Page 12 of Crossed

It’s not my fault, I remind myself. I’m only human. And she is…all- consuming.

Like hellfire.

Our eyes meet and an unhinged possessiveness pounds through me. I don’t understand it, but I can’t control it, and although it doesn’t make sense, I have to bat away the voice blaring in my ears, telling me to mutilate every single person who has their beady eyes on her.

They don’t deserve to look at her.

The unhinged thoughts, so violent and visceral, make me see red, and somewhere, mild and meek in the back of my mind is my sanity, begging me to remember who I am. Who Istriveto be.“You’re sick, Cade.” Whip.

Slash.

Pain.

Sister Agnes’s voice rears its ugly head just in time, and it does the trick, allowing me to regain a modicum of control. Enough to feel the way my throat has gone dry and my muscles are drawn tight, ready to do…something bad.

I lost sight of myself so quickly with her. She’s like a drug for my sickness, making it scream in delight. That’s the only explanation for the obsession that washes over me like a tidal wave and drowns the spaces in my soul that should be reserved for Him.

She rips her gaze away, severing our connection, and it feels like a piece of my chest is torn when she does. Her eyes widen as they zone in on something close to the stage, and she stumbles. I follow her line of sight, irritated that I don’t hold her attention any longer. My vision narrows on Parker, who’s drinking her in like ambrosia.

Does she dance for him? Sit on his lap and grind against him until he groans and makes a mess in his thousand-dollar suits?

My jaw ticks.

She rushes off the stage before the last note of the song hums through the speakers, and although I try to fight it, to stuff the urge to follow her down and keep it locked up tight, I can’t.

God forgive me, I can’t.

I’m after her just as quickly as she left, unable to think past the pulsing need to be closer. I’m a simple man who’s been reduced to his base instincts to hunt, capture, keep.

I want to hear her voice.

Smell her skin.

Paint my sickness on her soul.

A single glance in her direction and I’m a ravenous dog, desperate for a crumb. My shoulder sinks into someone as I move by them, and they yell out an insult, but I ignore them.

Let anyone try to stop me.

I find her past a sign that saysEmployees Only.

She’s against the wall with her clothing pressed to her heaving chest, eyes squeezed shut and pouty mouth open like an invitation. She’s vulnerable right now. It would be so easy to waltz over, drop her to her knees, and slide my thick cock down her tight little throat.

The visual is so strong, it makes my footsteps stutter, the familiar twinge of guilt nipping at my middle, different than it normally is because usually, I don’t have these sexual desires. Just violent ones, and those violent ones, I’ve come to terms with. Made a deal with God, reminding myself that He is merciful in all ways. As long as we repent.

Will He be as forgiving for sins of the flesh?

She redresses quickly and starts moving, and my logical reasoning dissipates.

I follow her back onto the main floor, noting the way she sticks to the edges, as though she’s fighting with herself on whether to stay hidden or come into the light. My stomach tangles into a thousand knots as I step close enough to breathe down her neck. Close enough to see the fine hairs on her body rise as goose bumps sprinkle across her skin like raindrops.

“Hello, petite pécheresse,” I whisper in her ear.

She stiffens and I move in closer, the back of her head hitting my lower chest. My fingers tense, wanting to grip her hips and pull her flush against me until my cock can slide between the crack of her ass cheeks.

No touching.

Thoughts are easier to repent for than action, and my back is already raw from last night’s atonement.