Broken Girl(52)

“I need to hear you say you trust me.”

He saunters to the foot of the bed, and slides his hands across my calf, tangling the top sheet tight around my ankle.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I trust you.”

A wicked smile creeps deliberately across his face and his eyes fiercely consume every inch of my naked body. He pulls the sheet, dragging my leg to the edge of the bed, making sure it’s loose enough to be comfortable but tight enough to be invitingly sexy.

“If you become uncomfortable, you need to tell me.” He pulls on the sheet as he cracks a shit-eating grin.

“Tight enough?” he asks before he drags his tongue along the inside of my calf, and his hands traipse their way up my thigh. His breath steams against my flesh and I crave him like a full fledged addict.

“Yes.” My voice catches as he flutters his fingers between my legs spread wide for him.

He takes my other ankle and wraps it in the opposite side of the sheet.

I gasp.

He smiles.

His hands caress up my legs, every muscle in my body constricts, tightens, and clings to the idea that he’ll lick me into convulsions. I lay in wait, praying for the chill between my legs to be healed by his damp, hot, thick tongue. I hunger for his long fingers to drop me into mind-blowing-sparks-igniting-brain-breaking oblivion.

Instead, he leaves me tied at my ankles and saunters across the room.

“I have something for you. Something I think you might find . . . helpful.”

He lowers his hand into the top drawer of a black lacquered desk. Time stands still as visions crash through my head. Handcuffs, and wrist restraints were things I keep off limits with all my other dates.

“What?” I ask. A mix of fear and curiosity thunder through my chest.

What would you do if he had handcuffs? Rose, just this time, maybe you can let yourself trust. The f*cked up voice in my head pops off.

Mr. C knew this isn’t part of the deal. I don’t do wrist restraints. I’m about to call this whole f*ckfest off when he pulls out a long, wide black cashmere scarf.

I let out my breath.

He notices.

“What’s that for?”

“I could ask the same thing,” I quip, pointing at the scarf he has in his hands.

He smirks. “You’ll see . . . or maybe you won’t.”

Relief consumes me, he notices.

Lowering the fringe of the scarf at my thighs he tickles me before he drags it slowly across the aching cusp between my legs. Vibrating, he trails it up and over the edge my stomach, swirling it around my hardened nipples.

“Hmmm,” I moan loudly, pleasure bumps explode across my skin.

I need him to take me, dive deeper than anyone who had come before him, and tame the beast that keeps tormenting me every day of my life. I hope he’ll be the one to heal all the scars that others left on my soul.

He lifts the scarf from my flesh; its vacancy causes me to quiver. Pulling the ends of the scarf tight, he bridges it between our faces.

A moment lingers.

His expression hidden behind the black scarf before he drops it over my eyes, the delicate cashmere covers my forehead and lies across my nose, tickling at the edge of my upper lip.

“Lift your head.”

I do what he asks. Wrapping the scarf around my head he’s got me tangled in a cluster of need. I blink and the little light I cling to disappears.

I’m in the dark. I see nothing.

My hearing is muffled.

He pulls the scarf back from my lips and leans down against my body. His heat steals the chill of the room. My heart’s thrashing in my chest, pulsing in time with my desire.

I’m unsure, but okay.

I’m confused, but turned on.

“Do you trust me still?” he whispers.

I nod even when my mind disagrees. I have no control. I can’t see and I can barely hear. I slide my arms across the bed, and reach for him . . . nothing.

He catches my wrist.

I lose my breath . . . again.

“You need to answer me. Do you trust me still?”

I want to say yes, I feel the words as they rise in my throat. Released from my heart, I want to trust him with everything I am, but my mind doesn’t want me to.

I betray my thoughts.

I lie.

“Yes, I still trust you.”

My body tenses, my skin dampens, I fight to keep holding on to this moment.

‘I’m not broken, I’m not broken, I’m not broken.’

He pulls my hand up above my head, a chill rolled across my underarm.

He holds my wrist.

Tight . . . so very tight.

I panic.

The back of my throat runs dry, thieving my attempt to whimper. I try to twist out of his grasp, but he holds my wrist tighter.

“Don’t fight, Rosebud.”

“I don’t know about this, Mister.” I reach my free hand across and attempt to loosen his grip.

“Stop!” he barks before he grabs my free wrist.

I jump out of my skin. I’m lost, scared, and unsure of this moment.

Too

many

triggers.

Tears prick at my eyes and dissolve into the scarf. My breathing shallows, clogs my ears. Short breaths in, shaky breaths out, I struggle to let go.

My heart’s hammering in my chest, I fight from spiraling down into my past. His breath is so warm against my skin.