becoming her favorite person. He had a weird sense of humor, one it took a while for her to understand, but he was kind and warm and genuine, and as she slowly talked to him, she felt herself opening more and more, even though she hadn’t scratched the surface of her past with him. He knew she’d been raped and he knew she’d tried to kill herself, but beyond that, she didn’t even know how to explain to an outsider. Yet, with what he knew, he was helping her.
It was dark outside, almost midnight, and she was watching TV in the quiet house—after searching ‘best movies to watch for the first time’—when the main door opened. Jolting up from her slumped, relaxed position on the couch, heart pounding, she pressed pause on the remote.
It had been a few days since she’d seen him, days since he’d told her there was something very important he had to do, and left her with the promise that he would return. She had expected to feel abandoned again, but for some reason, living in this house, getting into a routine, talking to Bessie and Dr. Manson, finding herself, she hadn’t felt discarded. She had felt cared for, because the house, the staff, the doctor, he had made it all possible for her. Even in his absence, he had ensured that she would be looked after.
And she had missed him.
She had missed his heated, crazy eyes and his little notes and his roses and his quiet, solid presence. She knew from the time she’d spent observing him that he liked watching drama and romantic movies because the emotions fascinated him, and thrillers because he liked knowing answers before anyone onscreen did. She knew that he had meetings in the afternoons that he attended on his laptop while she met with Dr. Manson, and she knew he liked working out every morning at the crack of dawn. She knew he liked listening to her voice, and he liked that she was exploring more and more of herself.
He entered, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans and boots, his mismatched, mesmerizing eyes finding hers. His gaze roved over her, checking her physically to see everything was right, finding her in his t-shirt. For a moment, she saw something like satisfaction cross his eyes before his face went neutral again. It had taken her a few days of living with him to realize that wasn’t something he did on purpose to hide his expression—that was just natural for him. She had seen the way he put on masks when dealing with the staff, faking expressions she knew he didn’t feel, and she realized she preferred him the way he was with her—real and without pretense.
Biting her lip, not knowing what to say even though she wanted to say so much, she asked the first thing that came to her mind. “Why do you have a helicopter?”
He turned to lock the door. “I like flying it.”
“Is that how you got me here?”
His lips twitched with the memory of it. “Yes.”
Lyla tried to remember anything about her transference, but it was all a giant blank.
“I need to take a shower so if you want to talk…” he left the words trailing and headed straight to where the bedrooms were. She scrambled and followed, turning the TV off behind her. The movie hadn’t really been very engaging. Maybe she needed to find another list.
He went down the low stairs to the cave-like area and turned left to where the guest room was. Lyla bit her lip and followed, both curious and cautious. The small corridor opened into a smaller bedroom than hers, but still quite spacious, with a window looking at the sea and another door leading to the bathroom.
He dumped his bag on the bed, took off his leather gloves that hid his burned hands, and took his sweatshirt off, exposing a wide, unmarked back sculpted with muscles to her. Turning around, he let her look her fill of his chest and torso, his abs not bulging but sleek, a trail of hair arrowing down to his pants.
For the first time in months, arousal slivered through her veins, and she realized that while his physicality may have induced it, it was him she was aroused by. It was always him.
Her nipples tingled, wondering what his chest would feel like rubbing against hers, wondering if his arms would cage her in from the world or hold her down for his pleasure, wondering if he would stare into her soul as he claimed it or if he would suck it through her lips.
There was something wrong with her because after everything she had been through, the idea of being with a man, any man, being at his mercy and his control, should have made her sick. It did make her sick when she tried thinking about someone else. Not him. She wanted to be under him, struggling as he held her motionless, as he took what he wanted, ravaged her as he wanted. It should have made her sick but the thought of it lit a fire inside her.
Oblivious to the maelstrom within her, he sat down on the bed and unlaced his boots in quick movements, his fingers sure and strong and drawing her eyes, making her wonder how they would feel tugging her nipples, inside her, stretching her open, bruising her with his grip as he held her down, making her surrender to him.
What was wrong with her?
She’d had occasional fantasies of him, but nothing so intense, nothing so… hungry.
Finally done with the boots, he stood up and pushed his pants down, exposing his entire naked body to her for the first time, and she froze.
Not because he was naked, although he had an amazing body. Not because he was hard, even though the size of him was breathtaking. Not because he was letting her look, and his the confidence was a turn-on.
No, it was because along the ridge and the top of his massive cock, he was pierced. She had never, in her entire experience, even seen a pierced cock much less experienced one. And he wasn’t just pierced, he was pierced—the underside, the crown, and the upper ridge.
What. The. Hell…?
He moved to the bathroom without a word, and dazed, in shock, she followed him in. It was a smaller space than the master bathroom she’d used, without a tub and only a shower chamber.
Lyla looked at his ass cheeks, sculpted and hard, as he turned the spray on and got under it. Water sluiced down his back, his ass, his thighs and muscular calves before swirling into the drain. He took a dollop of shampoo and rinsed his dark hair thoroughly, in simple motions that somehow looked so good she wanted to feel him washing her. Gripping the counter behind her, she watched as he cleaned up, finally turning around so she could see his full frontal form.
His hard, huge, pierced cock bobbed with the movement, and saliva filled her mouth. A small part of her was sickened by her own lust, remembering how much she hated the appendage in her mouth. But she wanted his, she wanted to see how he would feel, how he would taste, how far he would go with that titanium jewelry.
His large, burned hand wrapped around his cock, suddenly making her realize how thick it was too. He would tear her apart and fuck if she didn’t want him to. Years of attraction, of playing the push-and-pull, of fantasies she’d had with him, culminated in her mind.
Unbidden, mirroring his motion, one of her hands went to her aching breast, squeezing her nipple to find some semblance of relief.
