Monster in His Eyes
Page 23
I don't think I can.
Instead of responding, I reach out toward him, running my hand along his thigh. The yearning to touch him still lingers in me. His reflex is startling fast as he snatches ahold of my hand, stilling it on his leg, his grip strong.
"I'm telling you," he says, his voice strained. "I'm warning you. I'm not a good man, Karissa, and I never will be. So don't think you can fix me, or that I'll ever change, because I won't. I can't. You have to know, if this goes any further, if you ask me to stay, I'm not going to be able to let you walk away."
He lets go of my hand. I hesitate. It's only a few seconds—seconds of thinking, something I've spent my whole life doing, before I concede to feeling, the one thing that's brought me more pleasure than before. The seconds feel like an eternity as he stares down at me, our eyes locked, as if he's challenging me. He's waiting for my decision, waiting to hear the outcome, like I'm those twelve angry men with his life in my hands.
My hand, which inches up his thigh again and grazes over his crotch, delivering the final verdict—he's not condemned, but maybe I am.
His eyes drift closed, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips, and I know then, as I feel his cock through the material of his pants, hardening against my palm, that I signed on the dotted line. I'm in.
It's needless, but I say it anyway. "Stay."
His eyes reopen, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips. "Red."
My eyes widen. "What?"
"If you ever need me to stop, you just say red."
"Red," I whisper, goose bumps coating my arms.
His smile fades at the sound of it. "Don't say it unless you mean it. If you just need me to back off, to slow down, to take it easier on you, say yellow. It works like a stoplight. Understand?"
I nod, my heart in my throat. I'm not scared, but damn if he doesn't have me a bit nervous. He actually gave me safe words. "You're not going to, like, beat me, are you?"
"No," he says right away, his voice sharp. "I'll never hit you. And I'll never hurt you, unless you want me to."
I can't imagine ever wanting that, but the ache between my thighs, the memory of the way he hurt earlier, when he was inside of me, sends a differing chill down my spine.
"They're just in case," he says. "In case I get too rough, in case I lose myself and you've had enough. Better safe than sorry, right?"
"Right," I mumble, reaching for his zipper. I start to tug it down when he grabs my hand again, laughing as he pulls away.
"Not tonight," he says as he holds on to my hand. "I need to go."
My brow furrows. "You're leaving?"
"Yes," he says. "I have work to do."
My gaze shifts to my alarm clock. One o'clock in the morning. "Now?"
"Yes," he says again, lifting my hand and placing a light kiss on the back of it. He follows it up with a quick peck on my lips before letting go and turning away.
He says nothing else.
I stare, watching incredulously as he disappears out the door.
Days pass.
Days of nothing.
The soreness from our encounter fades from my body as another ache seeps in—the ache of not feeling his touch in days. It's a double-edge sword, a strange sensation I've never dealt with before.
I feel so empty.
It's crazy. I know.
I'm crazy.
He's driving me insane.
Naz steamrolled into my life and then strolled right back out in the middle of the night, offering me nothing more than a sweet goodbye kiss.
I don't know what to do about it.
I don't know what to do with myself.
I spend the days alternating between hiding out in my room and venturing out into the city, slipping back into my world of solitude and cheap food.
And I wallow.
I wallow.
Ugh, I'm pathetic.
This isn't me. I don't fall apart over guys. I don't mope, and stress, and wallow.
So why am I doing it?
After glancing at my phone for probably the hundredth time, waiting for the bastard to ring, I toss it aside with a groan. I could call him; I should call him. But I keep waiting for him to call me. I'm becoming one of those girls.
I'm turning into Melody.
Speaking of Melody, she comes back tomorrow, and I haven't heard from her once. I know she's busy, on vacation with the friends she's known for years, so I'm not surprised, but it admittedly hurts to realize I'm so alone.
I don't just mean that because everyone's vacated the premises. I mean it in the 'I could go missing and I'm not sure anyone would notice' kind of way.
A shrill ring echoes through the room. I snatch it up, my heart stilling those few seconds before I glance at the screen. Please be Naz. Please be Naz. Please be Naz.
It's Mom.
Scratch that. Someone would notice.
She would.
Sighing, I drop down onto my bed as I answer it. "Hey, Mom."
"Hey, Kissimmee! How are you?"
"Good. You?"
She sounds good, confirming it when she launches into stories from Watertown, gossiping about the people around town. I only vaguely remember most of them but I listen and occasionally chime in. I worried about leaving her all alone when I moved to the city, but she seems to be doing well.
Dare I say better than even me today?
"Are you sure you're okay, sweetie?" she says after a moment. "You're awfully quiet."
