“Do it.”
“Didn’t you tell me to put it back on not two minutes ago?”
“And now I’m telling you to lift it.” His vicious gaze slides up to mine. “Do you have an objection, Aurora?”
I stare directly into his harsh eyes, refusing to cower down.
“If you do, the door is right there.”
“I don’t.”
“Then don’t make me repeat myself.”
My hands tremble as my fingers latch onto the cloth and I lift it up to my stomach. My bare thighs and cotton knickers are in his full, unnerving view. Unlike earlier, my sense of confidence is withering away. At least then, it was according to my plan. Now, it’s his playground.
The fact that I have no clue about his plots is messing with my head more than the state of my half-nakedness.
“Up.”
A shudder grips me at the authority in his tone. I slide the dress up one more inch, revealing my belly. Jonathan grabs my hand and yanks it up to my breasts.
The feel of his skin on mine sends electricity through my stomach, almost like he’s trying to shock me to death.
“Hold it there. Don’t move.”
I don’t know what he means by that until his fingers trace alongside my scar. A different type of bolt rushes through my skin and memories zap to my mind like lightning strikes.
Vacant eyes. Duct tape. Dirt. The crunching of a metal against bones.
There’s nothing I can do to stop the memories. They suddenly attack and ravish my conscience as if it’s an act of vengeance. The only way I know to deal with it is by hiding it and pretending, for the most part, that it doesn’t exist.
I’m about to cover the scar or push him away, but Jonathan pins me in place with a glare. “Do not move or I’ll lay you on my lap and spank your arse.”
A shudder snaps my spine upright and it’s different from the usual memories that assault me with no prior warning.
The promise in his words freeze me in place, my feet curling in my shoes as he continues his meticulous observation of my scar.
His fingers run across it with a softness that turns me breathless. His skin is not harsh, but not soft either – it’s firm and as hard as him. The more his hand glides over the skin, the more impossible standing becomes. For some reason, I’d imagined a man like Jonathan wasn’t capable of such tenderness.
My core pulses and I breathe harshly, almost like an animal who can’t keep its instinct down.
His finger runs up and down above my scar. “What does this tattoo mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You want to tell me you got a tattoo of a closed eye right above a knife scar for nothing?”
“What makes you think it’s a knife scar?”
“It looks like a scar caused by a sharp object, but since you’re stiffening at the knife part, then my guess was correct. What happened? How did you get stabbed?”
My hands quiver, but I manage to speak in a levelled tone. “That’s none of your business.”
“What did I say about that mouth? Maybe you do want me to fuck it.”
“I don’t care what you do to my body, Jonathan. This thing has been dead for eleven years.”
I don’t know why I freely offer that information. Maybe I wanted to figuratively flip Jonathan the finger by letting him know I’m useless in the sex department. That no matter what he does, he won’t be able to break me.