Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
“Don’t run from me, Sun.”
“I can’t be here.” My voice is fragile and shaky. I need space, but he doesn’t give me that, instead he steps closer. I raise my hands in the air as I take a step back. “You can let me go,” I whisper. “I won’t tell anyone. But you have to let me go.” I can’t control the way you make me feel.
“I can’t let you go.”
“Why?”
I take another step back, and my butt hits the desk in the corner of the library.
“Because you’re mine now, and I won’t let anyone have you.”
His words shock me, making my muscles freeze. I’ve felt the heat of every stare, but this is more, and the look in his eyes scares me.
“You don’t even like me. You hate me.” I shake my head, not wanting to let my brain go there. Denying the truth that is right in front of me. He moves closer, his body touching mine.
“Does this feel like I hate you?”
“You kidnapped me . . .”
“I did what I had to do.” His answer is cryptic, as usual. I want to bash his head against a wall for not telling me what he means, but my brain and arms aren’t working properly due to the proximity of our bodies. I know I should push him off, but I can’t think of anything but the feel of him.
I hate him, but most of all, I hate myself for feeling this way.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” he says, “but it will cost you more than food.”
“What?”
“You have to earn it . . .” His words hang in the air, mischievous, sinful, and full of dirty promises.
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“I thought you wouldn’t take something not given?”
He lifts his hands, touching my jaw.
“Who says anything about taking?” He smirks.
“But you just said . . .”
“I said I wanted you, Ivy. And I do. I want to taste you. Feel you. I want to know what it feels like when you come apart under my tongue.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t hate me. Let me show you just how much you don’t hate me. Your body will show you.”
He lifts his hands to cup my jaw. His fingers trail against my skin. “Does this feel like you hate me?” He continues his path down the hollow of my neck. “How about this?”
“Why then?”
“I have my reasons.”
My breath comes out in shallow pulls, and my body shakes under his ministrations. “I won’t hurt you, Sun.”
“Why do you call me that?”
He doesn’t answer my question, though; he just keeps up the path of his fingers. I stare at him. Shocked by what I see.
The passion in his eyes screams that he’s telling the truth. Screams for me to allow this. But what does that make me if I do?
You want him. I shake my head, and as if he can read my mind, he speaks the words.
“You want me.”
I shake my head again.
“I don’t.” My voice cracks pathetically, even I can’t pretend.
“You do, and you want to hate me for it.”
“I do . . .” Not even I can believe myself.
“You don’t. Because deep inside you, you know the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That you are here because you need to be here.”
His words are still cryptic and still make no sense. But when I look into his eyes, I know he’s speaking the truth, or at least a truth he believes.
His hands continue their path to the center of my chest.
I think he will stop touching me. Lean forward and kiss me. He doesn’t move forward, though; instead, his hands cup me.
“I can feel how wet you are . . .”
My chest rises and falls.
He’s right; I am. I’m so desperate for him to touch me that I hate myself. What does it mean that I want my kidnapper?
“I don’t want you. You kidnapped me.”
“I saved you.”
“You have delusions of grandeur.”
His hands are still on me, warming my body and making me feel alive under his touch, blossoming. Blooming.
I need to push it down and stop it.
He’s lying.
He’s crazy.
Then why does he look at me like this?
Like I’m his salvation.
And he’ll do anything to protect me.
It doesn’t make any sense.
He leans forward, his lips hovering close to my mouth. His fingers touching me between my thighs. One swipe against the inseam of my pants has my breath hitching.
I shiver. A soft moan escapes my mouth.
My brain is rapid-firing why this can’t happen. Why I need to push him away and say no, but as his breath tickles my lips, I can’t find any words.
I do want him to touch me.
Desperately.
I want in a way I’ve never wanted anyone before, and I don’t know what that says about me.
It must be Stockholm syndrome, or maybe his words are true. Maybe I recognize them for what they are, for the conviction in them.