Page 51 of Fiery Little Thing
“You’ve stolen my every waking thought since the day I met you, Thief. I’ve been wanting to feel your pretty pussy for as long as I can remember. I’m done waiting.” I don’t notice that his hand has left my neck until his fingers brush against my core.
It’s like I jolt awake, fighting back the need to grind against his hand by clawing, hitting, and releasing the occasional kick with my good leg. His fingers stay precisely where they are, rubbing against my clit every time I move.
I growl, trying to fight him off—or maybe because it feels sublime whenever my hip buckles. Either way, I’m appeasing my mental and physical needs. The feelings are enough to make me forget all about the pain shooting through my foot.
Anyone could walk in right now and see me practically throwing myself at him—because no one will believe that he’s jumping me. They’d slap a chastity belt on me, zap me with a lightning bolt, and tattoosluton my forehead.
That should fill me with more motivation to throw him off, yet I don’t, even though I could be risking it all just to get off. But isn’t this just who I am? A junkie for the thrill of the danger.
Kohen grips my hair. “Fight me if you want, Thief. The only way you’ll get me to stop is by mentioning another man.”
I glare at him. Motherfucker gives me an out, and I can’t bring myself to take it. Worse yet, this might seem like a win-win situation to some. But as I see it, I’m using him to get off. I’m his scapegoat in exchange, and his balls will be left blue. Ergo, the win goes to me and the loss goes to him.
Maybe it’s a convoluted way of justifying why I’m pausing my crusade, but hey, orgasms feel better than drugs—one leaves me dying, and the other leaves me sated.
I scoff, putting up a half-assed fight as I sneer in his face. He thinks the act is from rage, but frustration might be more accurate.
There’s a thick layer of desperation to how hotly he says, “Stay still and let me take care of you.”
My brain short-circuits.
He can’t say shit like that to me.
Take care of me?What the fuck? Those four words are all it takes to get me to fold for this lunatic? I’m meant to be a stronger woman than this. I don’t need anyone to take care of me, but my body becomes jellylike and compliant as he guides my injured leg onto the stirrups that are built into the bed. Even though his eyes are viciously set on me, his shoulders soften as if caring for me relaxes him. The movement is so gentle; if I were more emotionally fraught about my altercation with Elijah, I’d get teary-eyed.
I didn’t realize that a lifetime of aggression and fighting men would lead me to become broken by the concept of something other than pain. Kohen hates me just as much as I hate him. Why else would he go around choking me, cutting my hair, or doing what he did to my house? Hatred and loathing are the foundation of our entire relationship. How long do I need to wait until the punch line? Affection isn’t possible without pain. Love doesn’t exist without hurt. So when will this crumble?
I keep waiting for him to suddenly grip my ankle or say something that will make me regret letting my guard down, yet he doesn’t.
Each of his minuscule movements goes against the years of bad blood between us. I can’t reconcile the mutual animosity with howtenderly he’s treating me, checking that my leg is sitting comfortably on the stirrup, tying the ice pack to my foot, making sure it’s not too cold on my skin, and then moving to the other leg.
It’s wild that he’s doing this while I’m butt-ass naked—not that he’s forgotten about it with how he keeps eyeing me with a sideways glance at the space between my spread legs. Any second now, the zipper on his pants is going to burst open, and I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t excited about the prospect.
Trepidation fills my lungs when he turns away from me to a table at the other side of the room, leaving me exposed and wanting. Dare I say it, I’m having to stop myself from panting. My muscles spasm in agitation and frustration from the position and need. I wonder if he’s intentionally making me wait as a form of torture to see if I’ll get any wetter from the tease.
Or if I’m just overthinking it.
I wish I could see what he’s looking for in the various drawers. The sound of tape ripping and metal clinking causes anxiety to worm into my marrow. Is this the part where the hurt finally comes?
I’ve never caught him out on a lie before, and I guess realizing his words are all fake would be the thing that shatters the illusion of his niceties. It might also be exactly what I need to stop my traitorous heart and body from melting all over him.
I bite the inside of my cheek when he slams the drawer closed, and I glance up at the door like it might be wide open. He doesn’t spare me a look as he rolls the heart rate monitor next to the bed, and places the trolley next to me.
While he’s inspecting the items on it, my legs slowly fall closed. It’s an odd combination of being frightened and turned on by my curiosity, but I flinch when he moves to lock the door.
Everything about him seems dangerous, like he’s a second away from blowing up. But when he tugs off his tie, tosses his blazer onto the computer chair, and shoves his sleeves up to his elbows, I damn well almost come from how sophisticated he is in his distress—and those forearms.
Jesus Christ, those veiny forearms.
I try to fight him off for a little over five seconds when he tries taking my shirt off, then again when he unclasps my bra, folding both into a neat pile on the seat a few feet away from the examination table. The cool air kisses my skin, perking my nipples into points sharp enough to key a car. I’ve never been self-conscious about my looks or how much skin I show, but right now, I want to fold my arms across my chest because I know if he looks too long, he’ll see what everyone else sees.
That I’m inadequate, a mess, a pariah. He’ll remember that I’m better off dead in a ditch somewhere, and not someone he should spend his emotional energy getting jealous over.
Kohen falters when his heated gaze rakes over my body like a drag of a match, cataloging every inch of me with bated breath. The hardening in his pants makes me wet my dry lips, but at the same time, I realize that if his plan is to degrade me by leaving me naked on a slab, it’s working. The vulnerability of it all is unnerving, just as it is alluring.
Another shiver rolls down my spine when he drags his finger along the side of my body until he reaches his station, hazel eyes transfixed on the trail of goosebumps pebbling my flesh from his touch.
“What are you doing?” I ask hesitantly when he puts the stethoscope on.
