Page 26 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

Relief floods through me when he rises from the bed and disappears into the bathroom. I sip more water then return to pulling the sheets up high. I don’t care if I look like a terrified child—it’s how I feel.

When he returns my heart nearly collapses in shock.

He’s naked .

And dear Lord I can’t look away.

Black ink covers one half of his chest and stomach, reaching down his arm in a full sleeve.

His cut muscles, rippling to a v below his waist were not molded by a God; they were crafted by the devil.

I dare not let my gaze fall—I’m terrified of what it looks like, and I know it’s going to be big.

Everything else about Andreas is larger than life—his body, his presence, his words—how can that not be too?

He stalks toward the other side of the bed, lifts the sheets and climbs in. I turn my gaze to the ceiling, just so I can catch my breath.

I feel him roll to his side and prop his elbow on the pillow, resting his head to watch me.

His breaths are low and earthy, and so heated they singe the tense air.

I swallow repeatedly, until that becomes the only sound in the room.

He raises a hand and moves it toward me, pausing before touching my skin. His eyes narrow, asking for permission.

I swallow again then give a brief, timid nod. I used to want him to touch me, but now I’m not sure. I’m not strong like my sisters—I don’t trust myself not to fall into a temporary black hole.

He lays a hand gently on my throat and slides it to my collarbone where it rests for a moment. His palm is soft and firm at the same time, and hot. So hot . I wonder if he’s waiting for my pulse to slow. But I feel like while ever he’s in the same room as me, it will never ease.

Slowly, his palm moves beneath the sheets to my satin top.

In the corner of my eye, the muscle in his jaw sharpens.

My heart is beating out of my chest so hard he must be able to feel it.

His fingers make slow swirls over my heart, then he pushes his hand outward to my right breast. I’m about to pass out with embarrassment when he curves his palm over it and stills.

God, his hand is pulsing hot and my traitorous spine lifts a little off the mattress as if to push my breast into his hold.

His breaths grow labored and my nipple suddenly feels a little uncomfortable. Actually, make that a lot uncomfortable. As if he knows this, he slips his palm to the underside of my breast and lightly brushes his thumb over my nipple.

I gasp.

He moves his hand to the other breast and does the same, holding his hot palm steady until my nipple swells painfully, then his thumb swipes gently across it. I hear the sound of him wetting his lips and something makes me clench my thighs together.

He smooths his hand down my chest and stomach and I stiffen, terrified he might go lower and feel my scars beneath the satin shorts.

His fingers drag the fabric of my camisole upward until they touch my bare naval.

I suddenly feel hot all over. Beads of sweat surface through the pores on my forehead and upper lip, and flashes of heat pass across my collarbone.

A rough groan begins in his chest and issues from his throat.

The smallest of sounds but the hardest of impacts. “So soft…”

Blood rushes to my face. I’ve spent so much energy worrying about my scars, I overlooked the rest of my body.

I’m soft because I carry more weight than I need to.

The only time in my life I’ve lost enough weight to be deemed ‘slim’ was after Trilby’s wedding and my shock engagement.

And it was Andreas who made me pile it back on again.

The food his chef made was annoyingly delicious and full of calories.

It built me back to my normal self, but my normal self would be considered ‘heavy,’ not ‘soft.’

His hand moves to my breasts again, and this time it’s bare skin against bare skin. No one has ever touched me there before and I feel like I’m crossing all the lines at once.

A small whimper passes my lips when his thumb brushes my nipple again.

His gaze darts to mine then softens around the edges. “Is this okay? ”

I nod, partly in acquiescence, partly in terror.

He takes my left nipple between a thumb and finger and lightly pinches it, lifting me off the mattress.

“Yes,” I breathe, then I flush hotly.

He shifts his weight until he’s leaning over me, then he pulls the sheets down and lifts my top until my bare breasts rise up, my nipples standing painfully high and taut. My chest rises and falls like that of a character from some Regency novel.

Andreas lowers his head and his lips part, then his tongue laves at my breast. I watch open-mouthed, growing hotter by the second. When his lips latch onto my nipple, sucking it into his scorching mouth, the relief is immense. The place between my legs starts to throb and I release a weak moan.

Sucking sounds fill the room as his lips part to take a mouthful of breast, then close slowly over my nipple before releasing and latching again. It feels so incredibly good that my nerves melt away.

When my left breast feels as loose as butter, he moves to my right and pays it an equal amount of attention until I’m squirming involuntarily in the smooth sheets.

I’m floating in such heated bliss that I only notice he’s lowered the waistband of my shorts when he starts to pull them south.

I tense again, instantly afraid of how far he’s going to go.

“Please, um… ”

His head lifts and the heated look on his face makes me swallow several times.

“Please can we shut off the lights?”

Disappointment flashes across his face briefly, but he speaks a short voice command and the room falls to darkness.

