Chapter 65: Sardonic look
“I’ll explain everything,” he promises, his voice low and thick with lust.
There’s sweat beading up on his brow, and I can feel his cock throbbing deep within me. He’s holding on to his control by a shred.
“But right now, I need you, Nora. I need this . . .” He thrusts his hips forward, and I moan as he hits my G-spot, sending a blast of sensation through my nerve endings.
“That’s right,” he whispers harshly, repeating the motion. “I need this. I want to feel your tight little pussy sheathing me like a glove. I want to fuck you, and I want to fucking devour you. Every single inch of you is mine, Nora, only mine . . .”
He lowers his head again, taking my mouth in a deep, penetrating kiss as he continues thrusting into me with a slow, relentless rhythm. My own breathing picks up, a rush of heat flooding my body.
My fingers tighten on his shoulders, and my legs wrap around his muscular thighs, taking him deeper into me. After months of abstinence, it’s almost too much, but I welcome the slight burn, the exquisite pleasure-pain of his possession.
I can feel the tension growing inside me, the delicious prickling of pre-orgasmic bliss, and then I explode with a strangled cry, my inner muscles clamping tightly around his thick cock.
“Yes, baby, that’s it,” he groans hoarsely, his pace picking up, and then, with one last, powerful thrust, he finds his own peak, his shaft pulsing deep within me. I can feel the warmth of his seed releasing inside me, and I hold him close as he collapses on top of me, his large body heavy and covered with sweat.
* * *
“Do you want coffee or tea?” I ask, glancing at Julian as I putter around the tiny kitchen in the corner of my studio.
He’s sitting at the table by the wall, wearing a pair of jeans —the only thing he deigned to put on after his shower.
His bronzed, rippled torso draws my eyes, and my hand shakes slightly as I reach for a cup. With his hair cut short, his cheekbones appear sharper, his features even more chiseled than before. Frowning, I take a closer look.
He seems thinner than I recall him being, Almost as if he lost some weight. Ignoring my staring, Julian leans back in the flimsy chair I bought at IKEA, stretching out his long legs.
His feet are bare and strikingly masculine. “Coffee would be great,” he says lazily, watching me with a heavy-lidded gaze. He reminds me of a panther patiently stalking its prey.
I swallow, placing the cup on the counter and reaching for the coffeemaker. Unlike him, I’m wearing jeans, thick socks, and a fleece sweater. Being fully dressed makes me feel less vulnerable, more in control. The whole thing is surreal.
If it weren’t for the slight soreness between my thighs, I would’ve been convinced that I am hallucinating. But no, my captor—the man who had been the center of my existence for so long—is here in my tiny apartment, dominating it with his powerful presence.
After the coffee is ready, I pour each of us a cup and join him at the table. I feel off-balance, like I’m walking on a tightrope. One second I want to scream with joy that he’s alive, and the next I want to kill him for putting me through this torture.
And through it all, at the back of my mind is the knowledge that neither of those is an appropriate response for this situation. By all rights, I should be trying to escape and call the police. Julian doesn’t seem the least bit afraid of that possibility.
He’s as comfortable and self-assured in my studio as he was on his island. Picking up his cup, he takes a sip of the coffee and looks at me, a mesmerizing half-smile playing on his beautiful lips.
I curve my hands around my own cup, enjoying the warmth between my palms.
“How did you survive the explosion?” I ask quietly, holding his gaze. His mouth twists slightly. “I very nearly didn’t. When they saw that they were losing, one of those suicidal motherfuckers set off a bomb.
Two of my men and I happened to be near the ladder to the basement, and we dove into the opening at the last minute. A section of the floor collapsed on me, knocking me out and killing one of the men who was with me. Luckily for me, the other one— Lucas—survived and remained conscious. He managed to drag both of us into the drainpipe, and there was enough fresh air coming in from the outside that we didn’t die of smoke inhalation.”
I draw in a shaky breath. The drainpipe . . . That was the only place I hadn’t looked that horrific day when I spent hours combing through the burning ruins of the building. I had been so dazed and shellshocked, it hadn’t even occurred to me to check there for survivors.
“By the time Lucas got us both to a hospital, I was in pretty bad shape,” Julian continues, looking at me. “I had a cracked skull and several broken bones.
The doctors put me in a medically induced coma to deal with the swelling in my brain, and I didn’t regain consciousness until a few weeks ago.” Lifting his hand, he touches his short hair, and I realize the reason for his new haircut.
They must’ve shaved his head in the hospital. My hand trembles as I lift my cup to take a sip. He had almost died after all—not that it makes his absence for the past few weeks any more forgivable. “Why didn’t you contact me at that point? Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?”
How could he let my torture continue even a day longer than necessary?
He tilts his head to the side. “And then what?” he asks, his voice dangerously silky. “What would you have done, my pet? Rushed to my side to be with me in Thailand? Or would you have told your pals at the FBI where I could be found, so they could get me while I was weak and helpless?” I inhale sharply. “I wouldn’t have told them—”
“No?” He shoots me a sardonic look. “You think I don’t know that you talked to them? That they now have my name and picture?”