Monster in His Eyes (Monster in His Eyes 1)

Anxiety fuels a touch of sickness, sickness that I fight to swallow down, but it burns the back of my throat, the coppery bitter tang on my tongue like I'd stuck it to the end of a battery.

Acid. Pure acid. I want to purge it from my system.

It's late, well after midnight, I assume. I'm not sure. Apart from having no bathroom in here, Naz also has no damn clocks. I feel like I've been lying in his bed for hours, too edgy to sleep, tangled up in his sheets. He's beside me, but not touching me, no more than six inches of space separating our naked bodies, but the man suddenly feels miles away.

I'm agonizing over what to do, what to think, replaying every moment I've spent with Naz, when a peculiar ring echoes through the room. It's muffled, a series of beeps that sounds almost like Morse code. At once, Naz slips away, climbing out of bed and rifling through his pants on the floor. He pulls out his phone, giving a brief glance at the screen before answering with a curt, "Hello."

He heads toward the door as whoever's on the line addresses him, and lets out a deep sigh as he steps into the hallway. "No, I haven't gotten it yet, but I'm on it."

I hear no more, unable to make out his words as he strolls along the hallway in the dark, away from my range of hearing. Not like I'm trying to eavesdrop or anything. But he returns after a moment, slipping back into the bedroom, and haphazardly tosses his phone back down on his pile of clothes.

The bed shifts as he climbs in beside me. His hands seek me out this time, wrapping around me, pulling me back against him. Once again, his strength astounds me as he tugs me into his arms like I'm made of nothing. I feel almost like a rag doll being manhandled.

Sweeping my hair aside, he kisses the side of my neck, something about it easing my nervousness. I feel safe, strangely enough, like a caterpillar wrapping up in a cocoon, waiting to sprout wings.

"I'm surprised you're still awake," he says quietly. "Maybe I shouldn't have taken it so easy on you."

Despite myself, I smile at that. I can't fathom that being Naz when he's subdued. Unrestrained, the man would knock me into next week.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"Two o'clock."

Ugh. "I should probably go."

"Why?"

"Because it's late."

"So?"

"So…" So, I don't know. "I just thought…"

He hums in my ear, his hand slowly sliding down my torso to the ache between my legs. "Less thinking, more feeling."

Sighing, I close my eyes. He takes the words right from me. His hands caress my skin, stroking my clit, as he pins me against him. It only takes a few seconds for my breaths to come out as whimpers.

"That's it," he whispers. "Just feel it."

Feel it, I do… I feel it in all of me, the pressure building until I can't take it anymore. "Please. Don't stop."

"Whatever you want."

"Oh God, yes. Yes. Don’t…" My breath hitches, my voice strained as I feel it sweep through me. "Stop."

"Stop?"

He stops.

He fucking stops.

"No, no, no," I chant, shifting my hips, desperate for the friction before it fades away. "Don't stop. Please."

He chuckles in my ear as his hand moves again, stroking me. His lips find my neck as my body tenses at the release of pleasure. I gasp, incoherent words seeping from my lips. A moment later the pleasure fades away as he stops, for real this time, his hand stilling, cupping the spot between my thighs.

"I like it when my woman knows what she wants," he says, his hand drifting up again, slowly moving along my chest, before reaching my face. I'm stunned by his words, even more shocked when his hand finds my mouth. His fingertips caress my bottom lip before his pointer finger brushes against my tongue. "I like it when she tastes like Heaven, too."

I shiver as he kisses along my neck and down my shoulder, pausing as he presses a kiss on my shoulder blade. His mouth lingers there as he pulls his hand away from my mouth.

"Stay," he says. "I'll take you home in the morning. I have to go that way, anyway."

"Okay," I whisper, but he doesn't wait for my answer. His hands leave my skin, the void sweeping over me as he pulls away, turning over in the bed to go to sleep.

If I'm not a glorified prostitute, I don't know what one is.

Sleep evades me but I eventually catch it in my grasp. When I awaken, the bedroom is significantly lighter as sunlight streams through the windows. I again have no idea what time it is, but there's one thing I do know.

I'm alone.

Still aching, and yucky, and stark naked.

But alone.

Rubbing my eyes, I climb out of the bed and scrounge up my clothes from last night, still mixed in with his on the floor. I put on my bra and slip on my panties before grabbing the dress. I turn it right side out, trying to situate it, when something on it catches my eye.

It's torn.

It looks like his hands ripped right through it, the weaving fabric loose and pillaging around the hem.

I stare at it, horrified. "Oh God."

"Is there a problem?"

The voice startles me so much I jump, yelping, and nearly drop the dress. Turning to the doorway, I see Naz standing there, his dark hair damp, beads of water running down his bare chest. The sudden urge to lick them strikes me.

Ugh, down, hormones.

He's wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, fresh out of the shower. I'm momentarily stunned speechless as I survey him, getting my first good look at him out of his suit. He's just as gorgeous now, but there's more to him, noticeable things, things I couldn't see last night. He's covered in old wounds, battle scars, gashes that shine silvery in the light and disappear in the darkness, like whispered secrets.

It's not off-putting, but it is a bit unnerving. I wonder what this man has gone through. He looks like he's been to war.

"Problem?" he asks again when I say nothing, his voice a little louder, drawing my attention from his chest.

"Yeah," I mumble, pulling the dress on, acutely aware thanks to my soberness that my panties are definitely not sexy. "My clothes kind of got torn last night."

His eyes scan me, settling on the rip as I point it out to him. "Didn't mean to ruin your dress."

"My roommate's dress, technically," I say, running my fingers through my hair, pulling myself together. "I borrowed it from her closet."

"Ah, well, I'll make it up to her."

"How?"

He shrugs a shoulder, pushing away from the doorway to stroll closer. "Somehow."