Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  Sara visibly shudders, so I quickly usher her into the house, opening the door with keys I fished out from her bag earlier. I have my own pair of keys—I had them made a month ago, when I returned for her—but I’d rather Sara not know that. If she changes the locks again, it’ll be annoying to go through the process a second time.

  “Here, sit,” I say, leading her to the couch. “I’ll make you some chamomile tea.”

  “No, I…” She twists out of my hold. “I have to wash my hands.”

  “All right.” I remember she has a thing about that. “Go for it.”

  She disappears around the corner into the bathroom, and I walk over to the kitchen sink to soap up as well. I was careful to keep out of the spray of blood as I sliced those men’s throats, but I still find a few small red stains on my forearms.

  Hopefully, Sara hasn’t seen them.

  I wash my hands and forearms, then turn on the electric tea kettle. When the water boils, I make two cups of tea and carry them over to the table. Sara is not back yet, so I decide to check on her.

  Walking over to the bathroom, I knock on the door. “Everything okay?”

  There’s no answer, only the sound of running water. Worried, I try the door handle but find it locked.

  “Sara?”

  No response.

  “Sara, open the door.”

  Nothing.

  I take a calming breath and say in a softer voice, “Ptichka, I know you’re upset, but if you don’t open the door now, I’ll have no choice but to break it.” Or to pick the lock, but I don’t say that. Breaking the door sounds way more threatening.

  The water turns off, but the door remains locked.

  “Sara. I’m giving you to the count of five. One. Two. Three—”

  The lock clicks.

  Relieved, I push the door open—and realize I was right to be concerned. Sara is sitting on the floor, her back against the tub and her knees drawn up to her chest. She’s not making a sound, but her face is streaked with tears, and she’s shaking.

  Fuck. I really shouldn’t have killed them in front of her.

  “Sara…” I kneel next to her, and she scoots to the side, away from me. Ignoring her reaction, I gently grasp her arm and pull her into my embrace. “I won’t hurt you, ptichka,” I whisper into her hair when I feel her shaking intensify. “You’re safe with me.”

  A stifled sob escapes her throat, then another and another, and suddenly, she’s clinging to me, her slender arms folding around my neck as she begins to cry in earnest. I rub her back in soothing circles as she shakes with uncontrollable sobs, and she grips me tighter, burying her face against my neck. I feel the wetness of her tears, and I’m reminded of that time in the kitchen, when I was trying to calm her after the waterboarding. The memory sickens me; I can’t imagine doing that to her now, can’t picture hurting her for any reason.

  She’s not just a person to me now; she’s my world, and I will protect her from everyone and everything.

  It takes a long time for her sobs to ease, so long that my legs feel stiff when I finally get up and gently pull her to her feet.

  “Come,” I murmur, wrapping a supportive arm around her back as I lead out of the bathroom. “Let’s have a little tea and get you off to bed. You must be exhausted.”

  She sniffles and whispers hoarsely, “No tea.”

  “Okay, no tea. In that case, let’s get you to sleep.” I bend to lift her into my arms.

  She doesn’t object to me carrying her, just lays her head on my shoulder and loops her arms around my neck. Her breathing is still ragged from all the crying, but she’s calming down. That pleases me, as does the needy way she’s clinging to me. I don’t know if it’s the aftermath of the trauma, or if I’m finally wearing down her resistance, but her holding on to me like this, with no trace of fear or mistrust, fills my chest with a special kind of warmth, one that lessens the icy hollowness around my heart.

  With Sara, I’m coming alive again, and I want more of that feeling.

  Chapter 30

  Sara

  He’s gentle with me in the shower, his touch tender and incongruously platonic as he washes me from head to toe. I stand still; that’s all I’m capable of at the moment—just standing. Nothing bothers me right now, not my nakedness and not even his. Now that my emotional storm has passed, I feel empty, a fog of exhaustion dulling all my thoughts and feelings. I’m beyond desire, beyond anxiety and fear; all that exists is guilt.

  Terrible, soul-crushing guilt from the knowledge that two more men died because of me.