There’s no time to sigh with relief when I feel his hot breath skate across my collar bone and his fingers slide down over my clit. I jump nervously, but he doesn’t stop.

He gently circles that cluster of nerve endings with soft, persistent fingers, occasionally pushing them toward my entrance, only to return them moist and slippery.

Then he hums , the sound low and untethered.

My head spins. I’m beginning to feel a need I’ve never felt before. I push my hips impatiently into his hand.

He lets out a pained groan, chased by soft words in a rough timbre.

“You are so beautiful, Serafina. I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful bride.”

I release an incoherent sound, all my senses focused on the fire building between my legs. His words are only stoking it and I don’t have the capacity to hate them—or him—right now. I just want him to make this pressure bubble burst.

“What do you like?” he asks, like I’m supposed to know the answer .

He smooths his fingers over my swollen clit, arching my back, and drawing a quick breath from his lungs.

He takes my clit between his finger and thumb and pinches it. My gasp makes his eyes widen a fraction.

He leans in and draws his tongue over my breast and my arched spine makes his biceps tense like rocks.

Then he latches on to my nipple again and suckles while circling his fingers around my entrance.

“Oh God ,” I breathe.

I edge in and out of awareness, each time emerging into reality with shocked cognizance at the sound of my restless panting. He’s worked me up into a mindless frenzy but I don’t have the presence to feel embarrassed.

My breasts feel heavy and swollen until he lavishes them with his mouth, and my hips begin to circle, needing his touch on my clit. He teases me, attending to my clit with brevity between more rimming of my entrance.

A whimper escapes my lips. “ Please …”

His mouth releases my nipple with a wet pop and he stares at me.

I don’t care anymore. This prolonged release has tipped me over the edge of sanity and I no longer care that I hate this man and his soft, skillful fingers and sharp, treacherous tongue. I just want to come.

“Please,” I whimper again.

His fingers tease through my folds and I grip the sheets in my curled fists.

I make a sound I don’t recognize .

Finally , he leans down, fastens his mouth to my nipple and sucks it hard. His fingers find my slippery clit and circle it with increasing pressure until all the blood rushes to my center and I come off the bed with a breathless cry.

My head is spinning with the afterglow. I sense Andreas lift himself to his knees and say something out loud, but when I realize what he’s doing, it’s too late.

His words echo on the periphery of my awareness. “I want to see you.”

The lights are bright and my vision is blurry. When the image of him crystalizes, my blood freezes. Everything that was once hot turns to ice.

His mouth has fallen open and veins pop across his forehead. I hadn’t realized that at some point in my mindlessness, he’d pushed my shorts down past my hips. And now his gaze is directed at my thighs.

Time stops. My breath holds fast in my lungs.

When his gaze lifts, it’s as sharp as glass, a furnace raging behind it.

He doesn’t speak as much as most men, doesn’t love the sound of his voice like other walking egos, but when he does use words, they are always crystal clear and cut like shards.

And these are lined with a fury that almost shatters my bones.

“ Who did this to you ?”

Confusion zips through me. “What?”

His teeth gnash together. “Who. Did. This. To. You.”

Fear courses through my veins. He looks like he wants to kill someone, and this is not the reaction I’d imagined.

“No one,” I whisper.

“Liar,” he spits.

I frown. How on earth can he not know?

He growls, sending a flash of terror into my chest. “ Who?”

My lips move but hardly any sound comes out. “Me,” I whisper.

He blinks and his voice lowers to a deadly breath. “What?”

“Me,” I repeat. “ I did this to me.”

His eyelids lower, his brow dips and he shakes his head as if he misheard. When he reopens his eyes, it’s with an emotion I can’t read. “ You did this?”

My lips tremble. “Yes.”

He sits back further still, wipes a hand over his face. “Why?”

“I—” My gaze darts about the room as I try to think. “I don’t know why I do this.”

His eyes narrow. He doesn’t believe that.

I panic. “It takes away the pain.”

His lip curls as he rolls his gaze over my thighs again. His head shakes slowly and it reeks of disappointment. Then he spears me with sharp black irises. “What did you use? A razor blade?”

I recoil. It feels as though someone has just traipsed across my softest vulnerability with muddy, studded boots. I’ve never felt more naked, more helpless and more ashamed in all my life.

He gently touches the most recent cut with the tip of his finger and it sends an unexpected spark of longing deep into my skin.

He knows this isn’t an old habit—that incision was made only yesterday.

He shakes his head again, more sadly this time, and I can’t bear it.

I can’t bear to read that look on his face any longer. Regret, disappointment, bitterness.

I sit up, curl my knees into my chest and bury my head into them. “Please leave me alone,” I mumble.

I hope with every cell of my heart he honors my request. He’s been sensitive up to now. Please let him care enough to let me process this alone.

“Please,” I beg, unable to look him in the eye.

An eternity passes, then eventually the bed rises as his weight disappears, and through the loud ringing in my ears, I hear the door close.

And then the tears fall.