Page 56 of Only for Him

I can’t possibly already be pining for a man whobroke into my home, watched me shower, choked me against the wall, and forced me to come.

And yet…

When I force myself to look in the mirror, my reflection is a disaster. Hair mussed up everywhere, eyes wild, and a smear of dried spit at the corner of my mouth.

All of them the ashes of a night spent burning at the mercy of a monster who excites me as much as he disturbs me.

I stare into my own eyes, waiting to see if they’ll back down, but they don’t.

I grip the sink until my knuckles are bone white.

I won’t let him break me. He doesn’t get that victory.

But he did. And he did it without ever touching me.

I’d never had pleasure like that before. I’ve never come hard enough to actually satisfy me. Every climax in the past has always left me frustrated because I know that something wasmissing. Not the physical sensation, I got off plenty on those. But something deeper down in my soul.

Somehow, the idea of submitting to him. Of handing over control over everything I’ve clung to so tightly for years to him.

It was a surrender on every fucked-up, climactic level.

And Ilovedit.

My eyes fall away from the mirror towards the sink and squeeze shut.

I should file a report. I should tell Russo. Or even Teddy. But all I do is stare at the new note, promising answers to questions I haven’t even asked yet, and mulling its meaning over and over until the words stop meaning anything and become just lines on paper.

I want to hate him. I want to forget.

But if I do either, I’ll lose him forever.

And I don’t want that.

I can’t be Giselle without also being his little viper. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, a life raft drifts by in my river of despair and realization.

I can still be Detective Cantiano.

Even if I can’t stop thinking about his hands, his smell, and the muscles of his thigh between my legs, I can still think about his motives and means.

The conversation in Captain Russo’s office floats to the forefront of my mind. The one about Timofey Starkov and how the killer has a bone to pick with Starkov and the Starkov Bratva.

And the fact that the killer’s fingerprints are still on my earrings.

Earrings that I’ve dropped off with Arata.

The answers, if they exist, will be on the police database, not here in my nest of obsession. I straighten up and blink at the sunlight starting to stream brightly through the window. But I don’t move.

It’s almost as if I’m afraid to step outside to find him waiting for me.

But I’m no safer here than out there. Last night was proof of that.

I can crawl back to bed, pull the sheets over my head, and hide.

And let him think he’s won?

Fuck that.

I need to go talk to Arata. He’ll have both MacDougal’s tox screen and the prints from the earrings by now. Both of which should help me find him.