Page 52 of When Sinners Fear
None of that stops my hand going to her cheek, though.
And none of those thoughts make me want her out of this house.
She leans into my fingers, like she’s weakened by the softness of them. She shouldn’t be. She should be pulling away, choosing her life out there rather than considering any of what happened between us meaningful. “Just talk to me, Knox. Please.”
I don’t. Can’t. Acknowledging anything other than facts and cold, hard realities is pointless. She needs to go, and I need to abandon any gentleness that’s infringing on those realities. That’s the only way sense comes back from the senselessness of what’s happened. It’s the only way I continue being who I need to be for my life.
Walking away, hand trailing from her cheek as I go, I choose the sanctuary of my own suite to brood in. I’m part infuriated and part fucking smiling at myself by the time I get there and slam the door. Brooding? The hell is that?
The door bursts open almost instantly, and she slams it behind her again. “You’re not doing this. I deserve answers from you!” she shouts.
Fury rages at her tone, instant and uncontainable, and the chair is in my hands and thrown at the wall before she can try again. She jumps sideways and opens her mouth, shock and surprise all over her. “Be fucking careful, Peyton. Gentlemanly comes at a price with me. I’m trying, but this emotional trash is beginning to grate my last fucking nerve.”
“Gentlemanly? That’s what this has been?”
“You’ve had the very best of me because of crap that was nothing to do with you. Be grateful I cared enough to bother.”
“Cared. Past tense. Meaning you don’t now?” I glare at her hands finding her hips, pissed that she’s still trying to goad me. “No care at all? Why am I here then? Why didn’t you let your brothers toss me aside or dump me in some godforsaken town? Why not shove me out at my parent’s house? Why bring me back here at all?”
I’m seething inside, fully fucking rage filled because of questions I refuse to answer or acknowledge as reasonable. Still, I eye the room around her, trying, for her sake, to calm the hell down before I do lose it. I know that place well. It’s insidious and full of hatred. She doesn’t belong there, and she’s already seen enough of it on a goddamn leash let alone off it.
She stares me down, refusing to move or leave me to my own form of peace. “Why protect me? You did that, Knox. You. You could have let them do anything to me and you didn’t. Why?”
My gaze comes back to her, confused and fucking irritated. “I shielded something that shouldn’t have been involved.” So goddamn pretty. Big blue eyes that still seem so innocent somehow, and the skin of angels. “Don’t push this, Peyton. You’ll regret what comes with me admitting care.” If this was any other man but me, he’d be begging for her. But it is me and I know me better than anyone. I’m ruthless and cruel to women in the cold light of day. I’ve always had to be. “For your own sake, recognise who I am beneath this show of culpability and guilt. Because I can promise you, once I’m over it I’ll revert to exactly the place I want to be. You don’t want that part of me, or my family, anywhere near you.”
“That’s it, then? Whatever was is over?”
I nod and keep looking at her, done with speaking.
“And there’s nothing more you want to say to me?” Anything that’s circulating my thoughts, including how much I want inside her again because of this fire coming, gets swallowed down to the pit of my stomach. It’s where those kinds of moralistic daydreams belong. I don’t fit well alongside them and she sure as hell doesn’t fit well with me. “Okay. I’ll go then.”
And then she opens the fucking door to leave.
My feet are moving before I’ve thought about it, desperate to tell me I’m wrong to push her aside. I don’t understand a single moment of it, but one thing I do understand, without any interruption, is how good her mouth feels on mine when I get to it. She shunts back to the wall in my hold, and I feel her arms cling on like we’re back on that filthy ground again. We’re not, though. Not this time.
This time it’s real and we’re free.
CHAPTER TWENTY
PEYTON
Desperation, satisfaction and a hunger that’s sparked to life drown the confusion in my mind. It’s background noise, humming in my mind as I let myself really feel.
If Knox had walked away like nothing between us ever existed outside of my own mind and make-believe, then he should have made me drink the poison because how would the horrors he inflicted on me be any better than by the hands of those strangers?
But that isn’t what I feel as his lips press against mine, pulling and pressing in an urgency that’s exciting as much as it’s terrifying.
His body feels good – it feels safe – pushing me up against the wall roughly and holding me in place. The butterflies in my stomach turn from nerves to something much more primal, but in a way that tells me something good is coming – that I want to chase this feeling and let it race through me.
I breathe him in between frantic kisses and gasps for air. He smells sexy and bold. Clean, with a musky undertone, and I allow my mind to give in. I want to. I want to let myself go and give over to something that logic or reason can’t touch.
My arms pull around his neck, careful to avoid the patches of bandages as best as I can. This time every move, every motion is private – just between us – and it spurs me on. I’m not frightened of what might happen next because we’ve been there. This isn’t an innocent girl’s first time – I’m no innocent, not after what happened – it doesn’t matter if I was willing or not.
Knox’s hand roams freely – urgently – over my curves, and he yanks at the shirt until the buttons comply with his wishes. He trails his fingers from my stomach, between my breasts, and up to my throat. They span around my neck in a show of power and control. It should make me quiver, but it only drives the need in the pit of my stomach harder. He looks at me as if he’s trying to answer a question of his own, but before it kills the mood, he scoops me from the wall and carries me over to the bed.And I want what comes next. I want him to touch me and feel me like it should be. We’ve had sex before. But this is different, and I focus on keeping my mind here and now and not drifting.
He moves his hands to my pants and unhooks the button before tugging them down and exposing me to him. My instinct is to shield and cover, but I wrestle with myself not to. He’s seen me before. All of me, in the most raw and brutal way.
My heart stampedes in my chest, racing hard and fast, but there’s something else behind the thrumming this time. There’s an edge of excitement that’s fiery and explosive, and it keeps me centred as he straddles my hips and pulls his shirt off. It’s the first time since we’ve been back that I can see the extent of his healing. My mind wants to latch on and focus on each mark or wound to ensure he’s free of infection.