Page 60 of Fall to Me
He nestles himself between my legs, and my hips move of their own accord; I have no control over myself. My body is on fire, and I feel my core contract as if it’s screaming for more friction. He sits up and reaches for the candle on the coffee table. His eyes never leave mine as he brings the jar over, tilting the glass, and letting the hot wax drip onto my stomach.
It burns for just a second, then an aching need throbs between my legs, and I gasp, “Carter.”
“Burns at first, right? But then it feels good. You see . . . there’s pleasure in pain. Sometimes the two blend together.” He sets the glass back down, and his lips hover over mine before he threads my bottom lip between his teeth and tugs. “But to answer your original question, BDSM is very likely your brain’s trauma response. You want to replace what’s happened to youwith something positive in an environment you can control. There’s nothing fucked up about it.”
His breath hits my ear as he continues. “If you think it’s fucked up, then I must be fucked up. I want you spread out, aching, completely at my mercy. I want to erase every single thing that bastard ever did to you and replace it with new memories of me that make you tremble in pleasure. Pull your hair, choke you, spank you . . . tie you up . . . manipulate the fuck out of your body, watch you submit to me and fall apart in the most beautiful, fucking, erotic way with my name spilling from your lips. I don’t want to control you. I want to worship every inch of you. There’s power in dominance, but there’s far more in submission. I may hold the lock, but you’ll always hold the goddamn key.”
“Oh, God.”
“Wrong sanctuary, baby.”
He feathers a kiss over my lips, “There’s not a fucking thing wrong with you. I’ll give you anything you want. All you have to do . . . is say the words I wanna hear.”
I’m delirious and turned the fuck on, but I’m not telling him shit. When I do, it won't be whenhe’sready, it will be whenI’mready. Onmyterms. It’s not about being stubborn; it’s about power. I don’t want anyone taking that from me ever again.
When I don’t respond, he lifts himself off me—the heat of his body leaving mine—and walks out of the living room.
Where the fuck is he going?
I wait and I wait, but he never comes back.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I yell at the ceiling.
He’s never been cruel, but this is fucking merciless.
“You’re really not coming back?” I yell loud enough for him to hear.
When he doesn’t answer, I turn everything off, blow out the godforsaken fucking candle, and go to my room. I want to beclose to him. I miss him every second I’m not with him; even when he’s on the other side of the room. Doesn’t he know that I’m already his? Why do I have to say it?
Still so fucking angry and maybe even more hurt than anything, I peel the wax from my body and toss it in the bathroom trash. I undress, throw on an oversized t-shirt, and climb beneath my covers. Throwing my head back against the pillow, I cry out in frustration and swipe a tear from my cheek.
One parting remark I’m not sure he can hear, but I have to get it off my chest.
“Seriously, Carter. This is so fucked up.”
Twenty
Carter
“You gotta be kidding me,” she practically screams so loud, I hear it all the way upstairs.
I didn’t want to leave her like that. It fucking killed me, but her silence made it crystal clear that she’s not mine—no matter how much I want her to be. Sure, I’ve had one-night stands and casual sex, but none of those women were River. When it comes to her, I can’t do casual. There’s no fucking way.
“You’re really not coming back?”
I cringe, knowing if I walk back out there, I’ll give in. I’ll give her everything without getting the one thing I need more than anything else.
She stomps around, and her door slams shut, making me jump at the impact.
A few minutes later, I hear another murmur, but I can’t make it out. Then, a bright glow from my cell phone cuts through the darkness of my bedroom. I squint against the sharp, white light as the device vibrates on the nightstand with an incoming call—River’s name flashing on the screen. Why would she be calling me? Why wouldn’t she come to my room? The sheets rustle as I reach over and answer.
“Hello?”
The line is silent.
“Baby, are you okay?”
I lift from my bed and walk toward her room. Making my way down the hall, I hear her sniffle and push the door to her room open the rest of the way. She faces the window, the silhouette of her curves backlit in the moonlight. A faint glow from her overturned cell reflects on the nightstand. Lowering mine, I press the red button to end the call. She sniffs again, wiping her cheek with her fingertips. My heart stops.
