Текст книги "Depraved devotion"

Автор книги: Morgan Bridges

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 32

GENEVA

My eyes fly open when Ghost snatches my wrist and moves my hand to rest on his cock. Damn. Even through his pants, I can tell he’s huge. Thick and hard, straining against the fabric. Pulsing against my palm.

“Can you feel what you do to me?” he asks, his voice a harsh whisper. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“You’re already insane,” I whisper.

His confession sends a thrill through me. I grip his cock, stroking it through his pants. He groans, his fingers digging painfully into my hip.

He laughs, the sound low and wicked. “True. But you make me worse.”

“I doubt it.”

“Trust me, Doc.” He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “You don’t want to know what I’m capable of. What ‘crazy’ really looks like.”

The words should terrify me. Instead, they send a bolt of heat through me. I’m playing with fire, but maybe that’s what I need.

I tighten my grip, stroking him harder. He groans, his hips rocking against my palm as he buries his face in my neck.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice strained.

I can feel him spiraling, giving me control over him. Good.

“Are you going to come for me, Ghost?” I whisper.

He jerks up his head to pin me with his dark gaze. “Only when I fuck you.”

Ghost grabs my hips and spins me around so quickly I stagger before landing against the glass. The second I push away from the wall, he throws his bound hands over my head, the cold chain links of his cuffs now resting just under my chin.

Then his hand is at the back of my head, pushing my cheek against the window. His hold is unyielding, a pressure that I can’t escape. And I don’t want to.

Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he slowly releases me to reach down and grip my pussy. In the reflection of the glass, I can see everything. The heat and desire in his eyes. The way his lips are parted, his breathing ragged.

He’s dangerously beautiful.

“Put your hands on the glass,” he commands.

I comply without hesitation, pressing my palms flat against the smooth, cool surface. The position exposes me, opens me up in a way that’s as frightening as it is exhilarating.

“Keep them there,” he says.

Ghost slides his fingers up and down the seam of my leggings, the fabric dampening more with each pass. “I’m going to make you come. Right here. Right now.”

I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. All I can do is feel.

So, this is what it’s like.

The thought whirls through my mind in tandem with Ghost’s caress as he circles my clit with his thumb. In this illicit, forbidden moment, I am acutely, painfully alive. I’m connected to a visceral truth that I’ve spent a lifetime denying: to feel is the very essence of what it means to be human.

He slips fingers under the waistband of my leggings, dipping into my slit. A moan escapes my lips, and he responds with a dark chuckle.

“So fucking wet,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers up and down.

I can’t help but arch against him, desperate for more. He teases me, his touch never providing enough pressure against my aching clit. Frustration and pleasure combine, growing with each second.

“Ghost,” I whine, hating the neediness in my voice.

He responds by pressing the tip of his finger against my entrance. I gasp as he slowly pushes inside me, the pressure and friction exquisite.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans. “You’ve never been fucked properly.”

He works his finger in and out, each stroke bringing me closer to the edge. Then he adds another digit. And another. Now I’m a quivering mess, unable to form words. Unable to do anything but surrender to the pleasure.

The glass is slick with sweat now, my hands sliding along the surface as he finger fucks me. The friction against my clit is maddening, the pressure building with each thrust of his hand.

I’m so close.

With a groan, I press my ass against him while grinding down on his hand. The movement breaks his rhythm, and he responds with a growl, the sound primal and animalistic.

“Fuck, you’re greedy,” he grits out between clenched teeth.

I can feel him straining against his pants, his cock pressing against my ass. The thought of him coming inside me, filling me up, pushes me toward release.

My orgasm hits me so hard my lips part on a silent scream. He keeps fingering me, prolonging the pleasure.

“That’s it, Geneva. Come for me. Drench my hand.”

His voice is rough, the words barely audible. But I hear them. They’re a command, laced with praise. And male satisfaction. It only makes me come harder.

