Page 85 of Bitter Poetry

The ride passes in silence.

He’s normally chatty. Sometimes he even makes me laugh, and I surmise this is him punishing me.

I deserve it and more.

We stop at the florist, my mother’s grave, and arrive at my father’s brownstone, and still he hasn’t spoken a word.

Unlike Peter, who remained outside last week, Christian follows me in.

“Your father is in the drawing room,” Nina says, smiling. “I’ll bring the tea directly up.”

“Thank you, Nina.” I take the stairs.

“Nina, looking good today,” Christian says, following her into the kitchen, his cheerful voice fading away. “Did you get something done to your hair?”

Double asshole.

My sister is not at home. It has been a while since I last saw her, and I miss her. My conversation with my father is all very superficial—no mention of what he said last time about this not being forever.

Today, I need something.

I don’t get it, and I say goodbye to my father feeling the melancholy calling me.

How much longer can I keep doing this?

Voices are emanating from the kitchen when I head down to collect my coat. When I push the door open, they’re leaning their backs against the counter, side by side, laughing over something he’s showing her on his cell phone.

Nina’s smile is gone in a flash.

Christian lets his linger, although his eyes are on me, almost as if he is taunting me with the easy warmth he shows to someone else. “Could you give us a few, Nina?”

“Yes, of course.” She slips out of the room without a backward glance.

His smile drops. The silence is oppressive. We’re alone. My father is upstairs, and my sister might return at any moment. None of that will matter to Christian.

He wants to punish me. To make me pay. God help me, but I want him to.

He pushes off slowly, stalking me down. I don’t even move, nor try to evade him as he takes me by the throat and pushes me up against the wall.

He pins me there, trapped between the solid surface and the hard planes of his body that are radiating an unnatural amountof heat. He’s twice my size, a wall of masculine power neatly contained under an immaculate suit.

“Look at me,” he commands.

And I do, although my mind is screaming at me not to.

His fingers tighten on my throat. It is not enough to cut off the airflow, but certainly sufficient to provide a warning. “Bitch on me again, princess, and better hope he kills me.”

His voice is cold, gruff, and utterly devoid of his usual humor.

I hate this version of him.

I hate that he is only this way for me.

My lips part to say something, anything, that might shake us free of this stifling impasse, but the moment I do, his lips crash over mine.

I moan into his mouth, reveling in the sensation as he pins me more securely against the wall. My fingers entwine with his hair. He growls and hoists me up into his arms, pivots, and drops my ass on the nearby counter, already yanking up the hem of my dress.

His rough fingers find the seam of my panties as we devour one another. The taste of blood—his blood—on my tongue only ramps up my arousal. A single finger slips past the silken barrier of my panties and thrusts into me.