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 insane. 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.
Gathering my courage, I run my tongue over my lips and watch the hunger in his eyes intensify.
“Do it,” I whisper, flexing my inner muscles. I can feel him throbbing inside me, hard and thick and dangerous. “Just fucking do it.”
He stares down at me, and I sense his struggle, feel the monster doing battle with the man. I’m not the only one with mixed emotions here. There is a part of Peter that hates me too, that sees in me a reminder of his tragedy. He wants me, but he also wants to hurt me, to make me pay for what happened to his wife and son. He might not realize this himself, but I know it. I feel it. Our connection was forged in loss and pain, our intimacy born in torture. There’s nothing normal about his attraction to me; it’s as twisted as my response to him.