  They died because I let a killer into my life and fed his obsession.

  It’s clear to me now, so perfectly obvious I don’t know why I didn’t see this before. I’m toxic—a danger to everyone around me. Today, the victims were two druggies; tomorrow, it might be my friends or family. Nobody is safe around me for as long as Peter wants me, and everything I’ve done has only fueled his obsession.

  From the beginning, I’ve played the game wrong, and two men paid for that with their lives.

  “Here, step out,” Peter commands, and I exit the shower, letting him wrap a thick towel around me. He dries me with it, once again treating me like a child, and I let him, because I’m too exhausted to do anything else. Besides, all this—crying in his arms, clinging to him, having him take care of me—works well for the new strategy I’m going to implement.

  Since he wants me, I’m going to let him have me.

  It’s not a particularly brilliant strategy, nor is it in any way guaranteed to work. It might even backfire. But at this point, I have little to lose. I’ve tried pushing him away, and he’s still here, still a threat. So now I have to try something different.

  I have to make him lose interest in me.

  It was the conversation at breakfast that gave me the idea. What if the nurses are right, and I give off some kind of “ice princess” vibe, one that intrigues my stalker? What if, by refusing him, I’m making him want me more?

  The fastest way to lose a guy is to sleep with him. It’s a stupid saying, but Andy’s mother isn’t the only one who believes that. I’ve heard that sentiment dozens of times, usually from the parents of teenagers who got pregnant because their families insisted on teaching them the values of abstinence instead of birth control. It’s an old-fashioned, sexist stereotype about the male/female dynamic, one that’s predicated on the insulting premise that women are like toilet paper, something to be used once and discarded.

  I’ve always scoffed when I heard stuff like this, but at the same time, I know there are men who act that way, who pursue women until they get them into bed, and then quickly lose interest. But it’s not because they think women should be pure—at least, not usually. They just derive the greatest pleasure from the chase. They enjoy the anticipation more than the consummation, and once they score, they move on, seeking out fresher pastures.

  I don’t know if my stalker falls into that category, but it’s possible—probable, even. He’s a stunningly handsome man, and he’s undoubtedly used to women falling head over heels for his dangerous alpha appeal. I’ve never known anyone quite like him, but I’ve seen shades of that arrogance in popular college athletes, Wall Street executives, and overpaid male surgeons. Men like that—the ones at the top of the food chain—perceive any hint of reluctance as a challenge; it intrigues them, makes them more inclined to pursue a woman, not less.

  If that’s the case—and I’m desperately hoping it is—then the easiest way to get rid of Peter Sokolov may be to give him exactly what he wants: me, willing, in his bed. For whatever reason, the Russian killer seems to have drawn the line at rape, preferring to just force himself into my life, so it’s up to me to give him the green light.

  If I want this nightmare to end, I’ll have to willingly have sex with my tormentor.

  “Come on, lie down,” Peter urges when we get to the bed. Removing the towel around me, he gently guides me under the blanket. “You’ll feel better in the morning, I
promise.” Once again, his touch is platonic, almost clinical, but I know he wants me. I see how hard he is as he climbs under the blanket next to me, feel the tension rolling off him as he turns off the lights and pulls me into his embrace, tucking me against his big warm body in the familiar spooning position.

  He wants me, but he won’t take me—not until I give my consent.

  I lie still for a few moments, trying to convince myself to do it. My stomach feels like a raccoon is battling a hamster inside, and exhaustion is a thick, smothering layer over my brain. With my eyes raw and my head aching from crying, the last thing I want is sex, but maybe that’s why I should do it tonight.

  Maybe I’ll feel less awful about it if I don’t enjoy it.

  Bracing myself, I shift slightly, moving my ass an inch closer to Peter’s groin. He stiffens, his breathing growing more labored, and I repeat the maneuver, rubbing against him as I shift back and forth on the pretext of getting more comfortable. With his thickly muscled arm folded across my ribcage, I have a very limited range of motion, but it doesn’t matter. We’re both naked, and the slightest brush of his skin against mine is electrifying, so filled with sensations that each of my nerve endings stands at attention. I can’t see anything in the pitch-black darkness of the room, but I can feel the crispness of his leg hair on the back of my thighs, smell his clean male scent, and my own breathing speeds up, my heart pounding furiously in my chest as his cock grows even harder, pressing against my ass like the barrel of a gun.

