by Callie Hart
“You’re not scowling,” he says quietly.
“Pardon me?”
“Normally when you look at me, you’re scowling.”
“I am not.”
“Okay.” His voice is so deep. It’s the voice of someone years older and years wiser than him. The sound of it makes my palms feel clammy. My throat feels tight all of a sudden.
“You’re just agreeing with me to avoid an argument. I can tell.”
“I am.” His mouth twitches, and a glimmer of that wicked confidence flickers behind his eyes. I hold out my hand, eyeing the coffee he brought. “Are you going to give that to me or not?”
“No.” He shakes his head slightly. “Not if you’re high on pain meds.”
“I’m not. I haven’t taken anything. I told Ali I did just to shut her up.”
Rooke smiles—a full, broad smile that makes me feel strange. “Badass. If I were you, I’d be popping those pills though. You look…” He trails off, his eyes moving over my body.
“Like shit?” I offer.
“Like you need pain meds.” At least he doesn’t tell me I look terrible. He said as much back in the hospital, and I’ll admit that I cared.
“Sasha?” he says quietly.
I close my eyes.
“Sasha, look at me.”
I open my eyes, and he’s still frozen to the spot, still staring at me, still hovering like a ghost at the other end of the table. The snow on his shoulders has melted now, leaving wet streaks down the front of his jacket. “I’ve been worried,” he says. “Really, really fucking worried. About you. I haven’t been able to fucking think straight. I’m sorry about the hospital. I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have left like that. I just…I couldn’t fucking handle it.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.”
He angles his head to one side. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because. This whole thing made you freak out. You shouldn’t have been—”
“Fuck.” He shakes his head, laughing angrily under his breath. “You really don’t understand any of this, do you?” He gestures between us, frowning, his brow creased into deep, unhappy lines. “I care about you. I’m intensely attracted to you. I fucking want you. So seeing you whisked off in a motherfucking ambulance, covered in blood, and then not being able to check in with you? That’s done more than disturb my thought patterns, okay?”
I rock back onto my heels. I’m a broken fucking mess. Can’t he tell that just by looking at me? Why does he want me like this?
“Are you all right now?” he asks, grinding his teeth together. “At least tell me that.”
“I’m fine. I’m tired. I’m still in shock, I guess. I hurt all over, but I’ll be okay.”
Rooke takes a step forward. He’s only three feet away from me now, but it feels like he’s standing right in front of me, as if there’s no space between us at all. It’s thrilling and frightening at the same time.
“I know this is the worst time, Sasha, but I need you to do something for me, okay?”
“I don’t know. It depends what it—”
“Send Ali home. Right now. I’m going to take care of you.”
“God, I can’t. She’ll have a fucking fit.”
He takes a step toward me, growling under his breath. “It’s not a request. It’s what’s going to happen. Either you go out there and tell her or I will. And I’ll use much harsher language, I fucking promise you that.”
I feel like I’m drunk. I feel like I’m out of my fucking mind. The prospect of telling Ali to go home is an awful one, but it’s better than what’s going to happen if I unleash Rooke on her. I allow my shoulders to sag, then I open the door.
“Wait here,” I tell him. “Don’t get involved.”
He holds his hands up, an act of surrender.
Ali’s standing in the hallway, trying to look like she wasn’t eavesdropping a second ago. I can see from the look on her face that she heard what he just said, though. I don’t even bother pretending with her. “I’m sorry, love. I know you want to make sure I’m okay, but—”
“Is he good to you?”
“What?”
She rolls her eyes. “Is he good to you? Does he treat you right? Is he careful with you? Do you feel safe with him?”
I’m stunned. “Yes,” I say softly.
Ali just nods, looking down at the floor. “All right then. I mean, he’s six foot five and he’s built like a brick shithouse. If you say he makes you feel safe and he treats you the way he’s meant to, then of course I’m okay with leaving. He’s way more equipped to protect you than I am. Just know the intention was there, though, okay? I get points for that. And if he so much as sneezes in a way you don’t like—”
I hug her, cutting her off. “Thank you.”
