“I know. I’m scared.”
“You should be.”
Everything inside me freezes.
“You have no idea who I am. Or what I could do to you. I could do things to you that you can’t even fucking imagine, Evie.” He burrows his nose into my hair and takes a deep breath. “I want to make you scream.”
Fear and sheer desire rip through my body. Those two feelings should never be mixed up and thrown together into the same space. I want to run. I want to hide under the bed. I want him to kiss me. I want to touch every inch of him. Fuck me. I am so messed up.
“Relax, little one. I’m not going to touch you or hurt you. But I will be the ghost that haunts you.”
Shit. Damn. Fuck.
He lets go of me and rolls onto his back, but reaches for my hand and entwines our fingers together. We fall asleep that way, two feet apart, our hands still together.
Chapter Six
There’s something terribly intimate about watching a person sleep. To watch them when they have no idea you are doing it. It’s an invasion of the highest form to gaze upon someone when they are unable to hide, or put a wall up, to protect whatever scars or vulnerabilities they might have. I’m doing this now, but like so many other things these past few days I can’t stop myself. Nor do I want to.
Storm is lying on his back sleeping. Sometime during the night, he pushed the comforter off himself and it’s now only covering him from the waist down. One arm is bent up, curled under the pillow below his head. I stare at his face. His eyelashes are incredibly long and dark. He has some scruff on his face from not shaving for a few days. His lips are full and are slightly parted as he breathes soundly. His long hair is fanned out over the pillow. His chest, sides, and stomach, as well as his arms, are covered in ink. It’s a huge collage of mostly black with some color. There are words in calligraphic style—don’t fear the pain, rise above, all that’s ugly is beautiful, hate me or fuck me. What? That last one, seriously?
The artwork is beautiful and just a mishmash of things. Castles, wolves, faces, masks, clowns, swords, feathers, random numbers, a rainbow, a motorcycle on a road, bleeding hearts, a raven, peeking eyes. There’s a black arrow low on his hip pointing toward his crotch. I smirk at it.
His skin is naturally dark and smooth. I spy a long scar on his chest, jagged and almost hidden under the fuzzy hairs and ink. I want to touch it, but I don’t let myself. Every part of him is defined muscle. He must work out a lot to look like this. This type of bulk does not come from sitting around.
He stirs and rolls over toward me, and his eyes slowly open and lock right onto mine. He’s caught me staring at him again.
“I’m gonna start charging you.” His voice is groggy and sleepy.
“Very funny,” I say.
He sits up and stretches his arms out. “Breakfast or a blowjob?” he says.
“What?” I’m not smiling anymore.
“Those are the choices when a chick wakes up in my bed.”
“Not for this chick. Sorry.” Ugh, he’s such a pig sometimes.