  That’s it, come on. Ignoring the anxiety constricting my throat, I shimmy my hips a little more. I can’t bring myself to actually turn around and embrace him, but maybe with a little encouragement, his control will break, and he’ll reach for me. I won’t object; I won’t do anything to stop him. I’ll let him fuck me, maybe even pretend to enjoy it a little, so I don’t pose a challenge in that respect. I’ll just lie there and take it, and then it will all be over.

  I’ll be a willing but boring lay, and he’ll get tired of me.

  That’s the plan, at least, but as I continue moving, I realize some of my exhaustion is fading, only to be replaced by a warm, liquid feeling that originates deep in my core. With the darkness veiling everything, it’s easy to pretend that none of this is real, that I’m having another one of those twisted dreams.

  “Sara, ptichka…” His hoarse whisper sounds strained. “If you want to go to sleep, you might want to stop moving.”

  I still for a second, then slowly and deliberately shift against him again. “What if…” I lick my dry lips. “What if I don’t want to go to sleep?”

  Peter’s body turns to stone behind me, his arm tightening across my ribcage. For a brief, irrational moment, I fear that he might refuse, that despite all indications, he doesn’t really want me, but then I find myself flipped onto my back, his heavy weight pressing me down as the bedside lamp comes on.

  I blink, momentarily blinded by the light, and as his face comes into focus, I see that his gray eyes are narrowed, his jaw clenched tight as he holds himself up with one elbow. He looks furious, and for one horrible second, I wonder if I misinterpreted it all—if I made a huge error.

  “Are you playing games with me, Sara?” His voice is low and hard, his accent stronger than usual as he captures my wrists and pins them to the pillow above my head with one big hand. “Trying to see how far you can push me?”

  I stare up at him, a dark tingle crawling over my skin. This is so much like my dreams it’s uncanny. And at the same time, it’s different. My drug-fogged memory had painted him in harsh, cruel strokes, more monster than man, but that was wrong. There’s nothing monstrous about the lethally beautiful face gazing down at me. The dreams had underestimated the potency of his magnetic appeal, omitting the sensuous softness of his lips, the strong, noble line of his nose, the way his thick dark eyebrows pull together over those intense metallic eyes… He’s gorgeous, this terrifying stalker of mine, and as I lie there, pinned under his hard, warm body, I feel the dark tingle intensify, turning into something dangerous and forbidden. My nipples tighten, and a wave of heat rolls through me, my inner muscles clenching on a surge of aching need.

  I don’t want this man. I can’t want him. Yet even as I tell myself this, I know it’s a lie, a falsehood born of wishful thinking. Whatever it is that draws him to me works both ways, the pull of connection between us as strong as it is irrational. I do want him. More than that, I need him. My body doesn’t care that he just killed two people in front of me, that I despise him with all my being. His touch doesn’t repulse me; it arouses me, my desire stoked by the intimacy he’s forced on me over the last few days and the twisted pleasure I’ve known in his embrace.

  By the unnatural, perverse tenderness that has no place in our violent relationship.

  He’s still waiting for my response, his eyes narrowed, and I know I can back out of this, pretend it was a big misunderstanding. But if I do, he’ll continue stalking me, undermining my resistance day by day until I cave, and in the meantime, everyone around me will be in danger.

  “No games,” I whisper into the tense silence. “The condoms are in the nightstand drawer.”

  He inhales, his fingers tightening around my wrists, and I see the exact moment he processes what I’m saying. His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate, the look of fury on his face transforming into one of dark, unbridled hunger. Reaching into the drawer with his free hand, he pulls out a foil packet, rips it open with his teeth, and rolls the condom onto his large, jutting cock.

