Keep Me (23 page)

“No, Julian,” she interrupts, the careful blankness of her gaze giving way to a sudden flare of anger. “You
don’t
get it. I know Majid deserved to die, and I’m not sorry that I killed him. I have no doubt that the world is a better place without him.”

“So what is it then?” I’m beginning to suspect where this is heading, but I want to hear her say it.

“I killed him,” she says quietly, looking at me. “I stood next to him, looked him in the eye, and pulled the trigger. I didn’t kill him to protect you, or because I had no other choice. I killed him because I wanted to.” She pauses, then adds, her eyes glittering, “I killed him because I wanted to see him die.”

Julian stares at me, the expression on his bandaged face unchanged at my revelation. I want to look away, but I can’t, his grip on my chin forcing me to hold his gaze as I lay bare the awful secret that’s been eating at me since our rescue.

His lack of reaction makes me think he doesn’t fully understand what I’m saying.

“I killed him, Julian,” I repeat, determined to make him comprehend now that he forced me to talk about this. “I murdered Majid in cold blood. When I saw him step into the room, I knew what I wanted to do, and I did it. I shot the weapon out of his hand—and when he was unarmed, I shot him again in the stomach and chest, making sure not to hit him in the heart, so he’d live a couple of minutes longer. I could’ve killed him right away, but I didn’t.” My hands squeeze into fists on my lap, my nails digging painfully into my skin as I confess, “I kept him alive because I wanted to look him in the face when I took his life.”

Julian’s unbandaged eye gleams a deeper blue, and I feel a wave of burning shame. I know it doesn’t make sense—I know I’m talking to a man who’s committed crimes far worse than this—but I don’t have the excuse of his fucked-up upbringing. Nobody forced me to become a killer. When I shot Majid that day, I did it of my own initiative.

I killed a man because I hated him and wanted to see him die.

I wait for Julian to respond, to say something either dismissive or condemning, but he asks softly instead, “And how did you feel when it was over, my pet? When he lay there dead?” His hand releases my chin and moves down to rest on my leg, his large palm covering most of my thigh. “Were you glad to see him like that?”

I nod, dropping my gaze to escape his penetrating stare. “Yes,” I admit, a shudder rippling through me as I remember the almost-euphoric high of seeing the bullets from my gun tearing through Majid’s flesh. “When I saw the life leave his eyes, I felt strong. Invincible. I knew he could no longer hurt us, and I was glad.” Gathering my courage, I look up at him again. “Julian . . . I blew a man’s brains out—and the scary thing is I don’t regret it at all.”

“Ah, I see.” A smile tugs at his partially healed lips. “You think you’re a bad person because you feel no guilt over killing a murderous terrorist—and you believe you should.”

“Of course I should.” I frown at the inappropriate amusement in his voice. “I killed a man—and you yourself said that it’s normal to feel shitty about it. You felt bad after your first kill, right?”

“Yes.” Julian’s smile takes on a bitter edge. “I did. I was a child, and I didn’t know the man I was forced to shoot. He was someone who had double-crossed my father, and to this day, I have no idea what kind of person he was . . . whether he was a hardened criminal or just someone who got mixed-up with bad company. I didn’t hate him—I had no opinion about him, really. I killed him to prove that I could do it, to make my father proud of me.” He pauses, then continues, his expression softening, “So you see, my pet, it was different. When you killed Majid, you rid the world of evil, whereas I . . . well, that’s a whole other story. You have no reason to feel bad about what you did, and you’re smart enough to know it.”

I look at him, my throat tightening as I imagine eight-year-old Julian pulling that trigger. I don’t know what to say, how to assuage his guilt over that long-ago event, and anger at Juan Esguerra fills my chest. “You know, if your father were alive, I would shoot him too,” I say savagely, causing Julian to let out a delighted chuckle.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you would,” he says, grinning at me. The expression should’ve looked grotesque on his bruised and swollen face, but somehow it looks sexy instead. Even beat-up, bandaged like a mummy, and with several days’ worth of dark stubble on his jaw, my husband radiates an animal magnetism that transcends mere looks. The doctors told us that his face will be nearly normal once everything is healed, but even if it isn’t, I strongly suspect Julian will be just as seductive with an eye patch and some scars.

As though in response to my thoughts, his hand on my thigh moves higher, toward the juncture between my legs. “My fierce little darling,” he murmurs, his grin fading as a familiar heated gleam appears in his uncovered eye. “So delicate, yet so ferocious . . . I wish you could’ve seen yourself that day, baby. You were magnificent when you faced Majid, so brave and beautiful . . .” His fingers press roughly on my clit through my jeans, and I suck in a startled breath, my nipples hardening as a surge of liquid need dampens my sex.

