Authors: Lauren Gilley
Holly took a breath that trembled just a little in her throat. “So is that a no on the salad?”
“We have an hour?” he asked.
She nodded, pulse fluttering at the thought of all that could take place in that hour. “Yeah.”
He dropped down out of sight, kneeling.
Surprised, Holly leaned over the island to see what he was doing.
He was scrunching up the leg of his jeans, reaching down into the top of his boot. When he stood, he held a long, glinting knife, the same one he’d run through Dewey’s ribs. It was clean now. He twirled it between two fingers and offered the brass-edged wooden handle to her. “Let’s see what you can do with this.”
This was ridiculous. “I’m not going to pretend to stab you with an actual knife,” Holly said, folding her arms as she faced off from Michael, careful to keep the wicked tip of the knife pointed safely to the side.
They were standing in an open patch of floor, between her living room and bathroom, the ten o’ clock news chattering to itself on the TV, the loft beginning to smell like dinner. She’d changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, tied her hair up in a bun.
Michael was playing biker sensei as he stood with unfathomable calm, sinister in all black, hands giving an impression of relaxation at his sides. Holly knew better. She could see he was drawn tight as a bowstring.
“Just come at me,” he said. “Come at me like you want to stab me, and don’t hold back. Really go for it.”
“No.”
He sighed through his nostrils. “Do you think you’re actually going to hurt me?”
“I don’t want to take the chance.”
“There is no chance. Trust me. Now do it. All your weight behind it. Come on.”
Holly ground her teeth together. She didn’t even want to attack him in jest. It soured her stomach to think about. She glanced down at the sharp edge of the knife in her hand, the way the light chased down its length when she tilted it.
“Holly,” Michael said sternly, “do it.”
She took a deep breath…and lunged at him. She didn’t set up her approach, didn’t give him a chance to prepare, just launched herself at him, the knife flashing in her right hand.
Slap! His palm against the leather cuff on her wrist. His fingers wrenching tight around it.
Yank. She was pitching forward, falling through open air.
Her hand opened, and the knife fell out of it, clattering to the floor.
The room spun and then Michael was pressed against her back, and his arm was around her neck, and he still held her wrist so tightly she could feel the bones grinding together.
She gasped. She hadn’t even seen him move, and suddenly, he had her at his complete mercy.
He released her at once, stepping around in front of her, his expression one of total calm, his breathing regular. It had been no effort for him to subdue her. As easy as swatting at a fly. “That’s why we have to practice,” he said, bending to retrieve the knife. He offered it to her again. “It’s too easy for someone to disarm you, and that’s not acceptable.”
She stared at the hilt of the knife a moment, catching her breath. It was a beautiful weapon, in a physical sense, the rich luster of the wood, the satin finish of the steel.
“Again,” Michael urged, and she took it with a grim resolution.
Over and over, he had her attack him. He showed her how to stand, where to place her feet for the best leverage and maneuverability, how to hold the knife, how to angle it. He showed her the soft, vulnerable places to stab, pointing them out on his own body, making her anxious at the idea of the knife piercing his skin.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said, time after time. And, “Again. Do it again.”
Never did she come close to him with the knife, and her frustration mounted, but she was getting quicker with the dodging, managing to stay out of his grasp, dancing away from him when he would have taken the knife.
And just as she felt she’d gotten the whole avoiding thing down pat, he sent the knife spinning out of her hand. It landed on the floor with a loud metallic sound. And in two fast moves he had her back against the wall, his forearm across her chest, his hand around her throat, his face shoved into hers so she could feel him panting against her skin.
“And now you’re getting strangled, just like your friend at the bar,” he said, his voice low and rough. His eyes were bright and full of sparks. She felt his pulse pounding in the hand that circled her neck.
Vulnerable and small, trapped by him, reminded so suddenly of Carly and the fate she’d suffered, Holly’s frustration gave way to a more desperate sensation.
“It’s not fair,” she gasped. “How is someone like me supposed to fight off someone like you?”
“You’re not.” He let his arm fall away, and his hand left her throat, slid down to press at the high center of her chest. His expression softened, but not his eyes. They were frightening, the way they shimmered in the dim lamplight. “You use the gun I gave you. And if you have to dodge them, then you dodge the best you can. And you run, Hol. Do you hear me? If you’re in danger you run. Don’t try to fight, don’t be brave, just run like hell, and start shooting when you have to.”
He leaned in even closer, until his eyes were all that she could see of him. Electric and pulsing, like her heart beneath his hand.
“Run,” he said again.
The tension rushed out of her, replaced with a quiet, throbbing anguish. Run, he said, run away from him.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she whispered. “I know you wouldn’t.”
He took a breath and let it out with a growl. And he kissed her.
She was ready tonight. Now, in the wake of the dazzling pleasure of the night before, she knew not to be afraid. She trusted him, understood the perfect magic of letting him in.
She opened her mouth against the pressure of his tongue, welcomed his consuming kiss with soft encouragement, hands finding his chest, kneading lightly at the hard wall of muscle.
