“You were thinking so hard I could hear you from all the way over there,” he says, pointing behind him towards the pool house.
I smile. His humor issodry. “I was starting to think I’d have to make you chase me.”
His lips part, and I hear a forceful inhale—his version of a gasp of surprised delight—and he settles into his seat with a low grumbling noise. Interesting. Perhaps my predator likes to be a bit primal.
The bench creaks, straining to support him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You were waiting for me?”
There’s a note of longing, of tentative disbelief that makes me feel oddly powerful and wanted. When his gaze drops to the thin straps of my nightgown, the low cut of the bodice, and the thin, lacy material that’s scratching against my nipples and keeping them taut with the sensation, he licks his lips.
I shrug, and it makes the tiny strap fall off my shoulder. His eyes dart to it, following the motion and then lingering on my bare skin, and I have to suppress a smile.
A paid actor, that strap.
“I thought we could start over, in a manner of speaking. Well, not start over, but recreate how itshouldhave gone at the wedding.”
“How should the night have gone, my med?”
I hum at the nickname, like it drives home my point. If it had gone differently, I never would have ended up on a houseboat, treating a gunshot wound.
“You would have found me on the bench and offered me your coat when I shivered. We would have talked, flirted, exchanged numbers…” I inhale sharply. “Gone home together.”
“That is how it should have gone,” he agrees quietly. His voice is a rasp.
I tilt my head back, conscious of his eyes on my neck. Heat crawls under my skin with a potent surge of energy. Being the sole subject of his intensity is heady. Powerful.
“YA revnuyu k lune, potomu chto ty smotrish' na neye,”he murmurs.
“Hmm?” I ask.
