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Tormentor Mine(93)

By:Anna Zaires

I manage to hold back the tears as I gulp down the rest of the soup while Peter watches me in silence. It’s unsettling, the way he can just stare at me without doing anything, as if the mere sight of me fascinates him. I’ve caught him doing this more than a few times; once, I even woke up to find him looking at me like this.

It’s disconcerting and flattering at the same time, like his seemingly endless hunger for me.

When my bowl is empty, I get up to put it in the dishwasher, but Peter takes it out of my hands.

“I’ve got this,” he says softly, dropping a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Go up and start getting ready for bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I nod, blinking to hold back a fresh surge of tears, and go up without objections. He often does this too: freeing me from all chores, no matter how small, when I’m tired. He must realize that putting a bowl in a dishwasher would not strain me, but he still treats me like I’m an invalid instead of a doctor exhausted by long hours.

He babies me and I love it, even though I shouldn’t. I should hate everything he does, because none of this is real.

It can’t be.

* * *

I’m already done with my shower by the time Peter comes upstairs, and he corners me in the bathroom, trapping me against the counter just as I finish brushing my teeth. My towel is wrapped around me, but he pulls it off, dropping it on the floor, and the sight of us in the fogged-up mirror—me pale and completely naked while he’s fully dressed in his dark clothes—makes my heart pound with nervous excitement.

He’s especially hungry tonight—and more than a little dangerous.

Sure enough, he wraps one big hand around my throat, and though he doesn’t squeeze, I feel the darkness behind the thin veil of his control, the threat implicit in the controlling gesture. At the same time, his other hand cups my breast, the rough edge of his thumb rubbing over my taut nipple. His eyes hold mine in the mirror, and I see a strange hunger in the silver depths, lust mixed with possessiveness and that intense something that makes my knees go weak and sends hot chills down my spine.

“Look at you,” he breathes in my ear, and I tear my eyes away from his hypnotic gaze to focus on the picture we’re presenting: him so big and lethally handsome, and me small and feminine, almost fragile in his dark embrace. “Look at how pretty you are, how sweet and soft and pure. That smooth skin of yours, so thin and delicate, so easily bruised…” He caresses my throat as I swallow, my pulse accelerating even more at his words.

“You know what I wonder sometimes?” he continues softly, and I grip the edge of the counter as his hard fingers pinch my nipple, twisting it with cruel purposefulness. “I wonder if I should put a chain around this pretty neck, lock you to me and throw away the key. Would you cry then, ptichka? Would you rage?” He nips at my earlobe, his white teeth scraping across my skin as his hand moves down from my breast to cup my sex. “Or would you secretly like it?”

I suck in a breath, trembling, so hot I could burst into flames. The picture he’s painting is both terrifying and arousing, as darkly erotic as the image in the mirror. With his arms around me, I can smell the leather of his jacket, feel the metallic zipper against my back, and a sense of acute vulnerability washes over me as his fingers part my wet folds and touch my clit, the sharp lash of pleasure exacerbating the feeling of helplessness, of being completely out of control.

“Please.” My voice shakes. “Please, Peter…”

“Please what?” His fingers push in and hook inside me, pressing against my G-spot as his teeth graze across my neck again. “Please what, ptichka? Please touch me? Please fuck me? Please go away?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Please fuck me.” I’m past embarrassment, past denial. It feels like every cell in my body is pulsing with need, burning with the dark craving he awakens in me. Maybe under different circumstances, I’d stay strong, try to hold on to whatever passes for dignity, but I’m too exhausted—and too aware that this might be it.

Tonight might be our last time together.

“Open your eyes,” he growls, and I dazedly obey, fighting the drugging pull of pleasure.

Peter’s gaze is dark and intense in the mirror, his face taut with violent need. And underneath, I sense that unsettling something, that softness I can’t quite define.

“Tell me, Sara. Tell me how you want me to fuck you. Do you want it rough”—his fingers thrust viciously into me—“or gentle? Hard”—he grinds the heel of his palm on my sex—“or soft?” Tempering the pressure, he lowers his head to lick my earlobe, his warm breath heating my skin as he rasps into my ear, “Do you want flowers and pretty words, ptichka? Or would you rather have something raw and real, even if society deems it wrong… even if it’s not what you’ve always wanted?”