He deepened the kiss, bearing down on her, walling her off from everything but him. He sucked at her lips. The scrape of his teeth was almost cruel. He was trying to get inside her, and wasn’t satisfied with his progress.
His hands went down into her sweatpants, shoving them to her knees. He was frantic. He was panting against her mouth and his hands were clumsy in his haste.
Holly understood. He was frightened, thinking about how incapable she was with the knife. And he was riled from the exercise, and the way it had brought them together again and again, arms tangling, bodies pressing together. And she knew that he didn’t understand, and that he was frustrated and aching and searching, and for those reasons, she couldn’t be afraid of him, even if he was rough.
She stepped out of the sweatpants and shimmied her panties down, kicked them off her bare feet. Then she reached for his belt, opened his jeans.
“Yes,” Michael said, a heated gasp against her throat. He grabbed at her hips, clutched at her ass, lifted her up against the wall so they were aligned, and he held her there, strong pressure at her hips, as he drove into her with one forceful thrust.
She felt it in every inch of skin, that sudden, violent joining. His face was against her chest and she shoved her fingers through his hair, clutching his head to her breasts, the worn cotton of her shirt. She wanted to enfold him, wrap him up and hold him, because that was what he needed, even if he thought it was just savage mating that he craved.
He was beyond kissing or gentleness, driving her hips back into the wall with each thrust, his ragged breath against the valley between her breasts, his fingers digging bruises into her hips.
Holly hadn’t expected the rippling excitement in herself, the rapid firing of all her nerves in hungry flashes. Breathless, she held him, as she felt herself melting, whispering against his hair. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…”
He groaned, and then there was a change in him. A rotating, grinding rhythm as his hips drove against hers. He adjusted the way he held her, so his body curled around hers, supporting her weight, the angle of his penetration shifting so that…
She gasped. She latched onto fistfuls of his hair, straining against him as the sharp climb toward release began in her belly.
She was almost delirious by the time it ended, aware that he’d found his own pounding finish in the middle of her clutching and gasping, and that now he was lowering her to her feet, letting her back slide down the wall.
She was grateful for his hands on her waist because her legs didn’t want to hold her up. She leaned into him, grabbing at his shirt, trying desperately to catch her breath.
His face dropped into her hair, arms circling her.
It was a long moment before Holly could trust herself not to fall.
“Did I hurt you?”
Holly paused with her wineglass halfway to her lips. They were seated at the tiny café table by the window, so the colored lights of the Christmas tree played off the glassware and white plates, dinner laid out between them. Across the table, Michael’s brows were drawn together, looking miserable and worried.
As she stared at him, she wanted to go around the table and wrap her arms around him. But he didn’t seem the type for hugging. So she gave him her softest smile. “No, Michael. I’m fine.”
His eyes dropped, and he studied his salad. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, quietly.
Holly’s stomach fluttered at the words, but she was too weak and tired not to eat. She took another bite of lasagna and said, “Why did you?”
His gaze snatched up, even more miserable.
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t have,” Holly said. “I’d just like to know why, if that’s okay.”
He speared a cherry tomato and frowned at it.
“But we don’t have to talk about it,” she said, breezily. “We’ll talk about something else.” There were a thousand things she wanted to ask him, but she thought it would be best to stick to a neutral topic. “I wanted to ask you last night: what kinds of movies do you have on your shelves?”
He blinked, and glanced up at her with obvious surprise. He hadn’t expected her to ask about that. Good. She’d set him back. Hopefully she could refocus him, get them back on even footing.
“All kinds,” he said, popping the tomato into his mouth. She saw the instant relaxation in him. His body started to unclench.
“Do you have
The Wizard of Oz
? It’s on my to-watch list. I’m trying to cover all the classics.”
“You’ve never seen
The Wizard of Oz
?” he asked, brows lifting. Then, growing quiet and serious, tone grim, he said, “You’ve never seen
The Wizard of Oz
.”
She refused to let his mingled guilt and sympathy get to her in this moment. “No,” she said. “Is it as good as they say it is? Or is it one of those over-hyped situations?”
Michael shrugged. “It’s one of the big ones.” Still outwardly disturbed, he said, “What have you seen?”
“Well when I was in Nashville” – she bit at her lip, not wanting to mention the wannabe country singer who’d traded a few rolls in the hay for room and board, not now that Michael had so completely claimed her body – “there was the entire Adam Sandler library in the apartment. So I watched some of those.
Big Daddy
,
Billy Madison
.” She made a face. “Not exactly my favorites. But I found a secondhand store that sold used movies and books and things, and I picked up
It’s a Wonderful Life
,
Citizen Kane
,
Gone With the Wind
…”
“You weren’t kidding when you said ‘the classics,’ huh?” He gave her one of his bare smiles. They seemed so full of life and kindness, now that she knew him better. What had once been just a twitch at the corners of his mouth now brought giddy warmth up in the pit of her stomach.
“I’ve seen some newer ones, too.
Love Actually
–”
He made a sound in the back of his throat.
“Hey, I like that one. And
The Notebook
–”
“Jesus Christ.”
“But my favorites,” she pressed ahead, grinning, “are the old Universal monster movies.”