ing
skin beneath my lips.
His strangled groan moves me so much that I sit back
on my heels, fearful of what I’ll see on his face. His eyes
are screwed tightly shut, but he hasn’t moved.
“Again,” he whispers, and I lean into his chest once
more, this time to kiss one of his scars. He gasps, and I
kiss another and another. He groans loudly, and suddenly
his arms are around me, and his hand is in my hair, pulling
his arms are around me, and his hand is in my hair, pulling
my head up painfully so that my lips meet his insistent
mouth. And we’re kissing, my fingers knotting into his hair.
“Oh, Ana,” he breathes, and he twists and pulls me
down on to the floor so that I am underneath him. I bring
my hands up to cup his beautiful face, and in that moment,
I feel his tears.
He’s crying . . . no. No!
“Christian, please, don’t cry. I meant it when I said I’d
never lea一ve you. I did. If I ga一ve you any other impression,
I’m so sorry . . . please, please forgive me. I love you. I
will always love you.”
He looms over me, gazing down into my face, and his
expression is so pained.
“What is it?”
His eyes grow larger.
“What is this secret that makes you think I’ll run for the
hills? That makes you so determined to believe I’ll go?” I
plead, my voice tremulous. “Tell me, Christian,
please . . .”
please . . .”
He sits up, though this time he crosses his legs and I
follow suit, my legs outstretched. Vaguely I wonder if we
can get off the floor? But I don’t want to interrupt his train
of thought. He’s finally going to confide in me.
He gazes down at me, and he looks utterly desolate.
Oh shit—it’s bad.
“Ana . . .” He pauses, searching for the words, his
expression pained . . . Oh? Where the hell is this going?
He takes a deep breath and swallows. “I’m a sadist,
Ana. I like to whip little brown-haired girls like you
because you all look like the crack whore—my birth
mother. I’m sure you can guess why.” He says it in a rush
as if he’s had the sentence in his head for days and days
and is d
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