Monster in His Eyes Page 15

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  His question makes me pause. "You killed me for the plank."

  "Or did I just defend my own life?" he asks. "It's kill or be killed, so yes, Karissa, sometimes killing is justifiable."

  "But I wasn't threatening you."

  "Maybe not, but you were still a threat."

  He stares at me pointedly. I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what to think.

  "It's irrelevant in this case, though," he says. "I'd give you the plank."

  "Because you couldn't kill?"

  "Because I couldn't kill you."

  Those words should freak me out, and I do feel a tingle creep down my spine, but I get a strange thrill at the protectiveness in his voice. Every girl wants her very own Jack Dawson.

  Slowly, I stroll over to him and climb onto his lap, straddling him in the chair. I wrap my arms around his neck, gazing into his eyes, drinking in the hint of emotion I find.

  He's a whirlpool of darkness, and I feel myself getting sucked deeper and deeper into the depths of his abyss.

  I'm drowning in him.

  His hands run up my back as he pulls me to him for a kiss. I can feel him hardening, straining the crotch of his pants, heat rushing through me at the sensation. To know I have the same effect on him that he has on me is intoxicating. My fingertips tingle with the urge to touch him.

  My hands drift down between us. I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle for a second before he restrains me. I pull back and start to pout when he undoes his belt, making work of his button and zipper, before pulling me back to him for another kiss.

  I don't waste my chance. The second he lets go, my hand slips into his pants and wraps around his cock. I pull it out between us, stroking it as I kiss him back with everything in me.

  He's warm, so damn warm. I can feel him growing in my palm, hardening like concrete. My thumb grazes the head, feeling the bead of wetness. I suddenly want to taste it, run my tongue along the slit and take him in my mouth, but he doesn't give me the chance.

  He grasps my hips, pulling me toward him, grinding himself against me. "Let me inside of you."

  The words make me shiver.

  I don't undress, slipping the skimpy fabric of my thong aside, grateful I wore this damn dress, after all. I lift up and sink down onto him, my eyes rolling in the back of my head.

  I shift my hips, kissing him deeply, savoring every second he's inside of me. It's unlike any other time, a stolen moment of passion, no rushing for the finish line or desperately jumping hurdles, merely enjoying being in the race. My hands seek out his, our fingers entwining, as he presses them against his chest.

  It's the most intimate thing I've ever experienced. Fully clothed, I somehow feel completely exposed, sliced open and vulnerable, yet so, so valuable. The man could snap me like a twig, but he holds onto me like I'm the strong plank, like I'm that lifeline in the water, his means of survival, his only chance of rescue. He holds my hands so tightly my fingers ache, but his face looks relaxed, like he's not worried at all about drifting away.

  He breaks the kiss as he tilts his head back, his eyes closed, his lips parted as he lets out a shaky breath. I kiss his mouth, his cheek, his scruffy chin, my lips traveling all over his face, exploring his skin. He doesn't move, doesn't do anything but squeeze my hands tighter, pressing them against him harder. It's like he's pulling me inside of him, and I can feel his pulse, his strong heartbeat, pounding in his chest.

  He's a tornado of emotion I can't begin to understand, but I love it. I love him. And I know it when I look at him, seeing such serenity in his expression. I want every cell of him in every cell of me, because when he's inside of me, I feel beautiful. I feel strong. I feel like I know what love means.

  Love means seeing the beauty in the ugly, the light in the dark, and accepting that even if the lights are off, and I can't see what's in front of me, there will be something there to guide my way. Love means turning yourself inside out, handing yourself over to somebody else, and trusting them… trusting them to touch you, to handle you, to bend you, but never, ever break what you give them.

  And I love him.

  Fuck, I love him.

  "I love you." The words tumble from my lips as a strained whisper, a shuddering breath forced from me as the butterflies take flight in my stomach, constricting my chest until I can't fucking breathe.

  His eyes slowly open to meet my gaze. He doesn't move—doesn't react—stares at me so hard it feels like he's eye-fucking my soul, like maybe he thought he heard me, but it couldn't have possibly been so.

