And it was killing her. Not to touch, not to taste, not to feel.
At night, he spooned her. A protective arm thrown around her middle, body curled behind hers like armour. She’d fall asleep to the rhythm of his breath, warm and even against her neck, and wake up to the stiff, unmistakable press of him against her backside, hard and relentless.
She tried to ignore it, tried not to shift against him.
But she always did.
One night, the pressure got the better of her. She moved restlessly against him, the need clawing at her, and without a word, his hand slipped beneath the hem of her sleep shirt.
Two fingers traced over her inner thigh, slow and featherlight, before sliding between her folds with disarming familiarity. He circled her sensitive nub with agonising patience, each swirl tightening her breath, stretching her thin with want.
She gasped, trying to hold back, trying not to give him the satisfaction. But she didn’t stop him.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispered before biting down into the sensitive skin of her neck.
Two fingers plunged inside her, curling deep into her wetness, holding steady, just coaxing. As if he were feeling her pulse. As if he wanted to know exactly how fast her body betrayed her.
She clutched his forearm as she came hard and fast, her breath catching on a moan she couldn’t smother.
And then he withdrew.
She blinked, chest heaving, expecting him to finally claim the rest.
But no.
His eyes never left hers in the low light as he brought his fingers to his lips and licked them clean.
And then, the softest command, “Sleep.”
As if he hadn’t just ruined her for the rest of the night.
And maybe he had.
Because now…every glance, every brush of his fingers, every breath she shared with him was laced with tension that grew thicker by the hour.
And neither of them seemed capable of crossing that line. It was like they both were waiting for the other to make the first move of surrender.
She found them stacked neatly on the coffee table.
Every book from her wishlist. How he knew, she didn’t have a clue.
Every dark, twisted, morally grey thing she’d bookmarked in secret and told no one about.
‘The Collector’ by John Fowles.
The butterfly garden. Perfume. Both books she had planned to read. How did he know?
The brand-new release from ‘Darkest Desires’—her favourite author of violent, obsessive, blood-stained romance.
Thane walked in just as she picked it up.
He didn’t say anything, just reached over, took the book from her fingers, and turned it in his hand. One brow arched, justslightly, as he read the title aloud in that slow, deep voice, “Bleed Me Black: A Savage Bond Romance.”
Her face felt like it was on fire.
He was reading the blurb, but she could see his eyebrows rise.
That look he gave her—smug and knowing—was worse. A smirk that curled the corner of his sensual mouth and lit up his mismatched eyes like fire catching on kindling.
