Authors: Lydia Michaels
Her body adjusted to the
heat and she settled in, taking time she had in spades to wash every nook and
cranny of her body. Just as she was about to wash her hair, she heard the front
door open. It only took a few minutes for him to find her.
Christian filled the
doorway of the washroom watching her. She rolled her eyes, hating herself for
hating the fact that she hurt his feelings. Attempting to lighten the mood, she
said, “What’s up, Count Chocula?”
He hesitated a moment,
shaking his head, before stepping into the room. “I do not understand your
jests, but I know they are at my expense.”
Relieving her of the
bottle of shampoo, he gently poured some into his palms and worked up a lather,
which he massaged into her hair. She remained tense only for a few seconds, and
then gave into the gentle touch of his hands rubbing over her scalp. He said
nothing, just worked the suds into her hair and repeatedly poured pitcher after
pitcher of warm water over the strands rinsing them clean.
It seemed they’d reached
a momentary truce. She wanted to ask where he had gone, but decided it best to
let the events of the day stay in the past. She wasn’t used to this constant
tension and the tiny reprieve from their constant bickering was nice.
Once the soap was
completely gone from her hair, he rose and held out a towel. She was done
anyway, so she lifted her body from the tub. Water sloshed off of her curves
and he wrapped the soft cloth around her. Stepping out of the basin and away
from him, she waited for him to speak, but he said nothing, only turned and
left the room.
She found her way to the
bedroom where Christian had lit a lantern and turned down the bed. He waited,
seated quietly in the chair along the wall. She shut the door.
The silence was
deafening. He’d removed his shirt and sat in nothing but a pair of black pants.
His expression was blank and his eyes followed her every move. Delilah’s heart
began to beat erratically as something light and fluttery tickled her insides.
Was he just going to sit there?
Sticking to the
perimeter of the room, she went to the dresser and pulled out a chemise. She
awkwardly slid it over her head and then removed her towel, so not to expose
herself. Sure, he just saw her in the tub, but this was his
bedroom
and
she stupidly agreed to do things with him that she was now second-guessing. She
quickly brushed the knots from her hair and climbed into bed, wishing he would
say something.
She blinked and the
lantern was extinguished, bathing the room in inky shadows. The bed dipped and
the heat of Christian’s body warmed her backside. Utter silence surrounded them
for several long minutes. Her heart continued to race, warning her not to fall asleep
just yet.
The quiet became
intoxicating, a heavy blanket extinguishing her thoughts of the day and easing
her mind into a peaceful place. Her eyelids grew heavy and her blinking became
less like blinking and more like occasionally peeking out at the darkness. Then
she felt him.
The weight of his palm
pressed into the curve of her hip as his body drew close behind hers. Without
uttering a word, his fingers slowly inched up her chemise. Her gut reaction was
to tell him to get off, but this was part of their deal. Husbandly rights. Why
the hell had she agreed to that?
Without disturbing the
covers, he exposed her thighs, yet left them covered by the blankets. His
fingers trailed over her hip and down to her knees. This went on so long her
mind grudgingly grew accustomed to his touch.
His fingers pressed
between her thighs and lifted them apart, yet he did nothing more than touch
her legs. She remained silent, as did he.
This was nothing like
the first time they had been together and she wondered if that was because now
things were different. Maybe he was just touching her and that was all. His
palm nudged her backside until her body turned and her hips pressed into the
mattress, bringing her flat on her belly. The mattress dipped and then he was
fitting his knees between hers.
She frowned. Although he
continued to run his hands over her, there was something so detached about his
actions. He wasn’t talking to her or even breathing heavy. He was simply
exploring her body and directing her motions. There was none of the intense
need to have him like she’d felt in the past, yet he’d somehow managed to
arouse her enough with soft caresses that she felt moisture at her folds.
Her belly pressed into
the bedding as her thighs were drawn apart and then his flesh nudged her,
probing between her legs. A sort of sadness filled her that he could do this
without the emotional connection. It wasn’t like they’d been lovers before, but
at least there was that moment of agreed upon consent that left them both
begging for it. This was different, almost clinical. It made her feel cheap and
ordinary even in comparison to what she had thought was just a one night stand
before.
His palm coasted down
her spine and lifted her hips. Barely given a moment to find her bearings, he
slowly pushed into her. She silenced the moan that usually came with the first
thrust. He was being tender and gentle, but his silence made her feel dirty.
She hated it and didn’t want to become filthier by crying out as he fucked her.
His thrusts were
measured and unhurried. He pushed deep into her channel and pressure slowly
built. Never in her life had she dreaded climaxing. If she came it would be
mortifying. She was ashamed to admit that being fucked like a vessel that was
nothing more than a hole to fill could still bring her release.
Her throat constricted
as he continued to fuck her and her eyes blinked back tears. She was so
grateful for the cloaking blackness of the room. Never in her life had she
wanted to hide from herself as badly as she did in that moment.
* * * *
Christian fought back
the need to tell her how beautiful she was to him, how unbelievably soft, and
sweet she could be when she submitted. She did not agree to platitudes of love
or even romantic sentiments and he did not want his kindness again thrown back
in his face.
He hadn’t intended to
touch her. In fact, he had sworn he wouldn’t. He’d watched the house for hours
until he assumed she’d gone to sleep only to find her naked and bathing in his
tub.
It only seemed natural
to help her with her dark chestnut hair. He had ached to touch it since the
first night they’d met, remembering its softness in his hands and wanting to
feel its silken weight once more.
He always envisioned
himself doing such gentle things for his mate. He wanted to bathe her, take
care of her, love her, yet Delilah seemed to need none of those things from
him. Finding his mate had turned out to be one of the loneliest ordeals of his
long life.