  So I say it again. "I love you."

  The second time gets a reaction, his expression strained like he's fighting off a flinch. Before I can do anything else, he speaks quietly. "Don't say it unless you mean it."

  "I love you," I say for the third time. "I lo—"

  I'm cut off mid-word. Naz is up out of the seat with me clinging to him in shock. He roughly drops me on his desk, things digging into my back. Stepping between my legs, one hand clutches my hip to keep me in place as his other hand settles on my neck. He thrusts inside of me hard, and I gasp, the noise cut off when the hand around my throat squeezes.

  My chest viciously burns when I try to inhale, pressure mounting inside of me. He fiercely thrusts into me again and again, not letting go of my neck. My vision blurs, time standing still, as his calloused fingers press against my jugular.

  I can't breathe.

  I can't breathe.

  I can't breathe.

  The pressure builds, and builds, and builds, until I feel like I'm going to burst. Both hands clutch his arm, grasping it as tightly as he's pressing against my neck, terror like I've never known overwhelming me. I claw at the skin of his arm, trying to pull him off, but he's strong.

  So strong.

  Too strong.

  Seconds feel like hours. It's only a few, no more than ten. Ten seconds that last an eternity as he chokes me. The pressure builds until it has nowhere else to go, blackness speckling my vision as I explode.

  It's terrifying, the way my body seems to have caught fire, the bomb going off inside of me, obliterating me at the core. I inhale sharply, my lungs hungrily swelling as the weight on my neck lessens when he loosens his hold.

  My body convulses, a shrill sound escaping me, primal, inhuman. I'm a fucking animal.

  Orgasm rocks me, tingling my scalp and curling my toes. I desperately try to catch my breath but every muscle spasm knocks it right back out of me as I gasp... and gasp... and gasp for more air. It feels like it goes on forever, the pleasure so intense, and the high so high, that before it even dissipates I feel like I've slammed into the ground.

  "Yellow," I cry out, the word strangled. All at once Naz's hand leaves my neck entirely as he slows his movements. He doesn't stop, doesn't pull out, leaning further over the desk to look down at me. His eyes meet mine, worried. Tears obscure my vision, one slipping down my cheek that he wipes away.

  He pulls me up, shifting me to the edge of the desk, his arms wrapping around me. His movements are measured, his hands gentle. A strange sort of elation settles through me as my body relaxes, a lingering tingle in my limbs as he holds me against his chest. Never in my life have I felt such force. Never before have I been so grateful just to breathe.

  I've never felt so alive.

  It's sick. Maybe I'm sick. But I'm almost tempted to ask him to do it again.

  I don't, though. I do nothing.

  I say nothing.

  He finishes not long after. He doesn't pull out this time. I can feel him coming inside of me, convulsing, filling all of me with all of him for the first time.

  He stops then, his breathing haggard, as he whispers into my hair, "I love you, too."

  I'm alone.

  I sense it as soon as I open my eyes.

  The bedroom is pitch black. It's the middle of the night, though I'm not sure of the time or how long I've been asleep. I'm stark naked but wrappe
d up in Naz's sheets, the scent of him clinging to me.

  I roll over onto my side, blinking away the sleep. Reaching over, I run my hand along the crisp white sheets. Naz's side of the bed is bitter cold. He's been gone for a while.

  I contemplate closing my eyes again, figuring he'll be back eventually, but curiosity gets the best of me.

  Where could he be?

  Climbing out of bed, I grab Naz's button down shirt from the floor and pull it on, fastening a few of the buttons on my way out the door. I head downstairs, hearing a faint swishing sound when I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  A light shines from the laundry room. Stepping that way, I grasp the knob and open the door, cringing from the brightness when I look inside. The room is empty, completely still, except for the swishing of the washing machine.

  He's doing laundry? Now?

  It has to be at least three in the morning, maybe four. We didn't go to bed until midnight, making love yet again before I fell asleep. The second time had been nothing but gentle, none of that aggression present, like it had been purged from him down in the den. The memory of it makes the hair on my nape prickle. He made no apologies for it.

