There’s literally nothing to it. Setting the bottle down, I step into it, stumbling a little as I do, needing to catch myself on the dresser when I almost fall.
Does he like this? Me like this?
His.
I remember his mouth on me. I remember his body on top of mine. Heavy. Good.
I remember his cock inside me.
Am I a whore to want it again? Want him again? I should hate him.
Turning to the bed, I see the switchblade. I need to hide it. If he finds it, he’ll take it away. He’ll punish Michela again.
Her back. My God.
I’m crouched down beside the bed shoving the blade between the mattress and the box spring when a door opens. I look up to find Damian’s eyes on me as he steps through the connecting door and leans against the wall, his damaged hand in his pocket. I wonder if that’s just habit, hiding it.
I stand, my heart racing, and drop the covers back down. I must look guilty as sin from the way he looks at me. But then his gaze drops down, and I follow it and remember I’m wearing his sweater. Why did I do that?
Immediately, I start to pull at it to take it off, stumbling backward when it’s halfway over my head so I can’t see.
He chuckles.
“How much of this did you drink?” he asks as I try to get the sleeves off.
His hands are on me then, and he pulls the sweater over my head, catching me when I almost fall.
He looks down at me.
I look down at me.
Naked but for the slip of a thong.
He grins, cups my ass and pulls me to him.
“I like that one.”
I push at him. “Get away from me.”
He does, eyes sweeping over me as he picks up the whiskey to drink some.
I drop to a seat on the edge of the bed and look him over as he spots my phone. He turns to me, holding the neck of the whiskey bottle in one hand.
“Did you go into my room and take that, too?”
“Well, it didn’t grow legs and walk over here on its own.”
“Don’t do it again.”
I lie back, suddenly so exhausted I can’t sit up.
“I told you to eat. You can’t drink this stuff on an empty stomach.”
I look up at the pretty canopy over the bed, then at him as he comes to stand by my legs which are dangling off the bed. There’s only one word I can use to describe the look in his eyes as his fingers caress my thigh. Lustful.
“Your sister’s back,” I say.
His face tightens, that lust gone. He drinks a sip from the whiskey, then sets the bottle down and looks me over.
“Don’t worry about my sister’s back.”
“Did you really do that?”
His eyebrows furrow, and I realize my mistake. I get up on my elbows and look at him. I should fix it. He shouldn’t know I talked to her.
“My father would only take her back if she agreed to two things. One was to change Bennie’s name. She’d named him after his father. And rightfully so. But his name is now Benedict Di Santo. My father’s name.”
“Why did she agree?”
“Because she’s weak. Get on your stomach.”
I swallow. I know what he wants. I want it too.
He and I are weak too. Weak for each other.
But I push on. “The second thing was what you did to her?”
He studies me, then nods.
At least he doesn’t lie.
I shudder, looking down at his hands. Big and powerful. Able to cause that kind of damage. That kind of pain.
“Are you afraid of me?”
I bite my lip. Am I? I was at first. I still am now, in a way.
“Will you really let me go?”
“I gave you my word. Now answer my question.”
“Yes.”
His face is rigid, body tense.
“And no. Am I being naïve to think you won’t hurt me like that, Damian?” I pause, then add, “You said truth in bed so tell me the truth whatever it is.”
He relaxes a little. “You’re stretching that in bed part.”
“I answered your question. Answer mine.”
“I won’t hurt you like that. I shouldn’t have hurt her like that.”
I hear remorse in his words. I think about the dagger just underneath me, beneath this mattress. I think about Michela and about the evidence of what Damian is capable of, and I still believe him.
His eyes graze over me. That lust of earlier is a hunger now.
“Get on your stomach, Cristina.”
My belly quivers, heat pulses between my legs, and my nipples