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Torture to Her Soul(127)

By:J.M. Darhower


"For you?"

"Or them."

"Who's them?"

He steps toward me and I instinctively tense, glass of champagne in one hand and half-eaten strawberry in the other, as he grasps my chin, pulling my face up toward him, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. His expression changes right before my eyes, the playfulness draining as that look creeps into his eyes. That look.

The monster.

He's peeking out at me.

"Them is anybody who dares get in my way," he says, voice low, and I can't help but shiver as those words wash over me. Fear. Excitement. Terror. Exhilaration. The sensations battle for control of my body, twisting my insides and making my knees weak. I'll never for a moment doubt he means that, and as frightening as it is, knowing what he's capable of, knowing what he wouldn't hesitate to do, my sickness relishes the security. He'd kill the whole world, burn it to the ground, but that part of me believes him when he says he'd protect me from harm.

He's not bulletproof. I know he's not. But I think, now, he's grown shatter-resistant. After everything, Naz isn't an easy one to crack. Someday, when he dies, whether it happens tomorrow from a bullet or sixty years from now from old age, Naz will go out standing, fighting. Nobody will ever break him again.

His eyes scan my face, slowly and methodically, like he's studying every contour, before his gaze settles on my mouth. He licks his lips, and mine part in response, releasing a shaky exhale. My eyes drift closed as he kisses me softly, and I moan from anticipation, expecting him to deepen it, but instead I'm met with laughter against my lips.

Opening my eyes, I watch as he takes a step back, his expression once again light. The monster is gone. Naz tips his glass toward me before downing the rest of it and turning away.

"Enjoy your strawberries," he says. "I'm going to take a shower."

Fucking tease.

I gape at him until he disappears before eating the rest of my strawberry. I hear him moving around on the second floor of the suit, hear the water turn on in the bathroom. I stand here, listening to the noise for a moment, scowling.

I should stay down here.

Really.

I shouldn't follow him.

Shouldn't bother him.

It's not like he asked me to come along.

Not like he invited me.

So I should stay right where I am. I should drink all the champagne and eat all the strawberries and just say fuck him, the teasing bastard.

I should.

I don't.

I guzzle what's in my glass before setting it down and heading for the stairs. I tread lightly, tiptoeing toward the upstairs bathroom. The door is cracked open, and it doesn't make a sound when I slowly push on it to slink inside. The lights are dim, the air hazy from the steam from the shower, the mirrors and glass coated in a thin layer of fog, but I can make him out standing beneath the spray.

His back is to me as he lathers his hair with shampoo, the strong, all male, all Naz scent wafting toward me. Jesus, the man always smells as good as he looks. It's sinful, like just breathing him in is enough for a girl to need to shout out some Hail Mary's.

Hail Mary, full of Grace, let this man fuck me tonight...

"I'm not surprised."

The sound of his voice causes my muscles to tense. His back is still to me. He hasn't so much as even glanced my direction, but I can't help but wonder if he knows I'm here.

I say nothing.

I don't know what to say.

I'm not surprised?

Is he talking to me?

He rinses out his hair, as casual as can be, like he hadn't said a word. After a moment of silence, Naz turns around, his eyes meeting mine. He steps toward the glass, using his hand to clear away some of the fog.

I try to keep eye contact.

I do.

I try.

Really, I try hard.

Hard.

But my traitorous eyes have a mind of their own; my body does whatever the hell it wants. My gaze drifts down his chest and along his scars, following the trail of hair right to his cock.

Yep, definitely hard.

His laughter is sharp, drawing my eyes right back to his, knowing I've been caught ogling him.

"That's you," he says. "Exhibitionism is your kink, jailbird, not mine."

I feel my cheeks flushing. He curves a finger, motioning for me to come closer as he pushes open the glass door. Hesitating, I step toward him, as he casually leans against the wall of the shower, crossing his arms over his chest. I feel like a child about to be scolded for spying, with the way he's looking at me, expression serious, eyebrow cocked. He looks almost irritated.

Ugh, why does that excite me more?

"Is there something I can do for you?" His eyes scan me like I did him just a moment ago. "Is there something you need?"

The insinuation is clear, although his tone is anything but playful. There's a hard edge to the words. When he meets my eyes again, I see his have darkened. The monster's back, and he's feeling testy.