Page 49 of Poisoned Pawn
“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand to me.
I place my hand in his, and the warmth of his touch spreads through my body like a drug. One I’m becoming ever more addicted to. He pulls me to my feet, barely an inch of space between us, and I crane my neck to look at him.
He’s frowning, his head held high and face expressionless as he looks everywhere but me. I want to say something, but I don’t know what, and my mouth feels like glue, the words getting stuck.
With my hand still in his, he leads me upstairs. My heart stutters as we near the room that is mine, and I’m unsure whether I want him to leave me there or take me to his.
He strides straight past, towing me behind him. His bedroom door is open, and as we slip inside, I’m suddenly nervous.
“We’re just going to sleep, Star,” he states, reading my mind again, something he is, surprisingly, very adept at. He takes me to the opposite side, where the sheets are barely touched, and lifts them.
I climb in, conscious as he does the same on the other side. I lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling. My mind is making far too much noise right now for me to fall back to sleep.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking about so fucking hard over there, stop it,” he grunts, tucking an arm behind his head.
I turn my head and see him side-eyeing me. I want to ask him about earlier, so many things. But I can’t. Instead, I tell him something I’m sure he already knows.
“Roxy is going to find us. You know that right?”
He sighs. “Yeah, I fucking know that. And I also know she’s going to want to put a bullet in my head. But she won’t.”
“Cocky much. What makes you so sure?” I ask, rolling to my side so I can watch him. It doesn’t seem so dark in here, and my eyes rove over his body, watching as his chest rises and falls. I can also make out several scars that I hadn’t noticed before.
I don’t have any scars from my past except one. As far as I know, Carter hasn’t discovered the small branding at the top of my left buttock. It helps that I had it tattooed over with the Celtic Tree of Life after Dara’s death.
He rolls to face me, resting on his arm and propping his head up with his hand. “Because you won’t let her.”
I let out a small laugh at that. “Okay. Still not sure why you think that will help you.”
He leans forward and down, his face close to mine. “Because no matter what she thinks of me, she won’t do anything that hurts you. And you can fight it, deny it, as much as you want, but you’re mine, Star. All of you. Everything that’s touched you, all your pain, I fucking own it. I’m going to wipe it from this earth just like I will anyone that dares to touch you again.” His words are a deadly promise that send a shiver of fear and lust down my spine. And I believe every single one.
I can’t hold his gaze and lower my head. But a finger beneath my chin lifts it back up. I speak before he can.
“Some pain, some scars, can never be erased, Carter, no matter how much you will it.” I reach out and trail a finger over another scar that runs down his rib cage. It’s about three inches in length and deep, the skin jagged and raised.
His breath hitches at my touch, and the hand beneath my chin disappears, slipping under the covers to my hip. He pushes the t-shirt out of the way and runs his hand over my hip, and I know before he even reaches it where he’s going.
I hold my breath and close my eyes. The first touch of his fingers on my own physical scar is like a jolt of electricity. Shocking me and sending a wave of pin pricks from my head to my toes. My heart sinks at the thought he knows what it is, that it’s even there. But I can’t ignore how his touch somehow erases the sharp sting of pain and smell of burning flesh that scar holds.
“And some just need a reminder of who owns them, Star.Youown them. They serve as a reminder to you that you’re a survivor and a warning to others that you won’t be beat.”
“Yeah, and is that what you think of your own scars, Carter?” I ask softly, continuing my journey across the many scars that litter his body.
“No, Star. Mine are just a reminder of the choices I made. They don’t mean shit.” He pulls his hand away and gently pushes me until I roll to my other side, facing away from him. “Time to sleep,” he states, cutting off any chance of further conversation. He wraps his arm around my waist, dragging me back into his body.
“I call bullshit,” I mutter grumpily. I don’t understand how he thinks my scars are more important than his, or how they don’t represent the same for him.
He’s right of course. My scars don’t own me, at least not the physical ones anyway. But the emotional ones are still haunting me, still impacting my life in ways I just don’t know how to deal with. Carter is making me face them head on, but some part of me resents him for it.
Resents that he’s reaffirming my body’s reaction to certain situations. It doesn’t matter that my therapist told me, on more than one occasion, that my sexual desires are not abnormal. There are many women, and men, some who have suffered the same trauma as me and others that haven’t, that enjoy the same kinks I do.
It annoys me even more that I sought out someone just like Carter when I decided to visit Illicit and now can’t deal with the consequences. What the fuck did I think would happen going to a sex club and looking for a man that would indulge my fantasies? Honestly? I think I was hoping to discover that nobody enjoys what I do and that I’m a freak born of childhood trauma. That my therapist was full of shit and my shame was justified.
Instead, what I discovered was a club full of people just like me. People who walk the line of normal and taboo, that like pain, that like to be dominated, tied up, whipped, so many things and all consensual and completely normal for them.
I discovered a world in which I fitted perfectly.
I just never imagined I’d find a man that fitted me so perfectly too.