It’s a black Queen Anne mahogany four poster with thick posts that alternate between flat edges, turned designs, and dramatic swirls that end at a point. The headboard is decorated with ornate carvings that line the railing, making the entire thing look like it belongs in a gothic manor rather than a 21-year-old college student’s bedroom.
Does Colson get dressed for Halloween-themed frat parties in this room? Does he stumble in drunk after a long day of tailgating? He can’t possibly bring girls back here, otherwise everyone would know that he lives in a riverside mansion.
Or maybe they do and I’m just that clueless…
“You know,” I glance up at Colson, “I never would’ve pegged you for a goth kid.”
“Well,” he leans down to kiss me, “we all have secrets, don’t we?”
In response, I grab the hem of his black t-shirt, dragging it up to his chest until he pulls it the rest of the way over his head and drops it behind him.
“Last chance to leave,” he strokes the side of my face, “before I tear your heart out and make it mine.”
“If you can find it,” I tease, trailing my fingertip down the middle of his chest to his stomach.
“You’ll show me where it is,” Colson nods, “you just won’t give it up that easy…”
I hesitate for a moment, then give a curt shake of my head.
Slowly, he leans down and gently taps his forehead against mine, “You want me to search for it, don’t you?”
My eyes fall to the floor, “Yes,” I admit as rush of heat ripples through my stomach.
Colson steps away from me, backtracking across the cream rug, the only shred of bright color in the entire room. He sits down on the edge of the bed and beckons to me with a curl of his finger.
As soon as I come to a stop between his knees, he reaches for the hem of my t-shirt and gently pulls it over my head in one fluid motion, “You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve,” he smirks, dropping it at my feet.
His eyes fall to my hips and he hooks his thumbs in the waist of my leggings, sliding them down over my ass and then my legs. I set my hand on his shoulder to keep my balance and watch with intrigue as he gently lifts my ankle, pulls one leg free, and then does the other.
But instead of straightening up, he runs his hand up my calf and behind my knee, staring at my leg with intense concentration. Trailing his thumb over each curve of muscle and bone, he studies each faded scar and tiny imperfection that’s otherwise invisible to the naked eye.
“What are you looking at?” I murmur.
Colson doesn’t look up, “You need to get used to me looking at you,” he answers while his eyes continue moving over every inch of my skin.
His touch is excruciating, sending tremors through every nerve ending as he steadily moves up my legs to my hips and then my stomach. Finally, he reaches behind my back and unclasps my bra, letting the straps fall from my arms. Goosebumps scatter down my chest when the cool air hits my nipples, turning them hard.
At that moment, I don’t care if Colson’s fucked every single one of the Deltas—twice—because right now, I’m the one he’s undressing in his swanky gothic lair.
He grasps my waist and jerks me toward him, pressing his face into my stomach. With eyes closed, he inhales deeply, running his nose and mouth up my skin to my chest. The way he does it seems almost…animalistic.
He sweeps his head back and forth between my breasts, taking in my scent, “You smell just like I thought you would,” he groans, pulling my leg up to his hip so I’m straddling his lap, “would you be mad if I tore your heart out for real—if I ruined your perfect tits and dyed your hair with arterial spray?” He guides one breast to his mouth and tongues the rosy shadow before closing his mouth around my nipple, sucking hard, “Am I getting closer? Have I found it yet?”
I wince as I lean into him, raking my fingers through his hair. The more he talks, the more sinister he sounds, and the tighter I want to hold on to him. But I still like fighting him…
“What if I say you can’t have it?” I want him to keep chasing me. “What if I give it to someone else?”
Colson stills except for the steady rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath. Slowly, he lifts his head and stares right at me with vacant eyes. They go dark and for a brief moment and his mouth twitches into a snarl before relaxing again. I don’t even feel his hand reach up my back before he clenches my hair at the base of my skull and snaps it back with a gasp. I grab his shoulders in a panic, my scalp on fire as I suck air through my teeth.
“Who has your heart, Brett?” Colson murmurs against my throat, sending a chill up my spine. When he pulls back, I hear a thwack and immediately cry out, a sharp pain radiating through my breast. “Who else would you give it to?” he asks through clenched teeth.
My mind is chaotic and empty at the same time, “No one…” I grind out through clenched teeth, my chest heaving with desire.
“Tell me who else I need to fuck up to take back what’s mine.”
Who else?
I feel his hand at the small of my back as he reaches for the strips of black lace. His arms go rigid and I hear a faint snap. Then another. He’s ripped my underwear apart. The fabric falls away as he pulls it through my legs, leaving me completely naked.
Still gripping my head, he balls up my thong in his fist and tucks it into the side pocket of his pants, “I think I found it,” he whispers with arrogance. “You don’t want anyone else, little liar,” he says while trailing kisses along my collarbone, “but I want you—” his teeth clip my shoulder, “to crawl to me—” then he tips my head to meet his eyes, “like a little slut.”
His last words send a tremor deep through my stomach all the way down to my knees. My muscles go rigid and I can feel the liquid heat at the top of my thighs as he pushes me off his lap. He starts scooting back across the black bedspread until his back hits the headboard, then he curls his index finger, beckoning to me. I do what he says, crawling over the edge of the bed and slinking toward him until I’m kneeling on all fours between his bent knees.
Colson tilts his head with a wicked smile, “Take your hair down,” he commands.
I reach behind my head and slowly pull my hair tie from my knotted bun. His smile fades with each curl that falls over my shoulder and I recognize the same far-off look in his eyes that he had at the library, except now his gaze feels like hot embers on my skin.
The corner of my mouth curls and I tip my chin up, “What’s the matter, Colson?” I taunt him.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, eyeing me intently, and then reaches up and brushes his index finger back and forth under my chin, “Waiting for you to take off my belt,” he glances down at his waist.
I run my hand over his thigh and up the front of his pants, moving at an agonizing pace over the stiff outline of his cock. When I hear a faint groan escape his throat, I pop the clasp on his belt for the second time and pull it through the loops with a zip. He holds out his hand to take it from me, and that’s when something on his hip draws my attention.
Peeking out from the waist of his pants are an array of scars. They’re all straight, horizontal slashes in varying stages of healing. Some are longer than others, from a couple of inches to a few that are so long that they curve around his side. Newer ones are pink and get progressively lighter, while older ones have long coalesced into one another like shiny white feathers embedded in his skin.
Gently, I pull the waist of his pants down to expose more of them, “What happened to you?” I murmur, brushing my fingertips over his chaotic marks.
Colson watches me inspect his hip as he feeds the end of his belt back through the clasp, “Unsustainable coping strategies,” he states with nonchalance.
