Donovan was inspecting me anyway. His face went white when he reached the bare skin of my torso. "There’s blood…"
I looked down at my wounds. I'd barely felt them; I'd been too afraid of the real damage that could be done with the blade. "They’re scratches," I assured him. "They don't hurt."
"Where did he touch you?" The question sounded almost caught in the back of his throat, forced out by mere will.
"He didn't. I'm fine." I was obviously not fine. Tears kept streaming down my face and I kept shaking even though I felt feverish.
Donovan scraped my cheek with his knuckles, gathering my tears, and then looked at me as if it were a challenge to tell him yet again that I was fine.
I crumpled. "I was so scared. I thought he was going to…" I couldn't even say what I thought he was going to do. "I tried to get him into the bedroom because I knew there were cameras there. I thought maybe if you were watching, you would see us and you'd get help."
He caressed my jaw, his other arm pinned firmly around my waist. "There are cameras everywhere. When you didn't lock the deadbolt…” He took a deep breath as if recalling what he’d imagined, as if it had been the worst. And then when he’d looked, he’d actually been faced with the worst.
“It's tied into the security system,” he explained after a minute. “It sends me a message. You always slide that bolt when you're home.” The pain in his expression was unbearable. “Forgive me. I worried."
It was almost laughable. He was apologizing because his overprotective obsessing had saved me from sexual assault and possibly saved my life? How could he be sorry for that? I was fucking out of my mind with gratitude. I was hysterical with relief.
And then I remembered how I’d left him last.
It was a gut punch in slow motion. I could feel every part of the blow. The renewed awareness that we were in a fight. That he’d betrayed me. That years ago he’d stolen my dream in order to make his life more comfortable. That what he’d ministered as love for a decade had merely been retribution for what he’d taken from me.
I felt like a stone sinking slowly through the mud. My mind was sludge. I’d been in danger and all I wanted was Donovan, all I thought about was him. I’d turned to thoughts of him for safety, and he'd been the one to save me in the end. If he didn’t really love me, would he have looked at those screens? If he didn’t really love me would he have even cared about that years-long retribution at all?
I wasn’t sure.
But he was here, holding me when I wanted him to hold me. That seemed bigger than anything else happening between us at the moment, and to be honest, if being here when I needed him wasn’t the very definition of love, I didn’t know what was.
"Thank you,” I hiccupped. “For worrying.”
We stared at each other, our eyes locked. He swiped at my tears again with his thumb. I grabbed his hand and brought it back to my face, pressing my cheek into his palm. I was never not going to love him, I realized. No matter what happened between us from here on out—I was never not going to love him.
And maybe I could survive that. With him at my side.
Perhaps he felt the weight of the moment too. The lines at his eyes pulled down and the creases by his mouth tightened. “Sabrina, I—"
He was cut off by the bustling of the officers escorting Theo out of the apartment. I refused to look as he was taken out. I kept my face buried in Donovan's shoulder until he was gone, concentrating only on the feel of Donovan’s hand as it rubbed smooth concentric circles over my back.
Once the perpetrator had left, all the attention shifted to me. An officer came over to speak to me about what had happened, along with a paramedic, to determine that I was indeed unharmed. Donovan was taken a few steps away to be interviewed as well, and while I wanted to hear him, to listen only to him, my attention was mainly on the questions being asked of me—Does it hurt here? Have you had a tetanus shot?
I didn't miss hearing the policeman though, when he asked Donovan about the cameras, and when he did, I stopped listening to the people talking to me and focused only on that.
"I'm not clear on why you have surveillance on Ms. Lind in the first place,” the officer said.
"I own the building," Donovan said, clearly trying to dance around the answer.
"It's consensual," I called from where I sat on the couch being treated. Both Donovan and the officer turned toward me. "It's complicated and private,” I went on, “but all that should matter to you is that it's consensual. And it is."
