curves and valleys of my features. Memorizing them. And I know in this moment that painting of me
won’t be the last he does.
His fingers dip lower. Lower. Until they are feathering over my collar bone and down my shoulder.
I am breathing hard for him now. The butterflies in my stomach are out of control. There is fire in my
veins. And want so dangerous I fear I might become addicted to this feeling. To him.
He feels it too. And right now, he is powerless to it. A slave to the desire. He tugs my body against
him and then presses his lips to mine. Biting at my lip and then soothing the sting with a kiss.
“Fuck, Chloe,” he murmurs against me. “Fuck. We can’t.”
He tries to pull away. I pull him back. And slide my hands up inside of his sweater, feeling the heat
of his skin beneath.
“I want you inside of me.”
He groans. And it is the most agony I have ever heard in a single sound.
“I feel like I’ll die if you don’t give that to me,” I beg.
And then his hand is slipping inside of my shorts. Directly between my legs. To the place no man
has ever touched before. I jerk against him and he groans again.
“Christ,” he says. “Fucking Christ, you are so wet for me.”
“Please,” I beg him again.
He touches me. Exactly where I need him to. His fingers soothing and maddening the ache inside of
me. His lips find my throat and he tastes me. Whispering secret confessions against my skin in the
darkness. About how much he wants me too. About the things he thinks of.
Dirty things. Depraved things.
He tells me he wants to fuck me rough and dirty and come inside of me. He tells me he wants to
degrade the perfect little ballerina. Tie her to his bed and never let her leave.
I come for him. I come so hard for him. All the while begging for him to do it all.
But he doesn’t.
As soon as I’m recovered from the most intense experience of my life, he pulls away and looks at
me with regret.
“Keller?” I whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me again. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I have to go.”
Chapter Eight