She gingerly hugs me back. “Okay, okay. I’ll be around tomorrow with some groceries for you.” I wait with her while she puts on her jacket and her odd, stripy woolen hat. At the front door, she plants her hands on my shoulders and looks me dead in the eye. “I love you, kid. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
“Good. Now go and get fucked by that ridiculously scary looking man. And no. I do not want details later, thank you very much. I don’t think I’m brave enough to even hear about it.”
Rooke’s leaning against the wall when I head back into the dining room. Ali was right: he is a scary looking guy. He’s certainly not someone I would ever have looked twice at before running into him at the museum. He’s not all sharp edges and dark scowls, though. There’s a tiny glimmer of light to him, too.
His face is a blank slate when he turns and looks at me, and I find myself trying to decide which side of him I’m about to witness now. That question is answered the second he opens his mouth.
“Strip, Sasha.”
“What?”
“Take your clothes off. Now. I want to look at you.”
“I don’t think—”
“Good. Don’t. That’s the last thing you need to be doing. Now be a good girl and take your clothes off.”
When I don’t move, he arches an eyebrow at me. The pain in my body seems to ebb, replaced with something else, then. The faintest hint of need. “Do you want me to do it for you, Sasha?” he asks.
Slowly, I shake my head. I begin the task at hand. It takes me a long time to get undressed. Lifting my arms over my head takes work, as does bending down to slide my jeans from each of my legs. I hesitate in my underwear, unsure if he wants me to continue. When I look up at him, I see just how stupid a thought that was. Of course he wants me naked. I slide my panties down my body, kicking out of them, and then I try to unfasten my bra strap. I physically can’t do it, though. My ribs thrum with pain when I reach behind me, and in a second Rooke is behind me, his breath hot on my neck as he brushes my hair out of the way with careful fingers, undoing it for me. He slides his hands over my shoulders, pushing the straps down, his chest pressing up against my back. Slowly, he takes my bra from me and allows it to drop to the floor.
“On the table,” he whispers into my ear. “Lie on the table. I need to see you properly.”
I’m past the point of arguing. He is so undeniably in control of this situation that I’m willing to do whatever he tells me to right now. I don’t even have the energy to ask why. The polished wood is cold underneath my skin. Rooke stands to the side of the table, waiting patiently as I scoot back and lie down. Once I’m in place, he begins to walk around the table, inspecting the myriad of green, blue, and yellow bruises that cover my body. He starts at my neck, angling his hand for a second, then placing his thumb against one of the bruises on my throat. He matches up his hand exactly to the spot where the guy in the museum held me by the throat, and a cold, hard fury flashes in his eyes.
Next he moves down to my arm, doing the same thing, angling his hand until it matches up with the bruises. I understand what he’s doing, then. He’s figuring out how my attacker assaulted me, how he held me down and pinned me, how he dragg
ed me, how he hit me, how he abused my body.
I feel small. I want to climb down off the table and end this macabre reliving of my attack in the museum, but Rooke is so focused, so single-minded right now that I know he won’t let me. He needs to do this. Like he said, he needs to see.
The process takes a long time; I’m covered in bruises, cuts and scrapes. When he’s done with my front, he makes me roll onto my stomach and he goes through the same thing on my back.
Once he’s finished, he doesn’t say anything. He gets me to turn over, and then rather than holding his hands to my injuries, he places his mouth to them instead. It’s like he’s saying a silent prayer as he moves across my body, kissing and stroking, working his way down from my neck, over my collarbone, over my ribs, my stomach, my thighs.
This shouldn’t be sexual. I am a broken, beaten, hollow shell of a human being, but the way Rooke touches me has a dominance to it. It’s as though with every kiss and every touch of his hand, he’s removing the violence from my body, replacing it with something much deeper. A connection between the two of us, set in place over and over again. By the time he turns me onto my back and begins caressing my broken skin there, I’m panting, my breath coming in short, sharp blasts, my head swimming.
