I suck in a breath, an electric burst sizzling low in my abdomen when goosebumps bloom over her flesh beneath my touch.
She doesn’t stir, though. Not even a little bit.
Yet her lips seem to have parted slightly. Pale-berry, full, divine lips.
I’ve done many terrible, cruel things in my life, but denying a woman the opportunity to consent has never been one of them. Yet here I am, tracing the edge of the sheet covering Scarlet’s breasts, pretending it’s not moving lower with every stroke.
This right here is what will turn me into a true monster.
I stop, the back of my pointer finger lightly brushing just above her sternum, and drag my gaze back up to her lips, soft cheeks, and thick lashes.
Then, at a grueling pace, I slide that digit down her sternum, dragging the sheet with it. This tortured movement draws down her abdomen, over her soft skin.
Goosebumps nettle over my skin like an omen designed for me alone. The moment I reach her belly button, my gaze still fixed on her face to observe her unconscious reactions, I stop. Nostrils flaring as I inhale a slow, strained breath, I splay my palm over her soft belly in a gentle touch.
She still doesn’t stir. But I revel one more moment, then reluctantly move away.
I don’t just step back. I turn altogether, walking out the door and back the way I came. I know that only a few more seconds in that room will break my resolve.
There are many things I want to take from her, but consent is not one of them. Which is surprising, since her life is on that list too.
What has Scarlet done to me?
Chapter 14
Scarlet
I had the strangest dream last night. Feverish. Surreal.
It was a feeling more than anything. It bred images in my mind, painted in deep red hues. Intertwined limbs, wrists bound with silk, wet lips parted in ecstasy, and a thin, dewy layer covering my naked, flushed body. His too. Because, of course it happened again, and the wretched Carter Pierce invaded another of my dreams.
Never before like this, though.
Since that first moment we met in that dark alley, he’s been a constant presence once I fall asleep. But this was intimate on a different level.
He was naked, tattooed flesh steamed in that same thin dew, glistening with our hedonism. He was an angry god, and I was his willing subject.
Nothing I’ve done today has managed to pry those images out of my mind. Through breakfast, through work, through two cold showers. The second one had to happen after those images bled into a daydream involving Metamorphosis.
Jealousy sprouted at the thought of all those women who have felt his feverish power on their skin, in real life, with tears spawned from that transcendent collision between agony and rapture flowing down their cheeks. They are utterly unique, and I wish to capture them. I wish I could feel them. Understand their impact.
I spent all of my lunchtime, and the couple of hours after, reasoning with myself that maybe, just maybe...if I have this experience with Carter at the helm, I will feel it too.
I’m fucking desperate for it.
Feeling something would be better than feeling nothing at all.
In the end, I had to leave the damn house because I was driving myself nuts.
“I have a hazelnut oat cappuccino for Scarlet!” The barista shouts loud enough to pull me out of that deep hole I was about to fall into again.
I put my hand up and walk to the counter to grab my drink. Same one I order all the time. The one I ordered the day Carter and I finally saw each other for the first time since that night in the alley.
Same coffee shop too.
I can’t help but grin. It was a great meet-cute. Unhinged. Perfect.
If I discount the very rude attempted murder later that day.
