Page 34

In a cushiony bed of black silk lies a dagger. I grab the silver and jewel-encrusted handle and lift it to get a better look. The jewels are sapphires. Real sapphires. Not the fake ones. It’s my favorite stone. It makes me wonder if he bought it because it’s my favorite or if it was simply a coincidence. Something tells me it’s the former.
I lift it higher so the light from my nightstand shines on the silver and sapphires. The handle is about six inches long, the perfect size to fit in my hand, and the blade, a little over an inch wide, is nearly twice as long. I tilt the dagger, and the light reflects off the polished silver. I’ll have to clean it later because I’m smearing blood all over it.
“This is beautiful,” I say and lift my head, looking to my left where my devil stands a couple of feet away from me. The light shines on the side of his masked face, illuminating the deep grooves. “Sapphires are my favorite stone. Did you know that?”
“I know everything there is to know about you,” he replies.
I look back down and carefully run my finger along the edge of the blade. I’m surprised at how dull it is. I would think a blade as fine as this one would be sharp enough to slice into skin at the slightest touch.
“I dulled the blade,” my devil says as if reading my thoughts.
“Why?”
Isn’t the point of a dagger to slice into flesh? I guess it could be for decorative purposes only, but I don’t think it is.
He doesn’t answer, just gives his next order. “Take the dagger and get on the bed, Vicious.”
Just like last time, I want to deny his order, but my body seems to not be on the same page as my brain. I clutch the handle in my hand and walk to the side of my bed. Again, I’m in my usual attire for the night: a thong and a camisole.
I prop a knee on the mattress, and I feel the cool air in the room slide across the dampness between my legs and covering my thighs. It’s ridiculous and shameful how wet I already am. My ass is to him, and I know he’s looking at it. At the fullness of my ass cheeks and the flimsy string wedged between them. At the arousal that glistens on my thighs.
I move slowly across the bed, taking my time, tempting the beast that’s behind me. I don’t know where the brazenness comes from, but I don’t even attempt to stop it. This man makes me do things I never thought I’d do. Makes me feel things I never knew were possible. It’s utterly fucking insane at how easily he can manipulate my actions and thoughts and feelings.
Once I’m on the center of the mattress, I turn and sit on my butt. My legs are bent with my knees slightly apart. My breathing picks up speed, and butterflies swarm in my belly when he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me with eyes that I can’t see, but I feel the intensity of them.
Is he going to watch me sleep again? Do I want him to? Or do I want more this time?
He stands at the end of my bed, his tall, imposing form seemingly relaxed.
“Are you going to watch me sleep again?” I ask when the silence becomes too loud.
“Remove your thong,” he says instead of answering my question.
I purse my lips together, but I drop the dagger to the bed and slip my fingers beneath the thin straps of my thong. I take my time as I push the satin down my legs. As it slides against my skin, I can feel the wet mess I’ve made in the crotch. I dangle the dainty thing on my foot, and he snatches it away. The air in my lungs whooshes out when he brings it to his face and lifts his mask just enough to reveal his mouth. His chin and cheeks are dark from several days of not shaving. A flood of warmth seeps from between my legs when he brings my thong to his mouth, and he unceremoniously licks the crotch.
“So fucking sweet,” he groans. He pushes the material in his mouth and sucks on it, like he’s trying to get every bit of my arousal out of them.
Oh my God. Why is that so agonizingly hot?
Once he’s done, he stuffs the thong into his pocket.
“The top next,” he orders, his voice grittier than before.
I don’t even think. I grab the bottom of my cami and purposely lift it slowly up my body, revealing my goods inch by inch. It feels good sliding across my skin, almost like a lover’s light caress. It slips from my fingers once I have it over my head, and I hold his stare behind the mask as I recline back against the pillows.
I spread my legs wide, giving him a good view. The way he’s angled, the moonlight coming in through the balcony doors shines directly on me.
This sensuous new side of me is a mystery. I’m not a seductress. I don’t even know how to be one. My sexual experience is below zero. I’ve never even kissed a guy before. The most I’ve done is held a boy’s hand in fifth grade and that was back when you still wrote notes asking to check yes or no. My mind may be a whore with all of the naughty thoughts that have run through it, but I’m pretty sure if I were any more physically innocent, I’d still be in my mother’s womb.
So, how have I all of a sudden become this wanton person? What is it about this man that brings out the promiscuous side of me? Is it the thrill of the unknown? The threat of danger? The unspoken promise of pain?
“You like playing with fire, don’t you, Vicious.”
It’s not a question but a statement of fact.
“Maybe,” I reply a bit breathlessly.
“Take care in how you push me, my little Savina, or you’ll learn just how hot my fire burns. The scars I leave behind won’t ever fade.”