Take Me With You(43)

I knew things were bad when he barged into the room, wielding a knife, looking like he had been through some type of war. The black pupils swallowing the clarity of his eyes. It was too much to take all in. I thought maybe he was going to kill me and was giving me one last chance to save my own life. I don't know what I thought to be honest. He came in so fast, like a tornado.

I tried, I really did. But it was dark and my feet hurt, and I kept bumping into things. So instead of freedom, I ended up on the ground, my mouth covered as he sodomized me. The pain was horrific. He said one day I'd learn to like it. Nothing that excruciating could ever feel good.

Now he's here, showering me, as tenderly as if he were cleaning an injured bird. You may judge me for accepting it, but I don't live in the world of options you do. I need to reinforce his gentleness. I need comfort. And it's so fucked up that the only person who can give it to me is the person who hurt me. At first, it's hard not to recoil from his touch, and the throbbing, burning pain in my ass reminds me of the assault that just took place. But his hands, they wash it all away, they pacify. His calm breaths and total silence are now a contrast from the gristly voice that made sudden and drastic demands. It's like I'm here with someone else.

Could it be that a part of him feels sorry for what he did?

It's so dark in this cabin, I can only make out a faint silhouette of his body, but I see something I never have before, an outline of his hair. Roguish. Wild. Just like him. He's unmasked. Though I can't see his face, I still feel like he's exposing a part of himself to me.

He caresses me between my thighs. I can feel him harden. I shouldn't want this. I should be repulsed. And I am. But I am also eager to be in his graces, and the opportunity to encourage this kindness brings a hint of hope amidst complete defeat.

I want him to contrast the brutality with this tenderness. To know that things are right again now that I've taken my punishment. To make this plight bearable. I want to connect. To speak to the soul I know must live deep within him. To erase the memories of the agony I felt as he bore into a part of me no one else had ever even touched. To feel safe with him, if only for a short while.

With any other man, I would wonder if the grisly display of my womanhood repulsed him, but not this man. He is raw—all flesh and blood, bones and sinew. A pure predator—as if he was pulled away from society and its norms. As if he had evolved only enough to look like us, but inside, he doesn't understand what it is to be human.

I reach up and land the tips of my fingers on his face, but he grabs my wrist and puts my hand down at my side before I can even really feel him.

I don't say the words. It would hurt too much to know I consented to him. The silence convinces me that the old me still lives buried deep inside.

But I need to feel good somehow.

I grab his shaft, without his prompt or his demand, running a slick hand along the length. I guide my hands up the mounds of his abs and then across his shoulders. One side smooth, the other rippled with uneven, marred skin.

Again, he takes my wrists and pushes my hands away.

We stand under the water, face to face, not touching for a moment. He takes a step closer, and his need presses against me.

A flood of emotion pours over me as I begin to cry. It catches me by surprise. I'm losing her. She doesn't have the will to keep fighting the conflicting feelings that echo inside of me all day.

With no words exchanged between us, he pulls me against him, and then up against the wall. Soap and the smell of damp cedar fills my nose. The contrast of the civilized and the wild. I drift between those two worlds every day now.

We kiss, roughly, our faces twisting and turning, my heart threatening to leap out of my chest. I don't know what this is. I don't understand it. But every part of me wants it. To feel so strongly desired. To be cared for. To always be the singular focus of his attention. He's brutal, but I am the focus of his obsession. Not forgotten, not second place. It's something I have craved since I was a little girl, to be wanted. Even with Carter, nothing could come before his medical school program. Out here, Night may be my god, but I am his angel.

His body reverberates, like he's holding something back, something fighting to escape as he lifts up one of my legs. This isn't like it was out there, dirty and malicious. This is something else.

He reaches down and slips fingers into me. I moan as they send a rolling wave of pleasure up my belly. He drops to his knees, propping a leg on his shoulder, and eats me out. I swallow water and air as I gasp, little tiny streams fall down my forehead, eyelashes, and nose.

He stands before I can come. His nose pressing against mine. His warm breath huffing against my lips. Our bodies locked in on a single breath. Rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

No words. Just the music of our breaths, and the pitter patter of the water hitting the teak below our feet.

We both slide down to the floor. Still face to face, buckling under the weight of this complicated, fierce thing. I lie on the wet surface and he shields me from the trickling of the water.

I wish I could see him, the faceless man who haunts my dreams and waking hours. If I could, maybe I could understand him better. Maybe I could understand myself.

But he's just a shadow. As real as the fantasies I used to make up to draw me out of the monotony of my relationship. Or to pretend to know what it felt like to be something more than everyone else's rock.

The water runs to a slower trickle, the way the droplets fall from the trees after a heavy rain. He enters me. It doesn't feel like a violation. Or part of a bargain. It's hard to reconcile this was the same man who brutalized me not an hour ago.