This man has such a control over me. Such a heady, delirious power. My body responds to him in a way it would never respond to anyone else. It’s incredible and it’s frightening, and I don’t know how to act. He lifts me up into his arms, and he carries me upstairs.
My breath catches in my throat when he almost takes me into Christopher’s room. “No. Not that one. There…” I point to my bedroom door, and he heads into the room without another word. Setting me down gently on the bed, he stands back and begins to undress. Shoes, first. Shirt. Ripped jeans. He’s not wearing any underwear again. He has the type of body I didn’t actually think existed in the real world—packed muscle on top of muscle that he must have worked impossibly hard for. His tattoos are everywhere, over his chest, his stomach, his shoulders, spiraling down both his arms, his hands, up around his neck. He’s a work of art, a masterpiece of his own making. I allow myself a minute to take him in, too intrigued to be embarrassed by my open curiosity. He must know what I’m doing because he just stands there for a moment, shoulders back, hands by his sides while he allows me to inspect him.
“You’re quite something,” I whisper
“So are you,” he replies. “You didn’t need a liter of ink and a thousand needles to accomplish it, though. You just…are.”
“You’d still be incredible without the ink.”
He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right. These tattoos are me in a way, though. Everything I’ve done. Everything I’ve been through.”
I bite the knuckle of my index finger, frowning a little. “Are you going to tell me what they mean?”
Again, he shrugs. “Maybe one day. For now…” He climbs up onto the bed, and a thrill of nerves races through me. His cock is hard already, brushing up against his belly, and he’s staring at me like he’s staring down the barrel of a fucking gun. Unafraid, though. Unwavering, and unashamed. Kneeling next to me, he takes himself into his right hand, palming himself, working his hand up and down the length of his erection, his gaze drinking me in from head to toe.
“Open your legs for me, Sasha.”
There is no way to say no to that. I don’t think I would, even if I could. I open my legs, exhaling down my nose, trying not to panic too hard. This is still so, so new…and after everything that’s happened in the past few days…this is probably a horrible idea. I should be in therapy or something, not about to have seriously intense sex with this crazy-hot man. Do I stop myself, though? No, I don’t. I need to feel something other than scared, or sad, or pissed off. I need to feel this. I need to feel his hands on my body, making me forget…
Except he doesn’t touch me. He takes hold of my hand and guides it down…
“I told you that you would touch yourself to make me happy, didn’t I? Make me happy, Sasha. I need to know how you please yourself. I need to see you come by your own hand.”
This is not what I had in mind. The way he just spoke has made me break out in goosebumps, though. He really does want to study the way I touch myself, as if it’s of the utmost importance that he understands how I like to come when I’m alone. “Okay.” I’m breathless, the word barely there, but Rooke hears me just fine. He sits back on his heels, gently guiding my legs even further apart as I slide my fingers down over my pussy. I’m wet already. More than wet. I’m so turned on that I’m surprised, and maybe a little embarrassed. “God…”
“Don’t do that,” Rooke rumbles, his voice low. “Don’t ever be ashamed of your body. Especially when I can see how turned on you are. Do you have any idea what that’s like for me? Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
I bite my lip. He reaches out and takes my other hand, wrapping it firmly around his cock. He’s so fucking hard, it feels like it must actually be painful for him. I squeeze very gently, and his head tips back, his eyes shuttering closed.
“Fuck, Sasha. Jesus.”
Growling, he removes my hand, replacing it with his own. “I can’t do it,” he says. “I can’t even have you fucking touching me right now. I’ll end up hurting you.”
My eyes practically roll back into my head. How can he say things like that to me? The words just trip off the end of his tongue like they don’t matter, but they have a profound effect on me. He can’t have me touching him? He’ll end up hurting me? A statement like that should make me scared, especially after everything that’s happened, but the prospect of him losing control because of my touch, being rough with me, his hands hard on me, his teeth, his mouth, his body… It makes my head spin.