I caught the exchange of glances between the officer and his partner that clearly said they thought we were into some kinky shit—which, I supposed, we were. Under her breath, the paramedic whispered, "Hot."
"Damn straight," I said with a smile. I snuck another glance at Donovan and my smile settled into something more somber when I found him already watching me. I really did love this about him too. I really did love all of the parts of him. I really did accept all of it as us.
I would forgive him for what he'd done all those years ago. There would be scar tissue, but we'd work through it. Because this thing we had, whatever it was, it was stronger.
Then why did I still feel like there was such a chasm between us?
Probably because there were so many people in the room, and still so many loose ends to tie up before they left. I was worked up and fragile. A million people kept asking what I needed. What I needed was to be alone with Donovan. He was the only one who could fix this restlessness inside me.
It took hours, literal hours, to go through everything with the police, but finally sometime after midnight they had everything they needed and were ready to go.
"Are you going to be okay staying here tonight?" one of the officers asked before he left.
I hadn't thought about it before then. I looked at the room, testing how badly it might haunt me later. I couldn't deny that my stomach tied up in knots just thinking of being alone in my living room, sitting on my couch. Would I have to move? That was silly. Or it wasn’t. I didn’t want to decide tonight.
I turned to Donovan, seeking guidance.
"I can take you to my place. Or a hotel.” He was gentle and concerned. “Or I can stay here with you. I can sleep in the guest room or on the couch."
My brow rose at the suggestion that he wouldn't sleep with me. Did he really think I was still angry with him after all of this? Or maybe he was being respectful of how I'd feel after a near rape. I’d fix that when we were alone.
"Would you stay here?" It felt weird to ask him outright, even when he’d just offered.
"Of course."
I told the policeman I'd be okay, and after they left, Donovan watched while I triple checked the deadbolt.
Then they were gone, and my apartment was empty of everyone but us and my ghosts. Donovan leaned against the back of the couch and studied me intently. "What do you need? A drink? Something to eat? Would you like a change of clothes?"
I tightened the belt of the robe I was wearing. The officers had taken the damaged sweater as evidence, and Donovan had thoughtfully brought my robe from the bathroom when they had.
I didn't want any of the things he’d mentioned though. I didn't know what I wanted, exactly. I felt restless still, and irritated that he didn't know what I needed. He always knew what I needed.
And why was he so far from me? Physically. Emotionally. Why was he so distant?
"You’re blaming yourself," I said, suddenly. It was a guess. A blind shot in the dark and it might be so far off that he'd laugh, but that would be better than this weird tension.
But he didn't laugh.
And he didn't say anything, and he didn’t move closer. He just stood there.
I’d hit the nail on the head.
I sighed, walking toward him. "You can't blame yourself for this,” I said gently. “I'm okay. I didn't get hurt."
"You could have."
"And I didn't because you got here in time."
"I wouldn't have had to get
here in time if I had handled him differently."
I was face to face with him, my hands curled up in fists at my side so that I wouldn’t be tempted to touch him before he was ready to be touched. I wasn’t going to coddle him.
I also wasn’t going to let him play the martyr. "How differently could you have handled him? Not sent him to jail? He belonged in jail! That was a good thing you did when you helped Liz Stein send him away. Think of all the other women you saved from him."
"There were other ways I could have gotten rid of him." He was dark and dangerous as he held my eyes. His stare, piercing and void, let me know he meant murder.
I slapped him. Because that was dumb. Because I didn’t want him to be a murderer. Because I was wound up with energy and adrenaline and anger—at him and Theo and everyone—and I needed to hit someone.
Then, with my palm still burning, I wrapped my hand around his neck, dug my nails into his skin, and kissed him.
His mouth responded, but I was the one driving the kiss, raging and greedy. I bit his tongue and clawed at his skin. I pressed my body against him, writhing like a feral cat.
Despite his responsiveness, it wasn’t long before he put his hands on my hips and pushed me away.
