Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
This isn’t going at all to plan.
“Abby?” I forgot Stacy’s presence until she speaks again. “You don’t look so good. If you’re sick, you need to go home.”
Abigail isn’t going anywhere until she agrees to a date with me.
“Come on,” I cajole. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
I gently grasp her elbow, and she allows me to guide her outside. She barely seems aware that I’m touching her. Those lovely eyes remain unfocused, and her brow is furrowed with some mysterious worry.
Once we step out into the sunlight, she closes her eyes and finally draws in a deep breath. When she opens them again, her gaze is clearer, but guarded in a way I don’t understand.
Maybe I’m making her uncomfortable with my persistent physical contact.
But she moaned my name while she masturbated. She wants me.
I just need to break through her shyness and proper Southern belle façade.
I skim my fingers up her arm, enjoying the way her creamy skin pebbles with awareness of my touch. Then I rest my hand on her shoulder, grounding her to me.
Something—or someone—at work has upset her this morning. That must be why she’s behaving so strangely.
Whoever inflicted this distress will suffer for it. She’ll give me a name eventually. I’ll coax it out of her once the color returns to her cheeks.
“Breathe, Abigail.” I don’t like that she’s so wary around me. I have to calm her down and make sure she knows she’s safe with me. “Just breathe.”
Pleasure suffuses my chest when she obeys.
“Why do you call me that?” she asks when she exhales.
“It’s your name, isn’t it?”
She gestures at her name badge that’s pinned to her apron. “Everyone calls me Abby.”
The fact that she doesn’t remember our initial meeting grates at me, but I manage a charming smile. “I suppose I’m still a bit more formal than the locals. Bad habit from back home.”
I don’t tell her that I’m the only one who will call her Abigail. That privilege is mine and mine alone.
“You’re from England, right?” she asks.
I nod. We’ve never spoken about my accent at the café. I’m happy to share more personal information with her now, even if the topic is a bit mundane.
“From York originally. The old York.”
“Oh. What brought you to South Carolina?”
My smile turns indulgent. These are topics to cover on our date later.
“You don’t have to make small talk with me, Abigail.” I savor her name on my tongue. “How are you feeling?”
She blinks. “Better, thanks.”
She seems almost surprised.
“Good. Are you feeling well enough to go out to dinner with me tonight?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” I say with teasing admonishment. “Have dinner with me.”
Her refusal isn’t an option, so I don’t bother to soften the command into a question this time.
My fingers tighten on her shoulder ever so slightly, and I barely suppress the urge to pull her closer.
Her willowy body goes rigid, and her eyes slide out of focus again.
Fuck.
Who upset her so deeply that she’s completely distracted from the intense connection we share? The one I sealed last night when she came all over my gloved hand?
She reels back, breaking free of my careful hold on her shoulder.
“I can’t,” she blurts, gaze cutting away from mine. “I’m sorry.”
“Abigail!” I call after her, but she’s already ducking back into the café.
I rake a hand through my hair.
What the hell just happened?
11
DANE
Now
Over time, it became clear to me that Abigail wasn’t anywhere near ready to accept the fact that I’m the masked man who broke into her apartment. After she finally opened up to me about how she was raped by that fucker, Tom, I knew it was too soon to reveal the truth. Then Ron attacked her, and she was so distressed.
Even though she experienced intense pleasure when I forced her to orgasm under the threat of my knife, she hadn’t fully embraced the darkest aspects of our connection. And when we fucked, she’d struggled in bed a few times, but she hadn’t truly fought me.
Until she was ready to indulge in those darkest games, I knew it was too soon to tell her that I was the masked man.
But then she broke into my second home and found the skull mask in my nightstand, and the choice was no longer mine. She’d been horrified.
But after what we just shared, she’ll understand.
In her new studio, we fully realized the powerful eroticism of dancing at the edge of consent. The sensual painting that we created is proof of that. Later, we’ll both admire it.
But for now, she’s shaking and spent. And she’s covered in paint.
I gather her up in my arms and hug her to my chest. As I carry her out of the studio, I marvel at the stunning woman who belongs to me, irrevocably and completely. Her creamy skin is still flushed from her orgasms, a deeper shade of pink coloring her chest and cheeks. The lovely hue blends with the blue paint that I stroked onto her body like she’s my own personal canvas. I’ll never be an artist like Abigail, but she’s my masterpiece.