  My heartbeat jumps, anxiety tightening my ribcage, but it’s too late.

  Lowering his head, Peter captures my lips with his.

  Chapter 31

  Sara

  I don’t know why, but I never expected him to kiss me, to place his mouth on mine and feast on me as though he’s starving. Because that’s what it feels like: as if he’s consuming me, taking in my essence, my very being. His lips and tongue ravage my mouth, devouring me, taking the air right out of my lungs. His free hand burrows into my hair, holding me still for the voracious kiss, and it’s all I can do not to melt into the sheets. Because he doesn’t just take; he gives. He gives so much pleasure I’m overwhelmed by it, overtaken by his taste and scent and feel.

  He kisses me until I’m flushed and burning, until I can barely recall what it felt like not to kiss him, not to inhale his warm, minty breath. Until all thoughts of who and what we are are gone, and I’m arching against him, mindless with need, desperate for more of his touch, of this dizzying, scorching pleasure. My fingertips tingle from his tight grip on my wrists, and his body is heavy on top of mine, but I want more.

  I want to lose myself in his merciless embrace, to dissolve in him and disappear.

  He releases my lips to trail burning kisses over my face and neck, and I gulp in air, my heart racing and my skin pebbling from the electrifying pleasure. With each breath I take, my nipples rub against his muscled chest, and wetness slicks my inner thighs, my body preparing itself for him, for this act I shouldn’t want, shouldn’t crave with such violent intensity.

  Breathing raggedly, he lifts his head, and I see an answering hunger in his silver gaze, a dark need mixed with something disturbingly possessive. His hand releases my hair and moves down my body, cupping my breast. “Sara…” My name is a rough exhale on his lips as his thumb grazes across my aching nipple. “You are so beautiful, ptichka… everything I’ve dreamed of and more.”

  His fervent words sear through me, filling me with warmth that goes down to my core—and sets off alarm bells in my mind. This feels too much like the consummation of a loving romance, and as his knee wedges between my thighs, the sensual fog engulfing me lifts for a moment. With a jolt of clarity, I process what’s happening, and horror douses my desire.

  What am I doing? How can I be enjoying this on any level? It’s one thing to stoically bear a monster’s touch for the greater good, but to actually want him—to let him act as though we’re lovers—is sick, utterly in
sane. Even with my wrists restrained, there’s no use pretending I’m unwilling, that my body doesn’t crave him in the most perverse ways.

  The broad head of his cock nudges at my folds, and my breathing turns shallow, my muscles stiffening in sudden panic. I can’t do it—not like this. It’s too much like lovemaking. He’s still looking at me, his gray eyes filled with burning heat, and I know I have to tell him to stop, to end this—

  He pushes into me in one hard stroke, and I forget what I was going to say. I forget everything but the stark, brutal sensation of his cock entering my body. His uncompromising hardness forces apart tight inner tissues, and despite my arousal, I feel a stinging burn as he presses deeper, ignoring the resistance of clenched muscles. It’s been a long time for me, and he’s big, both thicker and longer than George. My heart drums violently in my chest as my body yields reluctantly to the rough penetration, and with a mix of disappointment and bitter relief, I realize my fears were for naught.

  This is nothing like lovemaking.

  When he’s all the way in, he stops, his eyes glittering with dark hunger, and a different kind of tension invades my body, banishing the last of unwelcome arousal and stiffening my resolve. The sensual allure of his looks is still there, but I now see the monster behind the handsome face, the killer who tortured me and ripped apart my life. There’s no longer any ambiguity in what I’m feeling, no ambivalence of any kind. My stalker, the man I hate, is violating my body, and I’m glad. I’m glad because his cruelty hurts less than his tenderness, his ruthlessness less frightening than his mercy.

  Sucking in a bracing breath, I prepare to endure a hard, rough fucking, but he doesn’t move. His face is taut with lust, his body so tense he’s vibrating with it, but he doesn’t thrust, and I realize he caught on to my discomfort and is giving me time to adjust.

  In his own way, he’s trying to be gentle—which is the last thing I want.