I wake up to the sound of the lock clicking. I open my eyes and watch the door swing back, throwing light across from the room.
Jude’s enormous frame is silhouetted in the doorway before the door closes, blocking out the light once more. I hear him kick off his boots and the rustle of clothing as he undresses. Then I feel his weight dip the mattress. I go rigid as I feel the heat of his body near mine. I can smell the scent of whiskey and cigarettes that is all Jude. I shouldn’t like it, but, weirdly, I do. He barely seems to notice my presence as he rolls over. His breathing evens out and within a few minutes, he’s out cold. I lay there, every muscle in my body tense as I stare at the ceiling.
I move my hand underneath my pillow, my fingers curling around the plastic handle of the razor. I eye the door. I didn’t hear him lock it. This should be easy. Just slit his throat and run. Fuck! If only. Can I really kill a guy in cold blood? He’d do the same to me given half the chance, but what if I get caught? What if I don’t kill him and just hurt him? My chest starts to tighten, and my pulse hammers in my veins as adrenaline floods my system. If he catches me, he will kill me. Honestly, I would rather die fighting than just take this like some pathetic victim. I need to do this.
I pull the razor from under the pillow and slowly sit up, trying to make as little noise as possible. The bed creaks slightly as I move. I stare at Jude led on his back, one arm thrown over his head. I can just make him out in the darkness. His chest is bare, the broad muscles rising and falling steadily. My eyes trace the lines of ink that wind across his chest and down his arm. He’s power personified, and although he terrifies me, I’d be lying if I said that there isn’t a part of me that is in awe of that power. He exudes it with every breath, every small action; he lives and breathes it.
I take a deep breath and steel myself, moving onto my knees over him. If I’m going to succeed in doing this, then I’m going to need to use what little body weight I have.
My hand shakes as I move the razor blade toward him. I eye the line of his throat, imagining what it will look like when I slit his jugular. I have the blade millimetres from his skin, when I hesitate. Fucking do it! My mind is screaming at me to man the fuck up and save myself. That’s all it takes, that second of hesitation. I’m staring at the blade, willing my hand to move, when I feel his fingers slowly wrap around my wrist. I want to cry. I’m not even strong enough to kill the guy who might kill me. I don’t even move or try to fight him. He’s going to kill me, and it’s my own fault because I fucking hesitated to kill a murderer, a criminal, a heartless bastard.
He pulls the razor closer to his throat. “What are you waiting for, Tor? Do it.” My eyes meet his, glinting in the dark. “Do it,” he repeats more aggressively, pressing the blade into his skin.
“I…” I can’t, I can’t do it. What is wrong with me?
He suddenly moves, grabbing my hips and flipping me onto my back. His enormous body hovers over mine, pressing me into the mattress. “You want to kill me?” he whispers, his face is so close I can feel his breath on my lips, the scent of whiskey and cigarettes overwhelming me. “Well, here’s your chance, Tor. Slit my fucking throat.” I still have the razor to his throat. I can do this. His eyes lock with mine, holding my stare, daring me. There’s a deafening silence as we both wait and see whether I will do this, kill a man.
His hand slowly wraps around my wrist again, and he forces my hand above my head, pinning it to the pillow. His face drops to my neck, and he inhales along my throat.
“You can’t do it because you’re not like me,” he whispers. My body temperature skyrockets as his lips barely skim my neck. “You save lives, I take them.” I don’t want to be affected by him. I hate him, I want to kill him, but the way his body is pressed against mine, the way he touches me as if he owns me, it has my heart trying to escape my chest, and my lungs struggling for breath. I hate myself more than I thought possible in this moment.
“Are you going to kill me?” I manage to gasp.
He moves his face from my neck as his fingers release my wrist and wind into my hair, pulling it almost to the point of pain. “I haven’t decided yet,” he murmurs, so close to my lips that I feel his brush against mine. My breathing accelerates, and he huffs a laugh. “Scared?”
“Should I be?” I breathe, my voice shaking. Yes, I should be, and I am, but not as much as I need to be with a murderous psychopath pressed between my thighs and a razor blade inches from my head.
He tightens his fingers in my hair, wrenching my head to the side. His lips move to my ear, making me tremble beneath him. “Definitely,” he growls.
Oh, God. I can’t breathe, I can’t talk. All I can feel is him. I don’t want to feel him, and my mind is screaming a thousand questions at me; namely, what the fuck are you doing? My body, though, my body is a traitorous slut evidently.
His teeth gently nip at my earlobe, and I lose my shit. I drop the razor blade and my hand flies to his hair, pulling at the short strands. I don’t know whether I’m trying to pull him away from me, or bring him closer. He laughs and his hot breath blows across my neck.
“Not so innocent now, are we?” he mumbles as he rolls his hips against me, teasingly.
His hand moves from my hair to my jaw, gripping it roughly. His lips are so close, and every hormone in my body is screaming at him to kiss me. I’m a mess. Just when I think he’s going to, when I can feel the brush of his lips over mine, he pulls away and rolls away from me, climbing out of the bed.
I hear the rustle of clothing, before he opens the door. “You fuck with me, I’ll fuck with you,” he says, and slams the door shut behind him.
Fucking prick. All I can hear is my pulse hammering in my ears as I attempt to come to terms with what just happened. What the hell is wrong with me? If he had kissed me then, I would have let him; hell, I might as well have just stripped fucking naked for him and laid out a welcome mat. I feel like I need to jump in a bucket of bleach just to wash the whoreishness off me. There are times in life when you have to seriously question your own sanity, and this is one of them.