Page 15 of Redemption (Favorite Malady Duet #2)

DANE

One Month Ago

I ’ve been messaging Abigail as GentAnon for several agonizingly long weeks. Meanwhile, she only exchanges rote pleasantries with me at the café every morning.

I know her deepest, darkest secrets, but she acts like she barely knows me.

She doesn’t realize that I’ve learned more about her than she’d ever divulge if I approached her as charming, “normal” Dr. Dane Graham.

I’m so close to claiming her.

But I have to be absolutely certain of our chemistry. I have to prove to her that she craves these twisted games. When I do finally approach her, she’ll be ready to accept our connection.

And I’m tired of keeping things virtual. All those nights alone in my bed while exchanging dirty desires with her have made me restless. The imbalance of power chafes at my pride. I would do anything to possess her, but she barely acknowledges my existence.

I’ll prove to her how deep my devotion goes. I’ll give her everything she wants, and she’ll realize that she can be her true, unmasked self around me.

Just like I crave to share all of myself with her.

My civilized mask has never felt so heavy, a burden that I no longer want to bear.

It’s past time for me to make my move in person. I’ve acquired enough knowledge to seduce her in exactly the way she craves.

My hunting knife is sheathed at my belt, and the appropriately intimidating skull mask is securely in my fist. Abigail wants to be frightened. I wonder how wet she’ll get for me when she realizes her helplessness to resist the pleasure I’ll wring from her fragile body.

Just the thought is enough to make me hard, so I take a breath and struggle to master my rising lust. I’m hidden in the shadows of the breezeway to her building, and I’m further concealed by my head-to-toe black clothing.

Appropriately intimidating.

This is her final test, the last night I’ll spend without her in my bed.

I’m not stupid enough to give away my identity, though. Until I know how she’ll react, I can’t risk her knowing who I am.

I’ve swapped out my usual expensive scent for a cheap, heavy amber cologne.

And I can do a convincing enough American accent that she won’t recognize my gravelly voice.

The leather gloves are for sensory stimulation—the implication that I don’t want to leave fingerprints heightens the sense of erotic danger.

It’s a shame that I won’t be able to feel her bare skin against mine, but I can forego that desire to fulfil this fantasy for her. There will be plenty of time for me to touch and explore at my leisure soon.

I’m practiced at picking the lock on her front door now. It only takes a few seconds to gain clandestine entry to her apartment.

I close the door behind me and lean back against the wall. I’ll trap her as soon as she steps inside.

There will be no hiding under her bed this time, no losing control of my physical responses. Tonight is about her pleasure, her acceptance.

I can wait to bury my cock in her wet cunt. She’ll be begging me to claim her once I ask her out tomorrow. I’ve waited this long; I can manage one more day.

I don’t plan to reveal my participation in this scene until I’m sure she’ll understand. But until the day she’s ready to hear it, I’ll keep her completely satisfied and blissfully content.

And that means both of us will finally embrace our mutual darkness without shame or hesitation. We can be our true selves together.

This is a gift only I can give her. One day, she’ll thank me for it.

“Good morning, Abigail.” I greet her warmly at the café, and it takes effort to keep the anticipatory, predatory edge from my charming smile.

“Hi.” It’s a soft, breezy reply: her usual polite demeanor.

She steams milk with one hand, and the other briefly touches her silly badges—a nervous habit that I’ve come to find endearing. Her smile is as sunny as ever, but she still refuses to look directly at me.

“Sorry,” she says, “it’ll be about a five-minute wait for your Americano. We’re really busy this morning.”

I nod in easy agreement. I’ve become used to the bitter taste of the espresso, and I look forward to the daily black Americanos she makes for me.

I’ll make coffee for her tomorrow morning when she wakes up in my bed. I wonder how she takes it. Probably with copious heaps of sugar. Abigail does love her sweet drinks.

I’m watching her with more intensity than usual, willing her to make eye contact.

But she keeps her focus on her work. There’s something strange about her this morning, something strained about her smile. As she grinds the espresso for my drink, her lovely lips go slack, and her rosy cheeks are chalky.

She seems to move on autopilot as she places a finished flat white onto the counter in front of me—freshly prepared with pretty swan latte art for the customer before me.

“Abigail?” I prompt, concern deepening my tone. “Are you all right?”

She remains fixated on the swan, and she doesn’t answer me.

Her oddly blank expression disturbs me in a way I’ve never experienced before. My stomach dips, and my jaw tightens.

Boldly, I brush my fingers over the back of her hand to call her attention to me. I’ve never touched her at the café before, but something is wrong. I’m drawn to comfort my fragile little dove.

She gasps and yanks her hand away as though my touch has burned her. The jerky movement sends the flat white flying, and coffee splatters my crisp white shirt.

I can’t hold back a sharp curse at her sudden withdrawal, her rejection. I’ve wanted her for so long, and she’s cringing away from me.

“I’m so sorry!” She frantically turns to grab a clean cloth and rounds the espresso bar.

I stand in stunned silence for a full five seconds while she tries to blot away the brown stain on my shirt.

Abigail is touching me.

