Page 72 of Adam
She turns around and raises her feline eyes to meet mine.
“Thank you for yesterday,” she says softly, her eyes roaming all over my face.
A low hum rumbles in my throat, more growl than sound, my thoughts unraveling as all I can think about is fucking her against the mirror.
“I know you were just doing your job, but still.”
“It wasn’t just about the job.”
Her eyes return to mine, daring me to answer to her. “Then what was it?”
My fist shakes and tightens around the knife in my thigh holster in an attempt to hold myself before I do something I’d regret.
Why is she doing this to me? How can she be so damn intoxicating without even trying? Every muscle in me trembles from restraint, from the need to grab her, to taste the chaos she stirs in me, to stop myself from being the selfish bastard who’d ruin everything just for one touch.
I don’t feel it at first. The knife tears the holster and digs into my skin. Blood wells up from my palm, and it’s the only thing sharp enough to cut through the haze she drags me into.
Then, as if she knows, her eyes drop to my hand.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” she gasps, grabbing my hand with hers.
“I’m fine,” I grumble, pulling it away.
I’m seconds from losing it.
Every goddamn thought’s tearing at me, screaming to just give in. I drag my eyes away from her before I do something stupid, shove the knife onto the vanity just to remind myself what the hell it’s for. The tie’s choking the life out of me; I rip it loose, muttering curses just to keep my hands busy and not on her.
Her arched brows narrow, but she remains silent. She looks confused; I don’t blame her.
Never in my life have I wanted something the way I want her. The obsession gnaws at me, hollowing me out from the inside. She feels like sin disguised as salvation, something forbidden that still calls to every deranged part of me. And knowing that touching her would destroy her only makes me want to sink deeper into the damnation of it.
“Why the knife?” she asks abruptly.
I rest my hands on the vanity and give her a side glance. “I might need to gut someone,” I say with a smirk, trying to conceal my frustration. “It’s also protection.”
She scoffs. “From me?”
“From me.”
“Oh …” Her eyes widen. “Why not a gun?”
“What?” I spit, puzzled. That’s all she has to ask?
“Men like you usually use guns. What’s with the knife?”
I push myself up and prowl toward her. Her lower lip trembles, and her eyes stay locked on mine, as if breaking that gaze might break her, too.
“Do you want me to be honest?” She nods, holding her breath. I reach for the ends of her hair, letting the strands slide through my fingers. She trembles. Oh, fuck, how I relish the way fear and want blur together when I’m this close. “Because a gun ends it fast. A knife makes you savor every goddamn second of it.”
“Y-You sound …”
“Unhinged?” I raise a brow.
She gulps forcefully. “Dangerous.”
I let out a low chuckle, my fingers brushing over her prominent collarbone. “Only if you don’t know which face I’m wearing.”
Her cheeks suck in for a beat; her eyes go sharp. “Show me.”