  I'm not sure I want him to be sorry, anyway.

  Turning away from the laundry room, I stroll through the rest of the house, not finding him in any of the usual places. Everything is dark and cold, goose bumps coating my skin as I wrap my arms around my chest.

  I go from the kitchen to the den to the living room, my footsteps tentative as I glance toward the front door. I stare at it in the darkness, noticing right away that it's ajar. The deadbolt is facing up, the chain lock dangling.

  Walking over to it, I grasp the knob and pull it open, shivering at the blast of cool air. My eyes scan the pitch-black neighborhood as I peek out, making sure nobody is around, before stepping half-clothed into the doorway and tensing.

  The Mercedes isn't where he parked it earlier.

  I stare at the vacant driveway and step onto the porch, my eyes scanning the surrounding street, but it's nowhere to be seen.

  "What are you doing?"

  The low voice behind me makes me jump as I spin around, clutching my chest. My heart is pounding like a bass drum, echoing in my ears when I see Naz standing inside the house, near the door. "You scared me!"

  He's wearing a pair of dark sweat pants, barefoot, bare chested, partially encased in shadows that fade away when he steps forward. He raises an eyebrow, his expression serious when he asks again, "What are you doing?"

  "I woke up and you were gone," I say, wrapping my arms tighter around me as another gust of cold air wafts by, making me shiver. Before I can say anything else, Naz grabs my arm, pulling me back inside the house.

  He shuts the door, making a point to lock it again, before he speaks. "I couldn't sleep."

  "Where'd you go?"

  "Nowhere."

  "But your car's gone."

  "It's in the garage."

  "Why?"

  "Because that's where I put it."

  His answers spark more questions, ones I don't get to ask. He reaches toward me, pressing his palm flat against my cheek, before his hand drifts down my neck. I tilt my head back, expecting him to keep going, but he pauses like that, his fingertips pressing against the pulse point. "Your heart's racing."

  "It usually is around you."

  His hand moves lower, his thumb grazing the dip in my throat as I swallow harshly. "Did I scare you?"

  "I just said you did."

  "That's not what I meant," he says, his eyes leaving mine to look at his hand wrapped around my throat.

  Oh. That.

  Slowly, I nod when he meets my eyes again.

  "Did you like it?"

  I hesitate before nodding again.

  The corner of his lip twitches as his hand drifts lower, down my chest, before he pulls away. "The car's in the garage because I cleaned it out. Like I said, I couldn't sleep."

  "What was there to clean?" I ask. "Your car is always pristine."

  "You haven't seen the trunk."

  I laugh. "What's in the trunk?"

  "Nothing now."

  He takes a step toward me, wrapping an arm around me, as he kisses the top of my head. "I have work to do. You should go upstairs."

  He starts to walk away, but I catch his arm to stop him, not wanting to go upstairs without him. He stalls, glancing down at where I'm touching him. My eyes drift that way, and I tense, seeing the claw marks on his arm. "Did I do that to you?"

  He doesn't respond, merely leaning toward me, pressing a soft kiss on my lips before pulling from my grasp. "Go get some sleep, Karissa. I'll be up in a bit."

  Naz walks out of the room, leaving me standing there alone as he heads for a door beyond the kitchen, one that leads into the garage, I gather, when I hear the engine of the Mercedes roar to life seconds later. Sighing, I turn away and go back upstairs, not bothering to take off his shirt when I climb back into bed.

  Naz is awake before me the next morning… if he even slept at all.

  When I climb out of bed and venture downstairs, he's already showered and dressed, standing in the kitchen washing dishes.

  It's a peculiar sight, one that makes me pause to appreciate.

  His jacket lies on the counter behind him, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his hands submerged in the hot, soapy suds. He scrubs a glass with an intensity that is almost unparalleled, like someone ridding a brick wall of graffiti.

  I'm surprised it doesn't shatter in his hands.

  The smell of chemicals clings to the kitchen, a strange mixture of bleach and noxious lemon. The floor glistens, everything within eyesight scoured.

