some dark, dangerous secret. “Beg me to fuck you.” There’s no mocking in his tone this time. No game. Just a need to hear it almost as badly as my throat aches to say it.
“Please—”
He rocks forward, slipping his hands beneath my back to draw me close. I bite my lip to silence a cry as my body welcomes him. This time feels so different from the rest. Hotter, as if every touch is scorching. More frantic. Ruthless. Hard. Slow. Everything.
Panting, he lunges against me. Bracing one hand over my headboard, he jolts the entire bed with every thrust. The friction makes my toes curl and thoughts spin. I’m breathless, gripping whatever parts of him I can reach.
Until he turns the tables and flips me over. I’m on top of him before I know it, forced to maintain the tempo on my own. Breathless, I close my eyes as I feel every inch of him thrust in, then ease out as I lift, then lower myself on trembling hands.
He grunts, gripping my hips, biting out curses—and I stop caring about anything but moving. Taking whatever I want from him, however I can.
The pleasure reaches a tipping point and boils over. I slump forward, letting our lips meet, our bodies writhing until we collapse.
It feels like an eternity before I regain my senses enough to rationalize what happened. Just who lies beside me now, his body gloriously bare. One look at his face, and I know my confusion isn’t unique.
“Fuck,” Rafe rasps, his eyes on the ceiling. His hands rake through his hair, his expression puzzled. “Fuck, that was…” He trails off, letting his breathless silence speak for itself.
That was dangerous. Something he didn’t bargain for in the rules of his game. He reacts by withdrawing his arm from around my shoulders. As the seconds pass, I try to imagine what thought has him frowning. What realization makes him look at me and grit his teeth. What makes him switch on a dime, closing me off and turning cold again.
As if to punish me, his hands return to my hair, tugging. Pulling. Petting. I slowly lower my head to his chest, pressing my ear against his flesh, sensing the heartbeat raging beneath.
And I know that seeing this side of him won’t come without a price to pay.
One he’ll demand in full soon enough.
Chapter Eighteen
I don’t think either one of us ever sleeps, but when dawn breaches the darkness of my room, he stands first, shrugging off my twisted yellow blankets.
By the time I stagger to my feet and throw on a dress, he’s at my fridge, scouring the meager offerings. He’s already discovered my loaf of bread when I approach the counter.
He eats a piece and shoves another toward me. I copy him, maintaining what little distance between us allowed by this narrow space.
At first.
Eventually, I can’t resist the impulse drawing me toward him. That same need emboldens me to slide my hand down his bare shoulder even as he stiffens. Energy blazes from him, growing hotter the more of him I dare to touch, but I can’t stop. My greedy hands brush his hips as my chest conforms to his back, bringing me face-to-face with that snarling dragon.
“Why this tattoo?” I ask.
Muscles ripple beneath his skin—recoiling against me only to relax a heartbeat later. “Do I need a reason?” His voice is low, containing an unmistakable dare.
For once, I feel brave enough to tackle it head-on. “Yes. Someone who has an elaborate explanation for calling a stranger ‘bunny.’ You wouldn’t pick a dragon for yourself without a reason—”
“It’s a fucking tattoo,” he says dismissively. “Let’s not get too deep about it.”
But there’s more to it. I can sense it in the way he keeps his face turned from me, and his shoulders tensed. This beautiful image beneath my fingertips means so much more to him than a meaningless ornament undertaken on a whim.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, watching the dragon coil and move with every flex of his shoulders. It’s anticlimactic in a sense—someone who claims to be a writer should be able to come up with a better descriptor. Something worthy of the blend of color and swirls of ink. “It’s beautiful… Where did you learn to draw?”
“Nowhere.” His voice falls flat, devoid of emotion. “I’ve always done it. Where did you learn to write?”
“I’ve always done it,” I say, parroting his explanation. But I’m not as guarded as he is. “Sometimes… Sometimes it felt like the only way I