“Hand down.”
The command made in that deep, lower tone wracked her body with a shiver. Swallowing, she stayed where she was, not understanding what he meant.
“You want to see me do this?” he asked, tugging at his cock, and her eyes locked with his. She nodded.
“Then, no touching yourself. Get on the counter.”
She complied, jumping backward. The granite felt cool against her heated body, the sink pressing into her back as she waited for him to tell her what to do.
His hand moved lazily on his cock, his hypnotic dual-colored eyes steady on hers.
“Spread your legs.”
She was wearing his t-shirt—the one she had basically stolen from him—and silk shorts she’d put on after dinner. Heart racing, nipples so tight she could feel the heaviness in her breasts, she opened her legs, knowing she was wet and knowing he could see it on the damp spot spreading on the fabric.
His hand began to move faster over his cock, his other one pressed into the wall at his side, his eyes between her legs, to her nipples, to her lips, to her eyes again.
Her chest heaved as she watched him masturbate, his hand going up and down in a twisting motion. His chest moved more rapidly too, his light eye almost matching the other with his pupil blown wide, his hips jerking in the natural motion of sex.
“Say my name,” he ordered her, and she suddenly blinked.
“I don’t know your name.” It was so ridiculous after everything they’d been through.
His hands paused on her words, their gazes locked as she held her breath.
“Dainn.”
Dainn. Dainn Blackthorne.
She knew his name.
She remembered something he had told her once. “That’s the name you got in the orphanage you were in?”
She could tell he was pleased that she remembered.
“Yes.” His hand began to move again. “The old caretaker named me after death, so I gave it to him.”
An exhale left her. Dainn. Death. Fitting too.
“Dainn.”
A low sound, almost a growl, left him. The reaction sent a thrill down her body, merging with the heat, heightening it to another degree.
“Dainn,” she said again, her voice breathy, remembering the effect he said her voice had on him. Boosted with a sudden sense of power, she spread her legs a bit wider. “Can you taste me on your tongue, Dainn?”
His breaths got choppier, his hand almost pulling his cock angrily now, veins in his neck beginning to bulge. Never, she had never seen a man more powerful and more wild at the same time, and the sight of him like this, knowing she was getting sides of him he didn’t show everyone, made her headier.
A gush of wetness left her, all her senses aroused and teased to a pinnacle. She gripped the counter at her side to keep her hands in place, knowing he would stop if she touched herself. She couldn’t bear it, not for too long. She hadn’t felt pleasure in so long. “Dainn, please.”
Within seconds, with another low sound, he came, strings of his cum washed in the shower and going down the drain. She watched it all, wanting to touch her own breasts, to push two fingers inside herself so badly she shook with it, the wet spot on her shorts getting wetter.
Moments later, once he caught his breath, his eyes flashed open and found hers. Like a jungle cat, sleek and deadly, he took a towel and wrapped it around his waist, coming toward her.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
She nodded vigorously.
The dark slash of a smirk came again. “I won’t touch you, and you won’t touch yourself either. Let it simmer.”
What the fuck? She was going to explode.
“Trust me still?” he asked, his gaze piercing.
She recalled the question he had asked her before when she’d been drugged, a word that had tied them together since the day they’d met. She paused, thinking about it. Did she trust him still? Yes and no.
Her silence answered him enough.
His gaze intensified. “Good enough for now. You know where I’ve been the last few days?”
She shook her head, her arms trembling with the need wracking her body. His arms came to rest beside hers on the counter, caging her in without touching her.
“I found one of the three.”
Her heart stopped.
She knew, immediately knew, what he was talking about. One of the three men who had abused her.
Her arousal began to simmer down at the memories.
One of his hands gripped her jaw, rooting her to the present. ‘I ended him.” His nose found her nose, brushing it once in a gesture so soft she wanted him to do it again immediately. “I cut his hands off—” his nose went down her neck “—then his tongue—” down her breasts, his breath on her rigid nipples “—then his little dick.”
All parts that had touched her.
She looked at the back of his head, his wet dark hair, and felt her throat tighten. Something blossomed inside her, unfurled, slowly, tentatively, terrified of being hurt again, being abandoned again, but still finding hope. Fucking hope.
“Was it the bald man or one of the other two?” she asked, her voice breaking, and saw him pull back.
His eyes locked with hers. “The one who had the camera.”
Her body shivered with the mixed messages her brain was sending to it, oscillating between arousal and grief and rage and pain and arousal again as his words slowly penetrated her mind.
“You saw it,” she whispered, horrified, humiliated.
He stepped between her legs, his hand tilting her jaw and his thumb tracing her mouth in a move she recognized instinctively as his.
“Every. Single. Second.” His thumb pillowed her lower lip, his eyes intense on hers, his body pressed against hers, everything about him fierce and powerful and so dark she wanted it all for herself. “You didn’t go through any of that alone.”
Somehow, knowing he had seen it, that he had experienced it with her made her feel a little less lost. Knowing he had seen her be used and discarded, and knowing he still wanted her, it made something in her chest go tight in a way her heart bloomed. He had seen her at her worst, witnessed as they broke her, found her in the jaws of death, and somehow, he’d still found her worth saving. Even after all of it, he had brought her to his house and given her a safe space to heal.
Something in her fragmented heart softened.
They looked at each other for a long, quiet moment.
‘I’m yours.’ It was sinking in, truly sinking in, how much his she was. A man didn’t witness what he did everyday for her for no reason. He might not feel emotions as he said, but there was something solid, tangible, unbreakable between them, and they both knew it.
His nose brushed hers again. ‘All mine.’
She could pinpoint the moment the course of her life changed six years ago. And sitting there on the countertop, six years later with the same man, with little slivers of secrets and silence, she knew the course of her life was changing again.