“Yes, that’s right, baby,” he whispers, his fingers moving upward to my zipper. “You with that weapon was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” The zipper slides down with a metallic hiss, the sound strangely erotic, and my core clenches with a sudden desperate ache.

“Um, Julian . . .” My breathing is uneven, my heartbeat speeding up as Julian’s hand delves into the open fly of my jeans. “What—what are you doing?”

His lips curve in a wicked half-smile. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“But . . . but you can’t . . .” The sentence devolves into a moan as his fingers boldly push into my underwear and cup my sex, his middle finger slipping between my wet folds to massage my throbbing clit. The heat that blasts through my nerve endings feels almost like an electric spark, every hair on my body standing up in response to the zing of pleasure. I gasp, feeling the tension gathering inside me, but before I can reach my peak, Julian’s fingers withdraw, leaving me hovering on the edge.

“Take off your clothes, then climb on top,” he orders hoarsely, pulling back the blanket to reveal a hospital gown tented with a massive erection. “I need to fuck you. Now.”

I hesitate for a moment, worried about his injuries, and Julian’s jaw tightens in displeasure.

“I mean it, Nora. Take those clothes off.”

Gulping, I jump off the bed, unable to believe that I feel the compulsion to obey him even now. His left arm is in a cast, he can barely move without pain, and yet my instinctive response is to fear him—to want him and fear him at the same time.

“And lock the door,” he commands as I begin to pull my shirt up. “I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“Okay.”

Leaving my shirt on, I hurry over to the door to turn the lock that gives us privacy. Every step I take reminds me of the pulsing heat between my legs, my tight jeans rubbing against my sensitized clit and adding to my arousal.

When I return, Julian is in a semi-reclining position on the bed, his gown untied at the front and his hand stroking his erect cock. There is a stiff bandage around his ribs, but it does nothing to detract from the raw power of his muscular body. Even wounded, he manages to dominate the room, his appeal as magnetic as ever.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, watching me with a heavy-lidded stare. “Now strip for me, baby. I want to see your sexy little ass wriggling out of those jeans.”

I sink my teeth into my lower lip, the heat in his gaze turning me on even more. “All right,” I whisper, and turning my back to him, I bend forward and slowly pull down my jeans, making sure to sway my hips from side to side as I expose my thong-clad ass to his eyes.

When the jeans are all the way down to my ankles, I turn back to face him and kick off my shoes, then step out of my jeans, leaving them lying on the floor. Julian watches my movements with undisguised lust, his breathing becoming heavy as the tip of his cock starts to glisten with moisture. He’s no longer touching himself, his hands clutching the sheets instead, and I know it’s because he’s close to coming, the hard column of his sex jutting up in defiance of gravity.

Keeping my eyes trained on him, I proceed to take off my shirt, pulling it up over my head in a slow, teasing motion. Underneath, I’m wearing a silky white bra that matches my thong. I bought several outfits online earlier in the week, and I’m glad I decided to get a few nicer underwear sets. I love to see that look of uncontrollable hunger on Julian’s face—the expression that says he would move mountains to have me at that moment.

As the shirt falls to the floor, he says roughly, “Come here, Nora.” His gaze devours me, consumes me. “I need to touch you.”

I inhale, my sex flooding with wetness as I take a couple of steps toward the bed, pausing in front of him. He reaches for me, smoothing his palm over my ribcage, and then moves his hand higher, toward my bra. His fingers close around my left breast, kneading it through the silky material, and I gasp as he pinches my nipple, causing it to stiffen further.

“Take the rest of your clothes off.” His hand leaves my body, making me feel bereft for a moment, and I hurriedly unclasp my bra and push the thong down my legs before stepping out of it.

“Good. Now straddle me.”

Biting my lip, I climb onto the bed, straddling Julian’s hips. His cock brushes against the inside of my thighs, and I grasp it in my right hand, guiding it toward my aching entrance.

“Yes, that’s it,” he mutters, reaching out to grip my hip as I begin to lower myself onto his shaft. Releasing his cock, I use my palms to brace myself on the bed, and he groans, “Yes, take me in, my pet . . . All the way . . .” Using his grip on my hip, he pushes me lower, forcing his cock deeper into me, and I moan at the exquisite stretching sensation, my body adjusting to being filled and penetrated by his thick length.

