Descent (Black Heart Romance)

“What do you think about me?”

He regards me with a furrowed brow. “Hm?”

“The… you said you think about me when you’re trying to sleep at night. Was that true?”

He nods.

“So, what do you think?”

There’s nervous energy just below the foggy tiredness that just hit me, but Calvin is calm and collected, completely in control of himself as he answers steadily, “Lots of things. I think about your smile and how I’d like to see more of it. The different kinds of smiles you have. What does your intimate smile look like? What do you look like when you’re darting a glance at someone you have a shared secret with?”

My head feels even more swimmy. “That’s specific,” I murmur.

“Mm-hmm.” He pushes his chair back and stands.

I try to gather up my wits as he walks over to me, knowing I’ll likely need them. “What are you doing?” I ask when he stops by my chair.

He offers his hand. “Dance with me.”

“There’s no music.”

I only realize after the fact, that’s not the reason I shouldn’t dance with him.

And then suddenly there is music, and he’s taking my hand and making me stand. It’s harder than it should be. My legs are wobbly and I can’t trust them. I can’t trust him, either, but I find myself leaning on him so I don’t fall.

My body warms once his heat is pressed against my front.

I shouldn’t dance with him. I should sit back down. That’s the right thing to do.

Abandon convention, Hallie.

His earlier sentiment echoes in my head. I don’t think that’s exactly what he said. Let go, I think that’s what he said.

“I wonder if you would have danced with me at your friend’s wedding without anyone watching.”

His words cut through the fog in my mind, but the fog seems to be growing denser, my body heavier. I’m not really dancing with Calvin so much as using him to hold up my weight.

He doesn’t seem to mind. He guides my arms around his neck and locks his arm around my waist, then he sways with me ever so slightly as the soft music plays in the background.

My body is so heavy.

So, so heavy.

My eyes drift closed. I’m resting my face against his shoulder, listening to the deep, calming tone of his voice. “I think about your lips and how they would feel wrapped around my cock. The look in your eyes when you know you’re well and truly trapped. If I could draw tears out of you when we’re playing without breaking you altogether. If it will feel as good as I remember when I thrust deep inside that perfect, velveteen pussy of yours and spill my seed again and again until it takes root.”

Wait, what?

I want to pull back. I try to, but I can’t. My body isn’t my own anymore.

Dimly, I feel him kiss my cheek, and then my jawline. I want to pull back, but for some reason, I… I can’t.

Oh no.

“You lied,” I say thickly, or I try to, but my words get a little lost. “You lied to me.”

He said I could drink the wine, but I’ve been drunk on wine, drunker than two glasses, and I didn’t feel like this.

He drugged me.

The fucker drugged me.

I look back at the table as Chef Ryan comes over to clear our third dinner course away. Dessert was supposed to be next, but he’s taking the plates and the glasses. He looks like he’s cleaning up after a finished meal, and we didn’t have dessert.

I’m dessert.

I knew it, but I let myself believe him.

“Remember when you lied to me, sweetheart?” he asks almost gently, despite what I know he’s doing.

“No.” I do remember, but I’m not responding to that. The denial is for the vulnerable situation he’s put me in. I need to get out of here, now, before the last of my wits have abandoned me.

Summoning all my strength, I yank my body away from him. I stumble and he grabs my waist, his grip like iron.

“Be careful,” he commands like I’m a child who just picked up a priceless antiquity on display in his home.

Only I’m the priceless treasure in this situation.

He’s afraid I’ll hurt me before he gets to.

I laugh at the absurdity, or I mean to, but my head is so thick and foggy, I can’t be sure any sound actually comes out.

“Let go of me.” I try to peel myself away from him, but it’s like trying to use a cooked spaghetti noodle to lift a car.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he tells me.

“You lied,” I say again.

“So did you,” he states plainly. “Remember when I told you I would hold you to your word? You said you would meet me for dinner, and you didn’t.”

“You’re a psycho.” I sway unsteadily, but he won’t let go. I don’t trust myself to walk, so I dig my nails into the back of his hand and scratch as hard as I can.