Whiskey (The Alpha Elite Series) by Sybil Bartel

Author:Sybil Bartel [Bartel, Sybil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Alpha Elite Series
Publisher: Sybil Bartel
Published: 2023-06-19T18:30:00+00:00

Anika

Slanting his mouth over mine, he dominantly, aggressively swept his tongue in and kissed me like he owned me.

Oh, God. He did own me.

With his music in my ears and his hands on my body, I’d said yes, and now I was his and he was mine, and I’d agreed to this, but I’d lied.

“Stop.” Abruptly pushing against his chest, squeezing my eyes shut, I pulled the earbuds out because I made a horrible mistake. “I lied.” Oh God, I lied. “I don’t lie, and I did, just now, to you. I—” The urge to reach for him overwhelming, I fisted my hands and stopped myself. From touching him, from kissing him back, from talking, from all of it.

I needed to think.

But his breath, his heartbeat, the intoxicating scent of his musk and cologne—all of it was already familiar as if I’d known him forever, and everything about him was everywhere.

He was everywhere.

In my thoughts, in the tapping melody of my fingers, in every inhale, in every whisper of sound.

I wanted him.

I wanted him so badly, but this, him, it was overwhelming. And the part of me that’d thrown away every piece of who I thought I was and simply said yes purely because I wanted to, that woman was recoiling right now. Just because I wanted him to kiss me and play my body as if I were his muse and he was the virtuoso, I wasn’t supposed to ignore the facts. He was wearing a gun, gambling with our lives, and telling me I had to choose. I wasn’t supposed to be okay with a man telling me all or nothing, on his terms, while he insisted on having everything his way and took away my control.

But oh dear God, I wanted to.

For once in my life, I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to practice and analyze and perfect every detail. I didn’t want to be in control, not of this.

I just…. I wanted…. I couldn’t even say it to myself.

“You what?” His tone, his voice, they were calm, and nothing about either was forceful, but he wasn’t asking a question. He was demanding an answer.

I took a deep breath, but it was too late. The faint sound of heavy bass and punctuating guitar laced with sinuous vocals and haunting lyrics came through his discarded earbuds and sank into my consciousness, and I was already there.

I was in the ravine of this man.

I told myself I couldn’t do this, except it was the only thing I wanted to do.

A gentle hand slid around the back of my neck. “Look at me.”

I couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. I needed to breathe, same as how I breathed before a performance. I needed to play through this. I needed to hear it and see it and feel it. But even as I thought it, I knew I couldn’t play this man like I played Bartók or any other piece.

I couldn’t even breathe through this.

Will Damien wasn’t a four-movement symphony. He was a Shakespearean tempest of freedom and confinement, and I wasn’t pulling away.

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