Tormentor Mine(34)

I sit up and grab a pillow, holding it pressed against my chest as I scoot toward the headboard—as far away from him as the bed allows. What he’s saying makes no sense. He clearly wants me; his huge erection is all but tearing through his briefs. “You… you want to sleep with me? Just sleep?”

The smile leaves his face, and his eyes gleam with dark heat. “Obviously, I want more, but tonight, I’ll settle for sleep. I told you, Sara—I won’t hurt you again. I’ll wait until you’re ready… until you want me as much as I want you.”

Want him? I want to scream that he’s insane, that I will never voluntarily have sex with him, but I swallow the retort. I’m too vulnerable right now, and he’s too unpredictable. Besides, when he’s asleep, I’ll have a chance to get away—maybe even smack him over the head and call the cops.

“All right.” I try to look even more helpless than I truly am. “If you promise not to hurt me…”

His lips quirk. “I promise.” Getting off the bed, he pulls the blanket from under me with one strong tug and turns it down before fluffing up the remaining pillows. Patting the exposed sheets, he says, “Come here.”

I scoot a few inches toward him, hugging my pillow to my chest.

“Closer.”

I repeat the maneuver, my heart thudding with anxiety. I don’t trust him one bit. He could be toying with me, lying about his intentions for some bizarre purpose.

“Get under the blanket,” he says, and I obey, glad to have something other than a pillow to cover me. Unfortunately, my relief is short-lived. As soon as I lie down, he turns off the overhead light and gets under the blanket next to me, his long, muscular body stretching out beside me like he belongs there.

“Roll over onto your right side,” he says and does so himself after turning off the bedside lamp—our last remaining source of illumination.

My ribcage tightens as I understands what he intends.

My husband’s killer wants to spoon with me.

Ignoring the disorienting darkness and the choking feeling in my throat, I turn onto my side and try to breathe evenly as one muscular arm stretches out under the pillow below me and the other one wraps possessively around my ribcage, pulling me into the curve of his big body. However, breathing evenly is impossible. My naked butt nestles against the hard length of his cock, his warm, minty breath fans the fine hair at my temple, and his legs mold against mine from the back. I’m surrounded, completely overtaken by his size and strength. And heat. God, his body generates so much heat. Wherever his bare flesh presses against mine, I feel burned, as if he runs hotter than a regular human being. Except it’s not him—it’s me. I’m so frozen I’m shivering, the cold sweat having evaporated on my skin.

I don’t know how long we lie there like that, but eventually, his warmth seeps into me and transforms into a different kind of heat, the treacherous one that invades my dreams and makes me burn with shame. Now that I’m not so terrified, I’m aware of his powerful body as something more than a threat… of his hard cock as something other than a tool of violation. His warm male scent surrounds me, and my breasts feel heavy and sensitive above the thick band of his arm, my nipples tight and my sex aching with slick, throbbing emptiness. How long has it been since I’ve been held like this? Two years? Three? I can’t recall the last time George and I had sex, much less lay together like lovers, and despite the wrongness of the situation, the animal part of me enjoys being held like this, feeling the warmth of a man’s body and the pulsing hum of arousal in my core.

It’s a good thing I’m not planning to sleep, because there’s no way I’d be able to sleep like this—not with my heart racing a mile a minute and my mind outpacing it with a scramble of thoughts. Fear and anger, arousal and shame—it all blends together, spiking my heart rate and souring my stomach. What does Peter really want? What does he get out of this bizarre cuddling? That massive erection must be uncomfortable, if not downright painful, but he seems content to lie there, doing nothing more than holding me. Why? What’s his deal? Why did he latch on to me?

And could it possibly be true, what he said about George? Could my husband have somehow harmed his family?

It’s the worst idea in the world, but I can’t stop myself. My mouth seems to operate independently of my brain as I whisper, “Um, Peter… can you tell me something about yourself?”

I can feel his surprise in the minute tightening of his muscles and the change in his breathing. I’ve never addressed him by his name before, but it would be strange to call him anything else when I’m lying naked in his arms. Also, a little emotional intimacy might make him more inclined to answer my questions—and less likely to hurt me for asking them.