My rage flamed higher, and I slapped him again. And again. He grabbed my wrist the third time so I beat at his chest with my other fist, fighting him much like I did that day he took my virginity in his office.
He seized this wrist too, circled them both with his large palms and stared sternly into my face.
"Is this what you need?" He twisted my arms behind my back and pulled me against him where I could feel he was hard. My heart rate spiked, my mouth watered. "Is it?"
Yes, I screamed silently. Didn’t I always? I needed Donovan to erase everything that had happened earlier. I needed him to re-create it with his face and his body and his mouth and his words, so that when the nightmares came—which they would because they always did—I would have better memories to replace them with.
That was how we did it. That was how he saved me from this darkness. Every time.
I didn't need to tell him, though. He’d already gotten into character. His eyes had clouded and now he was hungrily studying the bare skin at the neckline of my robe.
"Where did he touch you?"
I swallowed back a sudden surge of shame and tugged my arm where he had my hands bound. He got the hint and brought one around between us so I could show rather than tell. Guiding our hands to his mouth, I put one of his fingers and one of mine between his lips. He sucked on them, getting them nice and wet.
“Undo my robe,” I told him.
He tugged the knot free then I laced my hand back in his and brought his wet finger to my chest. Together, we traced the path that Theo had drawn along my torso.
I watched Donovan's eyes as he drew along my skin, saw the weight of his lids as he fought to keep them open, as though it was unbearable knowing that Theo had seen this part of me, had touched me like this.
"And the blood?" It was almost a whisper.
"He nicked me when he cut my sweater open.” But I didn’t want sympathy. I didn’t want that pitying look in his eyes. It wasn’t what I needed right now. “Believe me, I'd rather have had the knife than his slimy-ass fingers."
Donovan’s jaw twitched, his expression hardening. He wrenched my arm behind my back again, and spun me so that I was backed up against the couch. He needed this too. I could feel it in the way he kicked my legs apart, making room for himself between my thighs. I could feel it in the steel of his erection pressed up against my belly.
“Where else did he touch you?” he asked with a growl. He let go of my hands and pushed tighter against me so they were trapped between my ass and the couch. “Here?”
He opened my robe more and groped my breast, squeezing it until I whimpered.
I shook my head.
He lowered his touch past the waistband of my pants and reached inside my panties to finger my hole. I was tight and mostly dry, but I grew wet immediately. “Did he fucking dare to touch you here?”
“No.” My knees buckled from the sudden wave of pleasure. “No,” I said more forcefully, twisting my hips to push away his hand because that was the game, but also because the sensation was already too much. “He didn’t touch me anywhere else.”
“Good. Because you aren’t his to touch.”
Warmth shot through my body, electric pulses ran down to my pussy like lights along a runway triggered by his possessive words. Roughly, he pulled my robe from my shoulders, down my arms, and flipped me around so that I was facing the sofa. He gathered the silk material at my wrists and twisted it until my hands were trapped inside the bundle.
Then he pulled my leggings and panties down together. I struggled as he did, instinctively, because that was also the game. His knuckles knocked against me and into me as he maneuvered my clothes down my legs. There would be marks tomorrow — marks I could focus on instead of the ones that Theo had left. I’d wear them like badges. I hoped they were dark.
I struggled more to make sure they were.
I'd never taken off my boots and Donovan didn’t now, so my pants stayed chained around my ankles. With one hand pressing on my restrained wrists at my lower back, he used his other hand to work on getting his cock out. I could hear the zip of his slacks, the familiar rustle of his clothing as he fought for freedom.
I wanted to watch, but I didn't look back. The angle was too awkward. Instead, I closed my eyes and pictured him undoing his slacks, tugging down his boxer briefs just far enough to release his erection, then fisting his hot throbbing cock before notching his firm crown at my pussy and shoving inside.
