13
Dasia
“Sick like illness?” he asked, his brow denting the slightest bit.
“No,” I rushed to explain, trying to keep the tears from welling too much. “It’s just … I’m broken, Devil.”
“Adrian—call me Adrian.”
His firm insistence dried my eyes up, and I relaxed against his hard body, soaking in his warmth and the sweet scent of licorice, not caring a blanket, long t-shirt, and panties were the only thing separating my body from his touch. “Okay—Adrian.”
“Tell me why you think you’re broken.”
I tried to study his face in the darkness, but lost the emotion in his eyes to the darkness surrounding us. “I like the idea of you tying me up. Restraining me, making me beg—and I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t want that so damn bad that my body burns, that I ache inside so much I can’t breathe.”
With