It’s the first time she’s willingly made contact with me since the night we met at the bar months ago. The rush of vicious, possessive pleasure is strong enough to make my muscles tighten like I’m under some invisible strain.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, delicate hands fluttering around my torso.

I can’t hold back any longer. I have to touch her again.

But she’s on edge about something this morning, so I force my fingers to remain gentle as I encircle her slender wrists. Her pulse races in response to our visceral connection. She must feel it too.

She wants this. She wants me.

I’ve known she desires me ever since she moaned my name while I hid under her bed. But the reality of her lust for me is heady enough to make me almost drunk on pleasure.

Those clear, stunning aqua eyes meet mine, and she goes utterly still.

“It’s fine,” I soothe.

But she doesn’t calm. Her pulse remains elevated, and she doesn’t seem to be drawing in full breaths. Her cheeks are still far too pale for my liking.

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “Breathe, Abigail.”

“Oh my god, Dane!” Abigail’s colleague, Stacy, rudely interrupts the intense moment we’re sharing. “Are you all right?”

“It’s just coffee.” I shrug, eager to be rid of her irritating presence. “I have time to change before work.”

The last is meant for Abigail. She still seems distressed about the mishap.

I’ve been holding her wrists for too long. It will seem inappropriate if I maintain the tender contact, so I force myself to withdraw.

Her arms drop to her sides, and her shoulders slump like she’s barely keeping herself upright.

“Look at me, Abigail,” I command. I can’t stand how upset she is. Not on the day I anticipated her giddy excitement about our date tonight.

Her eyes snap to mine, and I keep her locked in my steady stare, anchoring her to me.

“It’s all right,” I promise again. I don’t want her to think I’m angry with her.

“But I might’ve burned you,” she protests.

I can’t resist an arrogant smirk. “I’ve had worse than anything you could throw at me.”

The idea that this delicate woman could every truly harm me is amusing. And it’s rather adorable that she’s so concerned about my well-being.

“But your shirt?—”

“I have another one at work that I was going to wear after the gym.” I cut her off before she can spiral into anxiety over the mistake. “If you want to make it up to me, you can agree to go to dinner with me.”

Her pretty lips part, and for a moment, I anticipate her eager acceptance.

But she remains utterly quiet, and her breaths turn shallow again. Her eyes are still on mine, but her gaze is unfocused. The ground seems to shift under my feet, throwing me off-balance.

This isn’t going at all to plan.

“Abby?” I forgot Stacy’s presence until she speaks again. “You don’t look so good. If you’re sick, you need to go home.”

Abigail isn’t going anywhere until she agrees to a date with me.

“Come on,” I cajole. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

I gently grasp her elbow, and she allows me to guide her outside. She barely seems aware that I’m touching her. Those lovely eyes remain unfocused, and her brow is furrowed with some mysterious worry.

Once we step out into the sunlight, she closes her eyes and finally draws in a deep breath. When she opens them again, her gaze is clearer, but guarded in a way I don’t understand.

Maybe I’m making her uncomfortable with my persistent physical contact.

But she moaned my name while she masturbated. She wants me.

I just need to break through her shyness and proper Southern belle facade.

I skim my fingers up her arm, enjoying the way her creamy skin pebbles with awareness of my touch. Then I rest my hand on her shoulder, grounding her to me.

Something—or someone—at work has upset her this morning. That must be why she’s behaving so strangely.

Whoever inflicted this distress will suffer for it. She’ll give me a name eventually. I’ll coax it out of her once the color returns to her cheeks.

“Breathe, Abigail.” I don’t like that she’s so wary around me. I have to calm her down and make sure she knows she’s safe with me. “Just breathe.”

Pleasure suffuses my chest when she obeys.

“Why do you call me that?” she asks when she exhales.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

She gestures at her name badge that’s pinned to her apron. “Everyone calls me Abby.”

The fact that she doesn’t remember our initial meeting grates at me, but I manage a charming smile. “I suppose I’m still a bit more formal than the locals. Bad habit from back home.”

I don’t tell her that I’m the only one who will call her Abigail. That privilege is mine and mine alone.

“You’re from England, right?” she asks.

I nod. We’ve never spoken about my accent at the café. I’m happy to share more personal information with her now, even if the topic is a bit mundane.

“From York originally. The old York.”

“Oh. What brought you to South Carolina?”

My smile turns indulgent. These are topics to cover on our date later.

“You don’t have to make small talk with me, Abigail.” I savor her name on my tongue. “How are you feeling?”

She blinks. “Better, thanks.”

She seems almost surprised.

“Good. Are you feeling well enough to go out to dinner with me tonight?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I say with teasing admonishment. “Have dinner with me.”

Her refusal isn’t an option, so I don’t bother to soften the command into a question this time.

My fingers tighten on her shoulder ever so slightly, and I barely suppress the urge to pull her closer.

Her willowy body goes rigid, and her eyes slide out of focus again.

Fuck.

Who upset her so deeply that she’s completely distracted from the intense connection we share? The one I sealed last night when she came all over my gloved hand?

She reels back, breaking free of my careful hold on her shoulder.

“I can’t,” she blurts, gaze cutting away from mine. “I’m sorry.”

“Abigail!” I call after her, but she’s already ducking back into the café.

I rake a hand through my hair.

What the hell just happened?