The Dangerous Man Beneath My Bed

chapter8

NAOMI

I remained on the floor long after my throat had rubbed itself raw with screaming. I was huddled next to the corpse of my cello, my cheek pressed against the rug, staring numbly at the splintered wood and coiled, useless strings.

That instrument had been my voice when I couldn’t speak. It was my history, my discipline, my proudest achievement. And he had snapped it like kindling because I dared to look for an exit.

Dominic hadn't moved. He stood sentry over my devastation, a monolith of blood-soaked expensive wool and terrifying calm. He let me break. He watched it happen with the attentive patience of a scientist observing a crucial reaction.

When the silence in the room had stretched into a suffocating eternity, he finally moved. He crouched beside me. The metallic stench of him—that awful, coppery reek of fresh slaughter—washed over me, making my empty stomach heave.

"Look at me, Naomi."

I didn't want to. I wanted to dissolve into the floorboards. But the fear of what he might break next if I disobeyed was a potent motivator. I dragged my gaze from the wreckage and looked at him.

His eyes were no longer feral. The adrenaline of his violent afternoon had ebbed, leaving behind the chilling, depthless obsidian that I had come to know too well.

"You're a mess," he murmured. His voice was terrifyingly gentle, a soft caress that felt wrong coming from a man covered in gore.

He reached out, his hand hovering near my face. I flinched violently, expecting a blow, squeezing my eyes shut.

But the blow never came. Instead, his knuckles, tacky with drying blood that wasn't his, brushed against my tear-stained cheek. It was a grotesque intimacy, his violence literally touching my grief.

"We need to get you cleaned up."

He didn't wait for my consent. He slid his arms under me, lifting me effortlessly against his chest. I was limp, a ragdoll drained of all fight. My head lolled against his shoulder, my nose buried unwillingly in the ruined fabric of his suit, inhaling the scent of death and his own underlying musk.

He carried me into the bathroom. He set me down on the closed toilet lid, then turned to the large soaking tub. He turned on the taps, the sound of rushing water filling the small, tiled space. Steam began to rise, blurring the edges of the room.

He turned back to me. He began to strip.

He peeled off the ruined suit jacket, dropping it into the corner. He unbuttoned the blood-stiffened cuffs of his shirt, then tore at the buttons down his chest, shedding the garment with impatient jerks. His undershirt went next.

I sat frozen, watching him reveal the magnificent, terrifying architecture of his body. He was sculpted muscle and scars, a roadmap of violence etched into his bronze skin. He was beautiful in the way a sleek, deadly weapon was beautiful.

Naked, he stood before me, unabashed, letting me see everything. He was semi-erect, thick and heavy, a persistent threat even in this strange domestic tableau.

"Your turn," he said softly.

When I didn't move fast enough, he stepped between my knees. His hands went to the hem of the oversized t-shirt I wore. He pulled it up and over my head. He stripped off my leggings and underwear with efficient, impersonal movements, leaving me completely exposed to the steamy air and his burning gaze.

I was shivering, not from cold, but from a soul-deep shock.

He took my hand and led me into the massive tub. The water was hot, almost scalding, shocking my numb skin back to life. I sat in the water, knees pulled to my chest.

He climbed in behind me, his massive frame displacing the water so it sloshed over the edges. He parted my legs and pulled my back against his chest, cocooning me in his heat.

It was confusing. It was horrifying. I was naked in a bathtub with the man who had r***d me three days ago, the man who had just destroyed the most precious thing I owned, the man who had walked in here covered in human blood.

And yet, as the hot water soaked into my bones and his solid warmth pressed against my spine, a treacherous, sickening sense of relief washed over me. I didn't have to fight anymore. I didn't have to plan escapes. I just had to exist in the space he carved out for me.

He reached for a washcloth and the bar of soap. He began to wash me.

He was meticulous. He started at my neck, moving down my shoulders, his touch firm but unbelievably gentle. He washed my breasts, his large, calloused hand cupping the soft weight of them, his thumb grazing over my n*****s until they hardened against my will.

I hated my body for responding. I hated the little hitch in my breath when his hand moved lower, over my belly, toward the apex of my thighs.

"See?" he whispered into my damp hair, his voice vibrating through my skull. "I take care of what's mine. When you accept that, things become easier."

He was reprogramming me. I knew it. He was breaking me down with terror and then offering the only comfort available—himself. It was psychological warfare, and I was losing. I was too exhausted, too traumatized to maintain the walls.

He slid down in the tub, pulling me with him until I was straddling his lap, facing him. The water lapped around our waists. His eyes locked onto mine, demanding total submission.

"Show me you understand, Naomi."

His hands moved to my hips, gripping hard, bruising me just a little. A reminder.

I did understand. I understood that my survival depended on pleasing the monster. I understood that if I wanted this bizarre, twisted tenderness to continue instead of the cold destruction in the living room, I had to give him what he wanted.

And god help me, a dark, desperate corner of my shattered mind wanted it too. I wanted to be consumed by him, to let his darkness swallow mine so I wouldn't have to feel the pain of my losses anymore.

I leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was frantic. I tasted the metallic tang of blood on his lips. I dug my fingers into his shoulders, desperate to anchor myself against the tidal wave of confusing sensations.

He growled, a low animal sound of triumph in his throat. His arms crushed around me, pulling me so tight I couldn't breathe. He kissed me back with punishing intensity, his tongue invading my mouth, claiming it just as thoroughly as he had claimed the rest of me.

Beneath the water, his erection was rock hard against my center. I lifted my hips, needing to end the torment of anticipation, needing to be filled so there was no room left for thought.

I sank down onto him.

It was a slow, agonizing impalement. I gasped, throwing my head back as he stretched me, filling me completely. It didn't hurt like the first time, but it was intense, a pressure that bordered on pain, blurring the lines between punishment and pleasure.

He didn't move at first. He just held me there, letting me feel the entirety of his invasion.

"Mine," he breathed against my throat, biting down softly on the pulse point. "You feel that? You are alive because I allow it. You feel pleasure because I give it."

Then he began to thrust upwards.

The water sloshed violently around us, splashing onto the tile floor. The friction of our wet skin combined with the heat of the water and the sheer psychological weight of the moment created a sensory overload that was blinding.

I wasn't making love. I was being forged in fire and water, reshaped into something new, something that belonged to Dominic Moretti. Every thrust hammered that truth deeper into my core.

My cries echoed off the tiled walls, mixing with his guttural groans. I rode him desperately, matching his brutal pace, chasing oblivion. I wanted him to ruin me completely, so I could never go back to being the woman who cared about cellos and symphonies.

When the climax hit, it was a dark, shattering thing. I screamed his name, fingernails raking down his chest, as my body convulsed around his. He gripped my hips, holding me down as he poured himself inside me, branding me with his seed once again.

We collapsed against each other, gasping for air in the steamy room. I laid my head on his shoulder, right over the erratic thumping of his heart. I hated him. I feared him more than anything on earth.

But as I drifted in the aftermath, wrapped in his crushing embrace, I realized with a sickening jolt that for the first time in three days, I felt safe.