Page 33 of Under Your Scars
“Yeah, I would. He’s actually nice to me, unlike you. And he’s not a fucking psychopath.”
He raises both eyebrows this time, and then slots his knee between my legs to spread them slightly, the action causing my mini skirt to get dangerously short.
“I can be nice, Elena. Want me to show you?” I instinctively shake my head. His hand snakes up my leg, stopping right at the bottom of my skirt. “You want me to make you cum so you can compare notes? Are you scared I can fuck you better than your boyfriend can?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
He chuckles against my neck. “I love how that’s the only thing you decided to respond to.” His hand brushes up my skirt, causing it to pool around my waist, my white cotton thong now exposed. He looks down and growls to himself, and I swear, even behind his mask, I can practically see him hungrily lick his lips. His fingers ghost over the front of my panties.
I grab his wrist with both of my hands to get him to stop, and to my surprise, he does, glaring at me with those artificial eyes like he’s waiting for an invitation.
“When will you admit to yourself that you want me?”
I scoff. “I don’t.”
He raises his voice enough to cause me to nearly jump out of my shoes. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” His hands come to rest on the brick wall on either side of my head and he presses his chest into mine. His proximity sends my senses into overdrive, and that part of the brain where arousal and fear get muddled together makes my legs clench and my pulse skyrocket. “I have a confession,” he says, his tone hard with need as he whispers his dirty confession directly into my soul. “Did you really think it was a coincidence that you found me in that alley the night after I saved you? No, angel. I had been watching you from your open window all night. Were you thinking about me saving you when you used that cute purple vibrator on your pretty cunt? Were you wet thinking about using your body to thank me?” My breath quivers as his hand travels up my thigh again, and this time, I don’t stop him. “I stabbed myself in the arm and waited for you to find me, and I forced you to help me.”
“You’re fucking insane,” I mumble, trying to find any rational thought in my brain. His left hand lightly squeezes my neck as my pulse thrums under his fingers.
In my neck and my underwear.
“Yes, I am,” he whispers breathlessly, grinding himself into me so I can feel his erection digging into my stomach. “And you are the object of my insanity.”
With an abrupt change in mood, he takes a purposeful step back from me. “Get me that information, Elena.”
I start to make several undiscernible noises as I attempt to form a sentence to even begin totryand comprehend what just happened.Did I really almost just let a serial killer feel me up in a dank alleyway? What the fuck is wrong with me?
The Silencer turns and walks away without another word, and I make a mental note to research psychiatric hospitals when I get home, because I need serious mental help.
Two hours into my shift, Kate taps me on the butt and shoves a piece of paper into my hands. My eye twitches when I look at her, and all she does is shrug. I open the folded-up paper to find the Reeves monogram at the top, and underneath, the number six.
My brow furrows for a brief second, and then I look across the room and up, to where private suites look out over the dance floor. Those things are hardly ever used because they’re fifty thousand dollars to rent, but the rules in those suites aren’t the same rules that apply down here.
There’s a very strict ‘clothes on’ policy on this level. Anyone who gets too adventurous gets immediately thrown out, because there’s a strip club one floor up where men can get their rocks off to naked women. This floor is mostly just a bar and dance floor.
Those suites though? Rule free zones. That’s why they’re so expensive.
Six.He’s in suite six.
I take a deep breath of courage and leave the bar, walking up the steps until I reach the corridor that leads to the suites. It’s completely soundproof, and slightly unnerving how quiet it is. The only indication of any life is the very faint thump of the bass from the club. I reach suite six, and before I have a chance to knock, Christian opens the door and wordlessly lets me inside. He’s wearing the same thing he was earlier, sans his jacket. His shirt looks rumpled, his hair is a mess, and I swear it looks like he has a dark shadow under his eyes. I’ve never seen him so unkempt.
“Hi,” I croak.
“Relax,” he laughs. “I won’t bite.” He points towards one of the couches. “Sit.”
I do, and he hands me a glass of champagne, taking a sip of his own before slumping into the seat next to me with a smile. I eye him suspiciously. “I’m confused. What are you doing here?”
“Sharing a bottle of champagne with you.”
I raise my eyebrow, making an obvious show of looking around the room, taking in the various bondage supplies and the stripper pole in the center on a raised platform. “You rented a fifty-thousand-dollar suite in a shady nightclub to have champagne with me? Sorry, I’m not buying it.”
Christian holds up his hands in surrender and then playfully clutches his chest. “On my honor, I have no ulterior motives other than seeing you again.”
“You saw me this morning. We spent the entire day together. Was it really so forgettable?”
He gives me a crooked smile. “Not in the slightest. I like spending time with you. Is that such a crime?” He sets his champagne glass down on the table in front of him, wraps his hand around my thigh, and pulls me into his lap. I’m straddling him, his mouth mere inches from mine. He caresses my cheeks with a featherlight touch and presses his lips to mine—soft and sensual. I don’t fight it. I let him explore my mouth as our tongues tangle together. I can taste the champagne still lingering on his breath and my hands fist into the front of his shirt.
He pulls back with an abrupt hiss, like he’s in pain.
