Prologue
Bethany
I’ve learned to love the cold. To love the heat that comes after. To love his touch. Whatever bit of it he’ll give me.
Only when we’re in this room though. Outside of it, he’s still my enemy. And I’ll never forget that. But when I’m tied down and waiting for him to use me as he wishes… I live for these moments.
The edge of the knife drags down my body, the blade running along my bare skin and taking the peach fuzz from every inch of me. It doesn’t cause pain, but it leaves a sensitive trail that awakens every nerve ending it passes. Making me feel alive, so desperate and so conscious of how good it feels to long for something.
The knife travels down my collarbone carefully, meticulously, leaving a chill in the air that dares me to shiver as the sharp knife glides lower, down to the small mounds of my breasts. It’s so cold when he’s not hovering over me. The icy bite of the air alone has never brought pleasure, but knowing what’s to come, the draft is nearly an aphrodisiac.
All the heat I need is buried between my legs, waiting for him to move the knife lower, bringing with it his hands, his breath… his lips.
The desire stirs deep in my belly, then lower still. With my legs spread just slightly, my thighs remain touching at the very top, closest to my most bared asset. The temperature in the room is low, low enough to turn my nipples to hardened peaks. Sometimes he drags the tip of his knife up to the top of my nipples, teasing me, and when he does this time, I let my head fall back, feeling the pleasure build inside of me. The smallest touches bring the largest thrills.
He tortures me just like this; he has for weeks. At one point, it did feel like suffering, but I crave it now. Every piece of it. I only feel lust when I think about being at his mercy.
“I love you naked on this bench.” Jase’s deep voice is so low, I barely hear him. But I feel his warm breath along my belly as he moves his tongue to run right where the blade has just been.
He does this first every time, teasing me with the knife, shaving any trace of hair before moving on. He always takes his time, and part of me thinks it’s because he doesn’t want this to end either. Once the flames have all flickered out and darkness sets in, and the loud click of the locks in the barren room signal it’s over, that’s when reality comes rushing back.
The war. The drugs. All of the lies that leave a tangled web for me to get lost in.
I don’t want any of it.
I want to swallow, the need is there, but I know to wait until the blade is lifted, leaving me cold and begging for it back on my skin. Teasing me. It’s only once he pulls it back that I dare to swallow the lump in my throat and turn my head on the thick wooden bench to look at him.
Jase Cross.
My enemy. And yet, the only person I trust.
Fear used to consume me in these moments, but as the rough rope digs into my wrists, not an ounce of it exists. His dark eyes flicker, mirroring the flames of the fireplace lining the back wall of the room.
My gaze lingers as he swallows too, highlighting the stubble that travels from his throat up to his sharp jawline. That dip in his neck begs me to kiss him. Right there, right in that dip, as if he’s vulnerable there.
With broad shoulders and a smoldering look in his dark eyes, Jase is a man born to be powerful. His muscles rippling in the fire’s light as he looks down at me force my heart to flicker as well.
The gold flecks in his irises spark, and I’m lost in a trance. So much so that I freely admit what I never have before as I say, “I love it too.”
I swear I see the hint of a smile tugging the corners of his lips up, but it’s gone before I’m certain.
I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have given him more power than he already has.
Jase Cross will be my downfall.
Jase
One month earlier
It’s a sloppy mistake. I never make a mistake like this. Never. Yet, staring at the bit of blood still drying on my oxfords, I know I’ve made a mistake that could have cost me everything.
And it’s all because of her. She’s a distraction. A distraction I can’t afford.
The thick laces run along my fingertips as I untie them, and as I do, a bit of blood stains my fingers. Pausing, I contemplate everything that could have happened if I hadn’t seen it just now. I rub the blood between my fingers, then wipe it off with a napkin from my desk. Carefully, I slip off my shoes, shoving the napkin inside of one before grabbing a new pair from behind my desk and putting them on.