Instead of responding, I reach out toward him, running my hand along his thigh. The yearning to touch him still lingers in me. His reflex is startling fast as he snatches ahold of my hand, stilling it on his leg, his grip strong.
"I'm telling you," he says, his voice strained. "I'm warning you. I'm not a good man, Karissa, and I never will be. So don't think you can fix me, or that I'll ever change, because I won't. I can't. You have to know, if this goes any further, if you ask me to stay, I'm not going to be able to let you walk away."
He lets go of my hand. I hesitate. It's only a few seconds—seconds of thinking, something I've spent my whole life doing, before I concede to feeling, the one thing that's brought me more pleasure than before. The seconds feel like an eternity as he stares down at me, our eyes locked, as if he's challenging me. He's waiting for my decision, waiting to hear the outcome, like I'm those twelve angry men with his life in my hands.
My hand, which inches up his thigh again and grazes over his crotch, delivering the final verdict—he's not condemned, but maybe I am.
His eyes drift closed, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips, and I know then, as I feel his cock through the material of his pants, hardening against my palm, that I signed on the dotted line. I'm in.
It's needless, but I say it anyway. "Stay."
His eyes reopen, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips. "Red."
My eyes widen. "What?"
"If you ever need me to stop, you just say red."
"Red," I whisper, goose bumps coating my arms.
His smile fades at the sound of it. "Don't say it unless you mean it. If you just need me to back off, to slow down, to take it easier on you, say yellow. It works like a stoplight. Understand?"
I nod, my heart in my throat. I'm not scared, but damn if he doesn't have me a bit nervous. He actually gave me safe words. "You're not going to, like, beat me, are you?"
"No," he says right away, his voice sharp. "I'll never hit you. And I'll never hurt you, unless you want me to."
I can't imagine ever wanting that, but the ache between my thighs, the memory of the way he hurt earlier, when he was inside of me, sends a differing chill down my spine.
"They're just in case," he says. "In case I get too rough, in case I lose myself and you've had enough. Better safe than sorry, right?"
"Right," I mumble, reaching for his zipper. I start to tug it down when he grabs my hand again, laughing as he pulls away.
"Not tonight," he says as he holds on to my hand. "I need to go."
My brow furrows. "You're leaving?"
"Yes," he says. "I have work to do."
My gaze shifts to my alarm clock. One o'clock in the morning. "Now?"
"Yes," he says again, lifting my hand and placing a light kiss on the back of it. He follows it up with a quick peck on my lips before letting go and turning away.
He says nothing else.
I stare, watching incredulously as he disappears out the door.
Days pass.
Days of nothing.
The soreness from our encounter fades from my body as another ache seeps in—the ache of not feeling his touch in days. It's a double-edge sword, a strange sensation I've never dealt with before.
I feel so empty.
It's crazy. I know.
I'm crazy.
He's driving me insane.
Naz steamrolled into my life and then strolled right back out in the middle of the night, offering me nothing more than a sweet goodbye kiss.
I don't know what to do about it.
I don't know what to do with myself.
I spend the days alternating between hiding out in my room and venturing out into the city, slipping back into my world of solitude and cheap food.
And I wallow.
I wallow.
Ugh, I'm pathetic.
This isn't me. I don't fall apart over guys. I don't mope, and stress, and wallow.
So why am I doing it?
After glancing at my phone for probably the hundredth time, waiting for the bastard to ring, I toss it aside with a groan. I could call him; I should call him. But I keep waiting for him to call me. I'm becoming one of those girls.
I'm turning into Melody.
Speaking of Melody, she comes back tomorrow, and I haven't heard from her once. I know she's busy, on vacation with the friends she's known for years, so I'm not surprised, but it admittedly hurts to realize I'm so alone.
I don't just mean that because everyone's vacated the premises. I mean it in the 'I could go missing and I'm not sure anyone would notice' kind of way.
A shrill ring echoes through the room. I snatch it up, my heart stilling those few seconds before I glance at the screen. Please be Naz. Please be Naz. Please be Naz.
It's Mom.
Scratch that. Someone would notice.
She would.
Sighing, I drop down onto my bed as I answer it. "Hey, Mom."
"Hey, Kissimmee! How are you?"
"Good. You?"
She sounds good, confirming it when she launches into stories from Watertown, gossiping about the people around town. I only vaguely remember most of them but I listen and occasionally chime in. I worried about leaving her all alone when I moved to the city, but she seems to be doing well.
Dare I say better than even me today?
"Are you sure you're okay, sweetie?" she says after a moment. "You're awfully quiet."