Slowly, I work my fingers over my pussy, rubbing in small circles over my clit. Rooke watches, fascinated. “Your body is perfect,” he says. “Your hands are the sexiest fucking things ever. I can’t stop staring. Slide your fingers inside yourself for me, Sasha. Show me. Show me how you fuck yourself.”
I never use my fingers to fuck myself. I always use my vibrator. It feels strange to be exploring my body, performing acts for the first time while Rooke watches on. I carefully do as he’s asked, and I slip my index finger inside first, followed by my middle finger. Rooke’s eyes are glazed over, filled with lust and need. He bites down on his bottom lip, groaning as I begin to pump my fingers in and out of my pussy.
“Fuck. Seriously. Fuck. Make yourself come for me. I want to see the moment when you tumble over the edge. I want to watch your body shake. I want to see your back arch. Your toes curl. Come on, Sasha. Do it for me.” As he talks, he works his fist up and down his cock, his grip getting tighter and tighter. The muscles in his arms are straining, right along with the muscles in his shoulders. His breath is coming out in short, sharp blasts. He’s so turned on right now. I can see the strain on his face. He wants to fuck me. He wants to slam himself inside me and make me scream, but he’s holding back. He just spent thirty minutes worshipping my body, massaging me, grieving over the pain I’ve suffered. He’s playing it safe.
I’m not normally the type of girl to take charge in the bedroom, but I need him to realize something. I need him to realize that I want him to be a little rough with me right now. I am so sick of people walking on eggshells around me. I am so sick of people looking at me with pity in their eyes. I may be bruised and I may be covered in cuts and scrapes, but I am not broken. I reach out and I place my hand over Rooke’s, my fingers curling around his cock. He shudders the moment I connect with him, a dark, sinister look forming in his eyes.
“Sasha…”
“Rooke. Don’t. Please. I need you to...” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I need so much from him. I should never have allowed him past the wall I so carefully constructed after Andrew left, but now that I have it would be an impossible task to try and go back. He told me I was his, and every part of me responded to that statement. I am his. He is my g
ravity. Every second spent away from him is a second wasted. When I was laying on my back in the museum, dazed and hurting, my head was filled with thoughts of him. If he turned around and walked out now, I would be devastated. I knew it would be like this. I railed against the idea of forming any sort of connection with him, because I knew this was how it would be.
“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me what you need.”
“Just…I need…you.”
“I’m an asshole but I’m not a fucking cunt, Sasha. I’m not going to fuck you like this. I won’t.”
“Please. I need you to. I want you to. I want you inside me. Right now.”
I can see how hard it is for him to stop himself from acting. I squeeze, tightening my hand around his, and he growls, the sound resonating deep in his chest. “If you don’t let go, Sasha…”
Screw this. He’s been pushy and arrogant the entire time I’ve known him, and now he’s turned into a gentleman? No. Just no. I move quickly, propping myself up on an elbow so I can lean into him. Maybe he isn’t expecting me to act so boldly, considering my battered state. He doesn’t react until it’s too late, though, and his rock solid erection is sliding into my mouth.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans. “What…the…fuck?”
Pleasure swells inside me. I’ve taken him by surprise for once. His thigh muscles tense as I work my mouth up and down his shaft, my eyes fluttering closed as I enjoy the taste and feel of him. I’m good at this. I know I am. I know, because Rooke’s whole body is shaking, trembling uncontrollably. He fists my hair suddenly, snarling like a caged animal.
“You’re playing with fire. Do you want me to fuck your mouth? Do you want me to? Because I’m three seconds away from me losing my shit, and then there’s no turning back. There’s no stopping once that happens.”
I look up at him, up the length of his insanely sculpted body, and I just look at him. I don’t need to speak. Rooke bares his teeth in response, gripping hold of my hair even tighter.
“All right. I want to feel your tongue, Sasha. I’m not going to be careful. I’m going to fuck your mouth, and you’re going to take it. All of it.”