It feels like the sweetest of reliefs, the pleasure-pain of his possession acute and achingly familiar all at once. As I watch him, drinking in the look of tormented pleasure on his face, it suddenly dawns on me that this could just as easily not be happening—that instead of lying underneath me, Julian could be six feet underground, his powerful body mangled and destroyed.

I am not cognizant of having made any sounds, but I must have, because Julian’s eye narrows, his hand tightening on my hip. “What is it, baby?” he asks sharply, and I realize that I’ve begun to shake, chills wracking my body at the image of him lying there cold and broken. My desire evaporates, replaced by remembered terror and dread. It’s as if I’ve been doused with ice water, the horror of what we’ve been through bubbling up and choking me from within.

“Nora, what is it?” Julian’s hand slides up to my throat, gripping the nape of my neck to bring my face closer to his. His eye bores into me as my hands clutch convulsively at the sheets on each side of his chest. “What is it? Tell me!”

I want to explain, but I can’t speak, my throat closing up as my heartbeat spikes, cold sweat drenching my body. All of a sudden, I can’t breathe, toxic panic clawing at my chest and constricting my lungs, and I begin to hyperventilate as black dots encroach on the edges of my vision.

“Nora!” Julian’s voice reaches me as if from afar. “Fuck . . . Nora!”

A stinging blow across my face snaps my head to the side, and I gasp, my hand flying up to cradle my left cheek. The shock of pain startles me out of my panic, and my lungs finally begin working, my chest expanding to let in much-needed air. Panting, I turn my head to stare incredulously at Julian, the darkness in my mind receding as reality pushes back in.

“Nora, baby . . .” He’s gently rubbing my cheek now, soothing the pain he inflicted. “I’m so sorry, my pet. I didn’t want to slap you, but you looked like you were having a panic attack. What happened? Do you want me to call for a nurse?”

“No—” My voice breaks as sobs rise up, bursting out of my throat. Tears begin to flow down my face as I realize that I completely freaked out—and that it happened during sex. Julian’s cock is still buried inside me, only slightly softer than before, and yet I am shaking and crying, like a crazy person. “No,” I repeat in a choked voice. “I’m all right . . . Really, I’ll be fine . . .”

“Yes, you will be.” His voice takes on a hard, commanding tone as his hand moves down to grip my throat. “Look at me, Nora. Now.”

Unable to do anything else, I obey, meeting his gaze with my own. His eye glitters a bright, fierce blue. As I look at him, my breathing begins to slow, my sobs easing and my desperate panic fading. I am still crying, but silently now, more as a reflex than anything else.

“Okay, good,” Julian says in that same harsh tone. “Now you’re going to ride me—and you will not think of whatever got you so upset. Do you understand me?”

I nod, his instructions calming me further. As my anxiety melts away, other sensations start to creep in. I become aware of the clean, familiar scent of his body, the crisp feel of his leg hair pressing against my calves . . .

The way his cock feels inside me, warm, thick, and hard.

My body responds again, further distracting me from my panic. Taking a deep breath, I begin to move, rising up and then lowering myself onto his shaft, my core growing wet and soft as pleasure starts to curl low in my belly.

“Yes, just like that, baby,” Julian murmurs, his hand sliding down my body to press against my clit, intensifying the tension growing inside me. “Fuck me. Ride me. Use me to forget your demons.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “I will.” And keeping my eyes on his face, I pick up the pace, letting the physical pleasure carry me away from all the darkness, the inferno of our passion burning away the memories of icy horror within.

When we come, it’s within seconds of each other, our bodies as attuned to each other as our souls.

* * *

That evening I go to sleep in Julian’s bed, not my own. The doctors okayed it after cautioning me not to jostle his ribs or face during the night.

I lie on his right, my head pillowed on his uninjured shoulder. I should be asleep, but I’m not. My mind is buzzing, humming like a beehive. A million thoughts are running through my head, my emotions oscillating from elation to sadness.

We’re both alive and more or less intact. We’re together again, having both survived against all odds. I no longer have any doubts that in some fucked-up way, we’re meant to be. For better or worse, we fit each other now, our twisted, damaged parts locking together like a jigsaw puzzle.

I have no idea what the future holds, whether things can ever truly be all right again. I still need to convince Julian to honor my promise to Peter—and I need to ask the doctors for a morning-after pill, given the fact that neither one of us remembered to use protection earlier today. I don’t know if it’s possible to get pregnant so quickly after losing the implant, but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take. The possibility of a child—of a helpless baby subjected to our kind of life—horrifies me now more than ever.