  I haven't ventured any further in the house, but something tells me the other rooms are just as spotless.

  Seeing how Naz doesn't do much cooking, he doesn't have many dishes to wash. He finishes up the glasses before moving on to a knife, washing it so hard with a rag I worry he's going to cut himself. He tosses them all into a dishwasher when he finishes, turning it on to wash them yet again, before turning to me. "Good afternoon."

  My expression falls. "Afternoon?"

  "Yes," he says, glancing on the counter beside him at where his watch lay. "It's a quarter after twelve."

  My eyes widen. "I need to hurry or I'm going to miss my bus!"

  "Your bus?"

  "My bus home! You know, for Easter? I told you I was going home for the weekend. I'm supposed to catch the bus at 1:30."

  He pulls the plug on the water in the sink as he turns to me. "I forgot or I would've woken you."

  "I should've reminded you," I say, frowning. It slipped my mind last night to ask him to make sure I was awake.

  "I can just drive you," he says as he grabs a towel to dry his hands. "No need to worry about any bus."

  "That's crazy," I say, shaking my head. "It would take you all day to get there and back."

  "It's only four hours to Syracuse."

  "We don't live in Syracuse," I say. "We live about an hour outside of it."

  "Not a problem," he says.

  "But I just… I can't ask you to do that," I say. "And my mother, she wouldn't like it. She doesn't really like being around people, and I haven't exactly told her… I mean, she doesn't know…"

  "She doesn't know you're seeing someone," he guesses, fixing his sleeves.

  "Yes," I say. "I'm going to tell her, I am. It's just that…"

  "She won't understand," he guesses again.

  "Yes," I say. "I appreciate the offer, though. Really. And I'll tell her, but just not right now. If I get back to the city soon, I can make it to the bus."

  He grabs his coat and slips it on, fixing the collar. "Get dressed, then, and I'll get you there."

  Just as he says, he gets me back to Manhattan on time, even having a spare minute to grab a coffee on the way through. I kiss him, offering a timid smile before kissing him again.

  And again.

  And again.

  "I'll miss you
this weekend," I admit, whispering the words against his lips.

  "I'll be here when you get back," he says. "Go, before you miss your chance."

  I kiss him once more before begrudgingly climbing out of the car, watching as he drives away, heaviness in my chest that I can't explain.

  He's my breath of fresh air, and I feel like I can't breathe anymore when he's not around.

  My mother is a crazy cat lady, just without all of the cats.

  She has a dog instead.

  Killer is small mutt she picked up from the side of the road when I was sixteen, the day we moved to Watertown. I don't know what he's mixed with, his fur a tangled mix of gold and dingy white, his ears floppy and eyes unnaturally big. He's as passive as a dog gets—slobbery and loving, downright lazy when it comes down to it. His name is ironic, considering he wouldn't hurt a fly.

  Literally. Won't even hurt flies.

  Despite the lack of cats, my mother shows all the classic symptoms of a slightly neurotic woman, lacking friends and drowning in paranoia, a quirky hermit pulled right off the pages of something Tim Burton dreamed up. Her hair is a tangled, untamed wave that she lets hang loose, her brown eyes shielded by a pair of glasses with thick black frames.

  Her flower shop is not far from the bus station in Watertown, about a mile trek near sundown. I drag my bag behind me as I walk, wanting to surprise her. The shop is a little white barn shaped building with a hand painted sign above it simply reading 'flowers'.

  She never even gave the place a name.

  I don't know how she gets any business. It astounds me that she makes enough money to pay the bills.

  A bell above the door chimes when I step inside, everything brightly lit and sweet smelling. Arrangements of flowers are set up all around, the old cash register on the counter right in front of me with nobody manning it. Killer is curled up on the floor with a chewed up tennis ball. He lifts his head the same time a pair of eyes peeks out from the back room.

  "Kissimmee!" My mother bounds out, sprinting right for me, and damn near trips over the dog. She wraps her arms around me as Killer jumps up and down around us, barking excitedly.