Page 97 of Depraved Devotion

“Don’t,” I whisper, my throat dry. “We shouldn’t be seen together.”

“Let them watch.”

He slowly drags his fingers down my back. The skin-on-skin contact has a shiver running through me before I can stop it. Memories from last night resurface, and it takes every ounce of my self-control to shove them aside. Dealing with Ghost requires absolute concentration.

He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, his lips lingering on my pulse. “That was a great speech, Doc. I especially enjoyed the part about my inability to form attachments of an emotional nature.”

“You’re a psychopath,” I say. “That’s irrefutable.”

“Is it now?”

“You don’t feel things, Ghost. You manipulate. You control. That’s all this is.”

“And yet,” he says, his lips curling into a faint smile, “here I am, holding you, needing you, wanting you in a way that I don’t understand. Explain that, Dr. Andrews.”

I don’t have an answer. But I can’t deny what this conversation is doing to me, how it’s altering my brain chemistry. What is it about a man wanting you with absolute certainty that removes all inhibitions?

At my continued silence, Ghost lifts his head to stare down at me. His gaze darkens when it meets mine, the heat in his eyes undeniable.

So is the fury.

It radiates from him, crackling in the night air, prickling my skin. I’ve seen Ghost angry, but this isn’t the cold, calculated rageI’m used to. This is something volatile and raw, something that’s dangerously close to pain.

I must’ve hurt him with my clinical analysis. My remorse is immediate, but I can’t voice it to him. That’ll only encourage him to stay. It’s one thing to interact with Ghost in the privacy of my apartment, and another to speak to a serial killer with a room full of people only a few feet away.

“You don’t want to believe me,” he says. His voice is a soft, seductive whisper, coiling around me. Weakening me. “Because if you admit that I can feel, that I can want, then you’ll have to admit something too.”

“Nothing you say will change the fact that you’re a psychopath.”

His smirk returns. “You’ve known that from the beginning. Yet you still let me fuck you.”

I stiffen in his embrace, heat flooding my face.

“And you enjoyed it.” His lips brush mine, the contact featherlight. “There was no pretending, no going through the motions. You came so hard for me.”

I swallow hard, unable to speak.

“So, why are you lying to yourself, Geneva?” He uses his thumb to caress my lower lip, the movement slow and tantalizing. “Is it because if I can love, then what does that make me? What does that makeus?”

His words shatter what little composure I have left. The fear, the desire, and the impossible truth of what’s between us overwhelms me until the only defense I have left is to lie.

“This isn’t love,” I finally manage, my voice trembling. “It’s obsession.”

His eyes narrow, the smirk fading from his lips. “Is that what you really believe?”

“Yes.” The word comes out too quickly, too defensive.

He shifts his hand from my cheek to the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. He pulls me to him and his lips crash against mine, hard and unrelenting.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. His kiss is punishing, a crude expression of his anger and need. But ultimately, it’s a challenge. Ghost is forcing me to confront every lie I’ve told.

About him.

About myself.

About us.

He tightens his hand at the back of my neck, his fingers tugging painfully on my hair, anchoring me to him, ensuring there’s no escape. The heat of his mouth sears me, his lips moving against mine with a desperation that steals my thoughts and replaces them with nothing but him. He kisses me like he’s trying to consume me.