Page 115 of Brutal
I don’t even care that he slapped my ass. That he called me that name that I hate. Because he also called me beauty. He told me I was beautiful.
And though this was a hard fuck, in some ways a violent fuck, something inside me feels like it was also more than that.
He finally breaks the kiss, inhaling deeply. He rolls over so that he’s lying on his back.
I’m tempted to roll close to him, snuggle into his shoulder. Let him hold me.
But now my clear head is prevailing. And I’m aware of the truth of what this was.
It was wonderful and beautiful and domineering and just a hair short of insane.
And if we start again, I won’t fight him.
But it didn’t fix anything. In fact, it may have made things worse.
And now Samson Vexley is in my bed, his eyes closed, his breathing calming down.
If he falls asleep? I won’t wake him.
I want to sleep next to him. Because frankly, this is the safest I’ve felt since I started looking into this whole thing.
But I don’t kid myself.
This was sex to him. Nothing more. Whatever warped emotions are creeping up in me, I need to tamp them down. Not just for myself, and not just for my work. And not just for women in general.
I need to keep my focus. I’m playing the endgame. I’m going to find out what truly happened that night and why.
I can’t do that if my heart is involved.
31
SAMSON
I wake the way I always do. All at once.
For a second, my body goes on instinct. This is the wrong bed, the wrong ceiling. Every muscle pulls tight. Every nerve goes on edge. I almost reach for the weapon that’s not beside me because this isn’t my bed, my room, my house.
Then I feel her. The heat at my side. The soft breath against my chest.
Delaney.
The memory comes back in pieces. Her mouth under mine. Her hands on me. My hand in her hair. My cock in her throat. Her body arching. The sound she made when I gave her exactly what she needed and exactly what she should have run from.
The marks I left.
The ones she let me leave.
I stare into the dark, the truth of it pressing low and heavy inside me.
I stayed.
I never stay.
Not after sex. Not after violence. Not after any moment that puts me off balance, and last night put me further off balance than anything has in years. Maybe ever.
I turn my head.
She’s asleep on her side, facing me, hair spilled across the pillow. Her lips are slightly parted. A bruise low on her throat. Another shadow at her shoulder where I was too rough.