My eyes flew open, and I screamed at the delicious invasion. He’d gone in to the hilt then pulled out right away to the tip, not giving me any time to adjust or stretch. He plowed in again at full force. It was uncomfortable and painful, and incredibly amazing all at once. There was anger in his thrusts. There was cruelty. As though he were mad at me for what had happened tonight. As though he were taking his anger at Theo out on me, and this, this was what I needed. This scouring. This primal fucking. This savage violation. This exorcism. It declared me as his, and his alone. It left absolutely no room for anyone else to possess me.
There was also pleasure. He always made sure that I felt the beauty in our filthiness, and this time was no different. He wrapped his arm around my hip and massaged my clit in progressively aggressive strokes, the approach so deliberate and contrary to the frenetic tempo of his fucking.
I was mindless, able to only concentrate on the space between this thrust and the next. I focused on what was ahead of me. The fireplace, the place I’d stared at while Theo had me pinned on the couch earlier in the night.
Then a sudden flashback burst into my head, like lightning, striking me just as forcefully. I was sitting—my sweater open, my skin exposed—and Theo’s hand was at my throat, pressing into my pulse point.
"My neck," I said breathlessly. "Put your hand on my neck."
And the thing about Donovan? The thing that made him fit me so perfectly? Was that a demand like that from me never made him ask why. He just did it and he understood without an explanation.
He circled his palm around my thin neck and squeezed, ever so lightly.
Though it wasn't exactly the same way Theo had touched me, the pressure was similar, and it was just the push I needed to fall over the edge. I lost myself, spinning in a rush of euphoria and joy. I gasped, lifting my chin up as I went rigid, a flower turning up into the sun after a devastating rain.
I felt good. Unbelievably good. So good and wanted and loved, and after the shitty way that Theo had made me feel, I was desperate to hold onto it for as long as possible.
Too soon, it was over. My vision cleared and my muscles relaxed. The dizziness was fading, and I realized I was now empty—literally empty. Donovan hadn't released and was no longer inside of me.
I bolted upright and found him standing to t
he side, already tucked away.
"Uh-uh," I said, trying to twist my way out of the makeshift shackles. "I know what you're doing and I'm not letting you do it."
"Really. What is it I'm doing then?"
The robe dropped to the floor and I hurriedly pulled up my pants so that I wouldn't trip on them as I walked over to him. "You’re still trying to play the martyr," I said as I drew near to him. "But it's coming off as playing the asshole." I reached for his zipper.
He shoved my hand away. "I could have gotten you killed!"
I jumped at his sudden volume, but was undeterred. His passion only made me more resolved to show him this wasn’t his fault. That I didn’t blame him.
“You’re right—I could have died.” I backed him up against the wall by the kitchen. “But I didn’t. You saved me. And we’re in this together.” I had his zipper down and his cock in my hand now. It was still stone hard and wet from being inside me.
Damn, he made my legs tremble every time I touched him.
And I needed him to feel good and release as desperately as I had needed it for myself. I pumped him with my fist and wrapped my other hand around his neck to bring his mouth down to mine.
He resisted at first, but I refused to give up. Because I couldn't have if I’d wanted to. His taste was the best drug, his lips so firm and familiar, it was like going to church. I suckled on him, savored him as I stroked him, molded his mouth until it became pliable against mine.
And then he was desperate too—lifting me up, carrying me to the kitchen table. He shoved a chair aside so he could set me down and it toppled to the floor. With my ankles wrapped around his waist, I hoisted my hips so he could pull my pants down enough to get inside me. He rocked against me, gently but eagerly, searching for my entrance, and when he slid in, we sighed in unified relief.
"I fucking love you so much," I whispered against his lips. “My dark warrior.”
He kissed me brutally, then pressed his forehead against mine. "I'm so weak when it comes to you.” He cupped his hands around my chin. “So fucking weak. You make me lose my head. I make bad decisions around you, Sabrina." Then his mouth was too busy kissing me to say anything else.
Dirty Filthy Rich Love (Dirty Duet #2) Page 21