Page 18 of Spark
Verity is mine, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep her, even if that means locking her in this house so she can’t leave. The prospect of having to go back to work in a couple of days makes me feel nauseous. I need to make her unequivocally mine between now and then, and I have no idea how to do that, or even if it’s possible.
A sound catches my attention, and I climb up two steps, turning my ear in the direction of the noise while I try to figure out what it is. When there’s nothing but silence, I exhale andprepare to go back into the living room, only to hear something else, something that sounds like a wounded animal or my perfect girl’s pain.
Before I can stop myself, I climb up two more steps, holding my breath so I don’t miss another sound. When I hear it again, I know exactly what it is. She’s crying. No, she’s sobbing, the sound invoking a response in me that’s so strong, my heart actually pulses in rhythm with the sounds of her pain.
I know I shouldn’t, but I climb the stairs, pausing for a moment outside the bedroom door that I stupidly pulled almost closed when I left. If I hadn’t, I’d be able to see her now, but instead I’m impatiently waiting outside the door, wanting to go inside but unsure if my presence will help or hinder her right now.
One, two, three, four, five. I count to twenty in my head, giving her an opportunity to settle and the privacy to handle her own emotions, but the moment twenty comes and the sound of her desolation escalates, I storm through the door, stuttering to a stop at the sight of her crumpled into a heap on the floor.
Enough. I don’t know if I say it in my head or out loud, but either way, this is as much as I can take. Falling to my knees, I slip my arms beneath her and tug her into my chest, wrapping her tiny trembling body in my arms until I can feel her everywhere, her body heat merging with mine.
I hate her pain. I hate her sadness, but holding her this way makes my dick pulse and thicken, wanting to replace her tears with gasps of pleasure. It’s fucked up to be turned on in this moment, but I want her, all of her. I want her pretty or disheveled. Crying or smiling. Weak or strong. I want it all, and now that I’ve had her in my arms, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let her go.
“Shh, amore mio, your tears are killing me. It’s okay, I’m going to make it all okay. I’ve got you. I’ll make it better. I’ll takeaway all your tears,” I coo into her hair, pressing her face into my chest as her tears soak my shirt.
I’m barely aware of everything I’m saying, but as I promise her the earth, I know I mean every word. I was meant to find this girl. I was meant to take care of her, to protect her, to coddle and look after her, and I can’t fucking wait to start.
Cupping her cheek, I turn her tear-stained face to look at me, and then I lean down and press a kiss against her forehead. I want to taste her lips, but not now, not like this. I plan to kiss her tears away soon, but those won’t be tears of sadness or heartbreak. They’ll be tears of desperation and need when I tease her over and over, not letting her come until she gives herself over to me completely. Only then will I make her mine. Only then will I sink my cock into her cunt.
“You’re safe now, amore mio, you’re home.”
Whispering into the top of her head, I do my best to reassure her that I have her now, that I have her, and that she’s not alone anymore. I don’t know how much she hears or understands, but I’m making those promises to myself as much as her.
I feel the moment she fights her way through her grief and comes back to the present. As she stiffens in my arms, I debate releasing her, or at least loosening my hold, but I don’t want that. I want to keep her here like this. Soft, sweet, and engulfed by me.
“Warrick,” she croaks, her voice low and thick with tears.
“Yes, amore mio?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You never have to apologize,” I chide her.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I’m a mess. I should go. I can call a cab, or find a ride, or walk,” she mutters, pushing at my hold on her.
“What did I just say, amore mio?” I question.
“What?”
“I asked you what I just told you?” I repeat.
“You said I didn’t need to apologize, but?—”
“And what does that mean?” I ask.
“Warrick.”
“What does it mean, Verity?”
“That…that I shouldn’t apologize.”
“Exactly. So don’t do it again.”
“I’m sorry,” she immediately says, not managing to stop herself.
“We’ll work on it,” I assure her.
“I…should go.”