His chest ached as he
pressed into her. If only he could make her see what they could share together
as one. Her body was reacting to him, but he was more interested in her mind.
He wanted her to accept him as her other half. He wanted her to see that he
could bring her contentment she’d never dreamed of having.
There was no doubt in
his mind that this was where she belonged. God had determined it so. So why was
he coming up short at every turn?
He said he wouldn’t stay
out of her thoughts, but at the moment he lacked the courage to know what she
was thinking. Her words cut and her mind was twice as sharp as her tongue. He
simply couldn’t bare another insulting truth from the female who was supposed
to bleed with him, not cut him down at every chance.
Her shoulders quaked and
he stilled. Her back moved with each silent breath she drew. Her channel
tightened, growing closer to climax. There was no way she was not drawing
pleasure from his touch.
Christian drew his
fingers down the curve of her back. “Delilah,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” she gasped into
the pillow. There was no mistaking the sound of tears in her voice.
He didn’t know what to
do. He should’ve never touched her. He was a fool to think that this could
somehow bring them closer. The intimacy they shared seemed the only part of
them not broken. “Delilah, I—”
Her whimpered cry was so
fragile, so unlike the strength he had begun to expect and even admire from
her, he was nearly knocked out by the sad, broken sound.
“Pintura,
please do not cry. Speak
to me.”
She merely wept into the
blankets. He cursed himself a fool and withdrew from her. She sobbed at the
sudden withdrawal. He turned her to her back. Her neck strained, pressing her
face away from his view. Christian caught her chin in his hands. “
Pintura
,
tell me what is wrong.”
“That’s not my name.”
His throat went dry. She
was incredibly upset, yet not in the angry way he usually interpreted her
distress with him. They needed to learn to communicate openly. Not wanting to
trespass on her thoughts, he scanned her emotions. She was…ashamed.
“Delilah, tell me what
is wrong.”
A bubble of small sobs
left her lips and she fought in vain to turn her face from him. He sat back on
his heels. What had he done?
His chest tightened as
her mysterious grief became his own. He had done this to her. She truly did
loathe his touch. It was more than finding his blood repulsive. It was
everything about him. Easing off the bed, he quietly stepped back as she
continued to cry.
“I am sorry, Delilah. I
will not bother you in such a way again. Please forgive me.” He turned and
silently left the room.
* * * *
She thought nothing
could hurt more than the shame of giving herself to a man who saw her as only a
body with no regard to who she truly was, but she was wrong. The pain of
feeling him pull away from her was worse. She held no power over him, not even sexual.
She’d thought the bedroom might be one of the areas they could actually get
along, but who would want to sleep with a weepy mess? She was the worst
mate
ever.
Her sobs filled the
silence until her mind slowly let go of the present and sleep welcomed her into
its numbing hold. She let go, let go of the shame, let go of the frustration,
let go of it all, only wishing she’d never wake again.
Of course that didn’t
happen. Why? Because she was fucking immortal, stuck in everlasting hell.
Delilah awoke just as
the pink fingers of dawn stretched across the aged wood floor of the bedroom.
Christian was lying beside her, his presence reminding her of her latest
humiliation. She rolled to her back and thought about the previous night. It
had been a disaster she didn’t want to repeat.
She turned and studied
him. He was breathing evenly. Asleep. It wasn’t really what she expected from a
sleeping vampyre. It all looked so…normal. Carefully, she climbed out of bed,
found a fresh chemise, and went to the washroom.
After cleaning herself
up, Delilah found herself standing out front. Quietly, she stepped off the
porch. A sharp tug grabbed hold of something deep inside of her chest. She
forced another step and the tug pulled harder. What was that?
She ran to the trees far
in the distance and the tug bloomed into a full fledge ache. It hurt. Oh, God
it hurt. It wasn’t a cramp or any other type of pain she’d ever experienced.
She wobbled back toward the house a few steps and there was the slightest
relief. Frowning, she took three more steps toward the house and the pain eased
again.
Was it him?
Did he
put her under some sort of spell? He didn’t believe in electricity so the
chances of him believing in magic were unlikely. However, the closer she got to
the house, to Christian, the more the pain disappeared.
It wasn’t like anything
she’d ever felt. It was a strange, discomforting presence behind her ribs, deep
and oily like guilt or jealousy, but it was neither of those emotions. All she
knew was it hurt in a way that was intolerable and that was how she found
herself standing back in the antiquated kitchen. There were a few ways she
could handle things with her so called mate, the majority of them requiring
energy she didn’t have.
Tightness formed in her
belly just below the pinch in her chest, an ache of regret for being such a
bitch. True, he betrayed her in a way she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to
forgive, but enough was enough. Nothing would ever change the past. It was time
to move on. They needed to make a truce and Li decided she would be the first
to raise the white flag.
She opened the pantry
and pulled down a sack of brown sugar, a jar of vanilla, and a sifter that
looked to hold powdered sugar.
The fastest way to a man’s heart is through
his stomach,
her Nanna used to say. And cooking was the fastest distraction
she knew. She didn’t want to think about what just happened, so she pulled out
a large skillet and set to work.
She wasn’t sure she was
after Christian’s heart, but it was a start. Besides, that ache in her stomach
was hunger. That one she could identify. She knew French toast wasn’t what her
body wanted, but it would have to do.
In the breadbox she
found a long loaf of white bread. It never occurred to her how spoiled she was
until she learned slicing bread was such a whopping pain in the ass. Her slices
were plump and crushed from trying to gently hold the loaf while sliding the
blade of a knife through the tender stuff.