Page 149 of Psycho Gods

I wanted to show her how much I cared.

I wanted her. Period.

Lately, everything had been dull and unexciting. The ungodly were predictable, and the infected were pathetic.

Everything was dissatisfying.

Boring.

Everything except for the woman who was standing before me, trapped in three cubic feet of space by her own voluntary will.

I used my larger size to press her against the wall.

“Back off!” she yelled abruptly, and the side of her hand slammed into my trachea.

I stumbled back, unprepared for her outburst of violence.

Goose bumps exploded down my back, and I shivered from the ecstasy of her touch.

My throat throbbed with pain, and it felt delicious.

I licked my lips.

The skin on my neck burned where her icy fingers had touched. I pressed my hands against it and marveled at the difference in temperature where she’d made contact.

Adjusting myself in my sweatpants, I took a deep breath as I tried to figure out how to proceed.

Should I pin her against the wall and ravish her? Beg her to punch me in the throat again? Dig my nails into her throat as punishment until her blood coated both of us?

So many fucking options.

I was paralyzed by indecision, so turned on that I couldn’t think rationally.

She sighed and repeated, “This is what we’re going to do.” There was a creak as she turned the shower nozzle, then the sound of rushing water. “We’re going to get into the fucking shower.”

I gulped.

Pressing my fingers harder against my neck, I tried not to jerk my hips as I remembered the blissful pain that had rocked through me when she’d punched me.

Then I remembered I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

I was pretending to be a nice guy.

It wasn’t an exact science, but I was pretty sure John didn’t get turned on from throat punches and fantasize about digging his nails into Arabella’s skin and making her bleed.

I forced my hands away from my neck and said slowly, “I’ll wash and pamper you in the shower. I’ll take care of you.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, since I did want to care for my Revered.

The problem was my standard of care was probably very different from what a normal man would imagine. It involved daggers, wax, screams of pleasure, and moans of pain.

I reached down for the edge of my sweatshirt and began to tug it off.

“No.” Arabella pulled the fabric back down and stopped me. “Don’t take your clothes off.”

Bemusedly, I waited for her instructions.

A long moment passed awkwardly between us, like she was waiting for me to fight her and didn’t know what to do with the fact that I’d obeyed her command.