CHAPTERSIXTEEN
DENIELLE
I'm drunk.
The champagne is making me do this. There is no other explanation as to why I would go there. Again. This is not one of our little mind games. Not anymore.
The first time, I wasn't myself. Allowing Marcus to fuck me in the most primal way I ever experienced was the mere solution to shutting off the overwhelming sensation of panic—the emotional state that used to drive me to do what my father hid from the outside world. Submerging used to be the only way for me to make it stop, numb myself and calm my speeding pulse until I could breathe again.
I had no control over my body, the panic draining me of all strength. I couldn't stand up to Collin. The helplessness against my physical reaction crippled me. Marcus… His touch didn't cause the same irrational feeling of being assaulted by thousands of needles. Even in my distress, the revelation registered. So, I used him—used his touch to come back.
What washisulterior motive? Using my vulnerability to regain the upper hand that he was slowly losing in our battle of wills? Attempting to punish me differently? No, even with all his hatred, he is moral to a fault. Marcus wouldn't use a womanthat way. What then? Does he find me attractive? His behavior when I walked into the garage would suggest that. But it can't be.
My hands move of their own volition. Touching them to his legs, the rough texture of his jeans sends a quiver from the nerve endings in my hands to my brain.
Stop touching him.
It takes effort to focus on his eyes. Have they always had those different shades? I used to think of them as brown—if I thought of them—but there are specs of green as well.
Maybe it's just the light. Yes, probably.
My mouth is too dry to swallow. Is that from the champagne or— The way he drinks me in sends signals to parts of my body that shouldn't react.
Fuck it.
I run my palms up his thighs, watching his jaw working back and forth. I'm waiting for him to stop me. He doesn't. When I graze his belt with my fingers, his nostrils flare. Marcus is unnaturally still. I freeze, not averting my gaze from his. His hold on the strap of my dress tightens.
"You're drunk," he states, void of emotion, his tone contradicting his physical cues.
"I am." No point in denying the fact. He saw me drown myself in a bottle that cost more than I currently have in my bank account—the new one, in my name, that I opened last week.
The groove between his brows indicates his internal struggle. After an elongated pause, his expression smooths out. He's made his decision.
Marcus releases my dress, and a voice in my head immediately objects.No!My heart shrivels in my chest as tears prick in my eyes. There is no reason why I would want to seek out Marcus Baxter. We're connected by guilt and hatred. Yet, him letting go feels like losing the ability to breathe. It makes no sense, but at the same time…it does. He makes me feel things I forgot I was capable of. But why would he want me? Other than to hurt me?
Blame it on the alcohol. I don't want this to be over. I don't want to go back to the house. Hooking my fingers through the belt loops of his jeans, I root him in place. His eyes flash, and he scans my face with an amused smirk.
The music reverberating through the open balcony into the room drowns out my accelerated breathing.
"What are you doing?" I read his lips, the low question inaudible over the earsplitting sound.
"What I want," I reply without hesitation.
The corner of his eye crinkles. Looks like he's proficient in lipreading as well. My already flushed skin burns from the inside out. The surge of power I get whenever I stand up to the man who has the ability (and right) to break me is exhilarating.
He doesn't push me away, walk out, or hurl cruel insults at my boldness. A month ago, he would've. Heck, even last week, he probably would've laughed in my face.
Instead, he slants his head, the corner of his mouth curving up. "Oh yeah?" he dares me.
To bring my point across further, I trail the leather with my nail, leaving a faint line from the loop to the front of his hips. Without breaking our visual connection, I unbuckle his belt. My palms are clammy, my skin ablaze with a need I can't describe or explain. It's as strong as the only other urge I've ever had in my life—the one I've always succumbed to when it became too much.
My veins are throbbing with my pulse rushing through them. I flip the button of his jeans, and Marcus sucks in a breath. I don't stop, though. In the back of my mind, a tiny voice berates me, telling me to end this before it's too late.
He will leave you high anddripping,like last time.High and dry would be an oxymoron for the state I am in.
There is no way to stop this, though. Marcus Baxter has become my new addiction, his loathing a necessity for the old Denielle to break through.
Saliva pools in my mouth, and my objective turns single minded: I want to taste him. Having had him buried in my pussy, there is no way I can take him all the way in my mouth—I'd choke or suffocate. Yet, instead of it being a deterrent, it urges me on. My legs tremble despite sitting down. My thumbs hook inside his jeans, pushing at the hem until the denim is past his muscular thighs and hangs low on his legs. Marcus bends and wraps his hands around my wrists. He remains mute, but I'm starting to be able to read him. Heat battles with his distaste—his knowledge of what I've represented for the past two decades—against his desire. He doesn't want to go there again but can't deny that he wants me either. We're toxic for each other in every way imaginable, yet neither of us is willing to concede.