Page 22 of The Puppet Master
I turn back to the girl with my mouth open like there are so many words I want to say, but I just can’t bring myself to. I don’t apologize again. She needs to believe we’re in this together, that I’m just as much of a victim as she is. Shared trauma is such a powerful bonding agent.
“Fine,” Thorne says, stepping toward the bed.
“No,” the girl squeaks, her wide eyes flying to him, then to me, like she wants me to step in and save her. Not even if I were playing Hercules could I take on The Huge Engine That Couldn’t over there.
She scrambles beneath the comforter, rustling the fluffed material. When her eyes are clenched shut, I shoo Thorne back with a few flicks of my wrist. Jaw clenched, he resumes his position by the door.
The girl’s hands clutching the bedspread pry free when I lift the material to crawl underneath. She scoots over to make room for me—or to run from me—but freezes when I cup her shoulder, muscles winding beneath my palm as her chest stops mid-rise.
I settle on top of her and try to ignore the vanilla that rises to my nose, the bitter edge of pine, dirt, and brush somehow complementing her natural scent. Filthy. Pulse spiking. Alluring in the most primal way.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, my fingers gliding up flushed skin to cup her cheek. Her frightened eyes open to peer at me like a doe staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
It’s normal to be afraid. Women I spent months cultivating trust with were afraid the first few days after being brought to the island. I’ve mastered the art of a gentle touch, but for the very first time, my reluctance is real.
I don’t know why I find her eyes so unsettling, but as they peer into mine, it’s like the girl sees through all of this.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper, pushing what’s left of my conscience to the side.
Her throat contracts as she swallows. She doesn’t obey the command, instead moving her gaze to Thorne. It’s a little disappointing but good to get a grasp on the difficulty she’ll bring.
“He won’t hurt you,” I whisper. “He just needs to see that you’re going to let me train you. If you don’t submit, I can’t help you.”
Her breath stutters. “What are youtalkingabout?”
“Trustme, Luna,” I say—plead. I can see the reluctance in her eyes, reluctance that’s going to be such a pain in the ass.
I really wish I could’ve picked the girl.
When I go to lift her sweater, she snatches my wrist. I pause—Don’t push, Don’t force. Just wait. Let the situation play out in her mind.
Two men. One a WWE-looking barbarian and one a self-sacrificing guy risking his life just to protect her from cruelty. It should be an easy choice.
Her eyelids flutter closed as she releases my wrist, palms latching to the bedsheets. The first of many wins.
Her bottom lip trembles—a tremor so subtle, so vulnerable, it sweetens the bloodied slit like liquid taffy. I dip my head with a kiss that’s merely an excuse to taste her, my tongue slipping over the cut, copper candy spreading warmth through my mouth, my throat, my lungs.
She doesn’t kiss me back. Instead, her mouth pinches shut, plump lips shrinking as she rolls them in. But her hands never let go of the bedsheet—no slap comes to my cheek—so it’s still a win. A big one.
Pushing it another step, I mold my hand beside her breast and slide it down her side, fingertips digging more than trailing, my touch no longerquiteas gentle. I watch. Wait. Expect her to grab my wrist. But she doesn’t move even as my palm travels the curve of her hip. I slip my hand beneath her sweater, drag my fuck-you finger along her waistline.
I’m not naive enough to believe it’s acceptance that holds her still. It’s intelligence. Instincts sharpened like a blade, a calculating mind mapping out the path of least resistanc, and to be frank, if this were my island, I would throw her away immediately. Instincts are dangerous. Intelligence is lethal.
But this isn’t my island. And a part of me, a small but meaningful part, is excited for the challenge.
As my lips move down her neck, I pop the button on her jeans. Blood surges into my cock at the sound of her zipper—the response automatic, uncontrollable, no better than Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the ring of a bell.
I shift so my erection isn’tsofucking obvious pressed against her thigh, but I seriously doubt she’s unaware. She’s too smart, too observant for that. She knows I’m enjoying this. She’s aware we aren’t ranking the same on the victim scale.
And I almost,almostlet this be enough to yank down our pants, grip the back of her neck and get this initial interaction over with. Rip off the bandaid so we can move on, release the sexual tension before it has a chance to fester. Trauma today makes the struggles of tomorrow easier, as my old man always said (not really, but might as well have).
But that’s my dick talking. I’m not a Neanderthal.
Abandoning her pants for the time being, I pull the girl’s sweater up to her bra and run my hand over the hills on her stomach. Hills, not creases.
Breaking away from her neck, I look down at abs—as defined as a female boxer’s, as defined as aman’s.
Wow.
