His expression turns strained. “Not if my uncle thinks you’re a threat.”
His hand looks so large in between mine. Like he’s a giant. Some kind of mythical creature, made of stone. Born of the earth. I lift his forefinger and press a kiss, the callouses rough against my lips.
And then I move to his middle finger. He makes a sound, deep in his throat.
His index finger. His pinky, which is as large as my forefinger.
When I reach the end I press a kiss to his thumb.
He runs his thumb along the seam of my lips. Impossibly strong. Incredibly gentle. This is how he would be with a seedling, freshly sprouted from the earth, its flesh still pale green, its petals satin.
When he kisses me again, it feels like a physical touch. More like the heat of sunshine. The saturation of rain. The rush of wind that comes before a storm.
At the beginning I am passive, letting him bombard me with sensation.
And then I surge back into him, taking back my space, finding even more. There isn’t any space at all between us, no air to breathe. I claw at him, climb him. I peel away his clothes in frantic, impatient gestures until he finally pulls back to pull off his shirt. There is dark hair on his chest, and I run my hands through it, leaving pale scratch marks in my wake.
He groans, low in his throat. “How can I leave you on the side of the road?”
“Where else will you leave me?” I ask, gasping.
“I can’t,” he mutters. “I can’t leave you anywhere.”
And then he undoes my jeans, pushing them down far enough to touch me. To make me squirm in surprise and fear. To make me melt in liquid pleasure.
If I could have thought this through, if I could have planned it, I would have thought we’d use my bed. It’s large and soft, even if it’s part of my prison cell.
Instead he pushes me against the window, my back flush against the cool glass. I’m visible to anyone who looked in my window, but all I can see from here is the empty lawn and a tall wall. No one is looking. No one will see.
He pushes me harder and farther than I knew I could go, my body twisting in agony. There’s so much heat inside me. Energy. Something wild and new awakened now.
“Please,” I gasp.
He pants against me, with his own heat. His own energy. “Shouldn’t.”
He will hold himself back forever, I realize. And so it’s me who unzips his jeans and finds his arousal. It’s me whom awakens something wild in him, new enough that he lets go of his refusals.
And then he’s pushing inside me, his body fused with mine, pressing me against the glass as we can escape through pure force of will. It’s almost like being free, being senseless against the dark night. If only I stopped feeling the cold glass at my back.
CHAPTER SIX
I’m wide awake when the phone rings. My mother’s name flashes on the green Caller ID screen. How many times have I spoken to her on this pink phone? And this might be the last time. It’s only been a few hours since Niko left my bed, climbing down the ladder before sunrise.
A heavy weight descends on me as I pick up the receiver. “Hey, Mom.”
“Are you still asleep?”
I haven’t been able to sleep all morning, knowing what was coming today. My salvation or my surrender. I’m not sure I’ll ever have another chance. “Not anymore.”
It feels like I’ve been asleep for years. Ever since the psychiatrist sided with my parents, writing the words Pathological Liar on my chart. Whether day or night, light or dark, I’ve sleep-walked through my whole life.
And whatever happens next, I’m painfully awake. Painfully aware.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” she says.
I look over at my panda bear alarm clock, blinking ten thirty a.m. I won’t be able to take him with me. There’s a small satchel in the back of my closet with some clothes and a little money I’ve been able to hide over the years. I don’t know how long it will last me in the outside world.
Not very long, probably.
“Is there a reason you’re calling or do you just want to know if I need anything?”
There’s a part of me that will always want my mother to love me. To take care of me. Even if I manage to escape, if I make it a thousand miles away, if I live to be a hundred years old. I’ll still want that, with some sad, broken part of me.
It’s the rest of me that’s going to escape.
“If you can manage to pull yourself out of bed, I need your help.”
That makes me sit up a little straighter. “Really.”
“Your father is going on about Sergio De Fiore. Convinced he was going to try and steal something out from her under him. Anyway, he’s coming home early. I don’t know what kind of mood he’s going to be in, but I need you to calm him down. We need this deal to go through.”
