Monster in His Eyes
Page 86

"What do you have there?"
I glance up as Naz walks in the room.
"It's, uh… a note Melody gave me," I say, shrugging as I fold it up and shove it back in my pocket. "I had coffee with her today, you know, before the whole interrogation thing."
I would tell him if he asked, tell him the truth about the letter, about talking to my mother, but he doesn't raise the subject any further. He pauses in front of me, grasping my chin and pulling my face up to look at him. He leans down to kiss me, his lips soft and sweet.
All it takes is a simple touch from this man and I melt. His presence always makes the bad seem not so bad, the good just so much better, the world around me so beautiful and brand new. He makes me feel special, and safe, like the universe could be crumbling but he'd keep the ground beneath my feet secure.
He wipes my worries away.
I'll deal with my mother tomorrow.
Tonight, I only want him.
With trembling hands, I reach out and start unbuttoning his shirt. He lets me, never breaking the kiss, his hands cradling my head. He pulls away when he has to, letting his clothes drop to the floor, leaving him naked in front of me.
Light filters in from outside, enough so I can make out every contour of his body. I want to trace every line, caress every crevice, taste his flesh with my tongue, and show him how much I love him with my lips. He sits down on the bed and reaches for me again, but I slip from his grasp and drop to my knees on the floor instead.
His expression is strained as he stares down at me. I wrap my hand around the hard shaft and stroke a few times, watching him, before lowering my head into his lap. I flick my tongue out, tasting the tip of him.
An unnatural groan vibrates his chest.
His hands stroke my hair as I take him into my mouth. I can't take all of him—can barely take half of him. I've never tried to satisfy a man like Naz, so I just go at it and hope for the best.
It doesn't last long before he stops me. Grabbing a hold of my arms, he pulls me up onto the bed with him, whispering, "That's enough, Karissa."
"Was it not good?" I ask nervously.
"It was great," he says quietly. "But you shouldn't ever kneel in front of me."
I'm not sure whether to be flattered or offended, but he gives me little chance to be either. He takes over, stripping me as he pulls me deeper onto the bed with him.
He lies back, letting me climb on top of him. I sink down on him, taking him inside of me, a chill running down my spine when I hear him groan again. The sound is so primal, unrestrained.
I ride him, grinding against him, arching my back and taking him in as far as he can go. His hands are on my hips, but he doesn't guide me, for the first time since we've been together he's letting me do the work.
I can tell when he's getting close. My hands are on his chest, covering his scars, feeling his heartbeat against my palm. It's racing, although he looks relaxed, his stomach muscles clenching as his eyes close.
I can feel it as he comes, filling me with all of him. He groans again, this time louder, his grip on my hips tighter. When he relaxes, I stop moving, and he opens his eyes to look at me. I offer him a tentative smile, but he doesn't return it, knocking mine off my face when he yanks me off of him, onto the bed, and settles on top of me.
I yelp, caught off guard, as he nuzzles into my neck, nipping at the skin. "That wasn't easy for me."
He pushes inside of me, the thrust deep, making me gasp. He's harder now than he was before he even came. "I know."
He's a machine, going on and on as night falls, not stopping until my body is tired, both of us covered in sweat from head to toe. I lay in his arms, my head on his chest. We're both quiet as we catch our breath, his heartbeat settling back into a steady, normal rhythm.
I don't think my heart will ever beat the same.
"Are you okay?" he asks quietly after a while.
"Yes," I whisper. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You were hauled into the police station today. That has to be upsetting."
"It was," I admit. "They think I… I mean, they thought I had something to do with what happened to Santino."
"No, they didn't," he says. "They don't think that."
"But they said—"
"Just because they say it, doesn't meant they believe it," he says. "They don't think you killed Santino."
"Then why did they say it?"
"Because they think I did."
I tense. "That's just crazy."
I expect him to agree, to laugh it off, but he says nothing. He makes no noise at all. The silence that smothers the room is deafening, chilling, and I'm not sure what to say after that. I lay there, staring into the darkness, as Naz's hand strokes my bare side, holding me tightly like he'll never let me go.
I take the train to Manhattan, and then another train to New Jersey, hailing a cab outside of the train station in Newark. The driver looks at me peculiarly when I read off the address, making no move to pull away.
"You sure that address is right?" he asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
"Uh…" I glance at the paper. "Yes."
"Okay, then."
He starts on the road. Newark reminds me of a smaller New York City, with the skyscrapers and busy streets. I'm admiring it as we drive through the city, tensing a little when he starts weaving away. He passes through neighborhoods, each one growing rougher, until we start to approach what looks like the slums. Windows are smashed and boarded up, graffiti covering the sides of crumbling buildings, trash scattering the sidewalks.