I bite my lip to stifle the cries that threaten to escape until the sensation lessens to a bearable level. My eyes are closed, my breath coming out in harsh gasps. And I can feel him staring, his fingers twitching inside me.

And when I finally open my eyes, his gaze is bright with lust, the need clear on his face.

He removes his fingers from inside me and brings them to his mouth, licking the wetness from them. The action is both erotic and vulgar, but I can’t look away, captivated by the sight.

“Open,” he says.

I hesitate, unsure if this is a step too far. But the urge to obey him is too strong. Slowly, I bring them to my mouth, the saltiness and tang of my pussy sliding along my tongue.

“That’s it, Geneva.” His voice is rough. “Taste yourself. Taste how much you want me.”

I can’t deny it. I can’t deny anything right now.

I swirl my tongue around his fingers. My reflection stares back at me, watching my cheeks hollow as I suck, my lips wrapping around his fingers, greedy and eager. My eyes are shining with gratification, my breath coming in quick gasps as I struggle to recover. Heat continues to burn on my skin, the remnants of our unexpected intimacy lingering. Smoldering.

I fell apart under Ghost’s skillful touch. Now, I’m nothing more than a visual testament to the unraveling of my composed and controlled exterior. It’s terrifying and yet, I’m fascinated by my complete surrender.

Eventually, I flick my gaze to Ghost. Only to find him already looking at me. The hunger in his eyes is expected. The tenderness isn’t.

His expression softens further before he removes his fingers from my mouth to lean down and press his lips to the side of my neck. Closing his eyes, he prolongs the kiss as though enjoying the taste and feel of me.

His actions are incongruous with the man I’ve come to know in the confines of these walls. Ghost is someone who’s defined by his cunning and control. And this display of affection, gentle and tender, disrupts my understanding of him.

Is this an act designed to manipulate me further? Or is it a genuine glimpse into a part of him that he rarely reveals? A part that maybe he himself struggles to understand and control?

As Ghost pulls back, the cool air of the room brushes against my neck where his lips just were, leaving me bewildered. My physical reaction to the sweet gesture is nothing compared to the emotions stirring inside me. Something I’m not able to handle right now. Or ever.

“Why me?” I whisper. Or maybe I make no sound at all? Because I’m scared to hear the answer. Scared to break our connection. The very thing I’ve been denying since I first felt it.

Ghost tilts his head, considering my question. “Because I wanted you,” he answers simply, as if such a thing should make sense. As if his personal desires haven’t shaken me to the core.

“But why?” Despite my fear, I need to understand, to find a reason that agrees with the logic I’ve always protected myself with.

Ghost reaches up, trailing his fingers along my jaw and down my neck. The handcuffs clink with his movement, a reminder of his status as a prisoner. Something that failed to keep us apart.

“Because, Geneva, even chaos has its moments of clarity, and in you, I found mine.”

The sincerity in his voice is my undoing.

I hug my middle, attempting to fortify myself as I look away. Every touch from him should be a lie, should be something manipulative and dangerous. Yet here I stand in his arms, soaking it in like the first rays of sunshine.

“Look at me,” he says softly, his voice threaded with a quiet intensity that pulls at something deep inside me.

Slowly, I lift my eyes to meet his, and the force of his gaze nearly undoes me. It’s raw, unguarded, and full of something I don’t have the words for.

“You scare me,” he says. “You’re the only person that does.”

I blink over and over. Of all the things he could’ve said, this is the most unexpected. “I scare you?”

His lips twist into a bitter smile. “Don’t look so surprised, Doc.” He pauses, his hands twitching against my skin, the only sign of the tension beneath his calm exterior. “You’ve managed to do what no one else ever has.”

I shake my head, struggling to process his words. “People like you don’t—”

“People like me, huh?” He interrupts, his tone sharp, but there’s no anger in it, only frustration. “Listen, I’m not afraid of what I am or what I’m capable of. But for the first time, I’m afraid of what I’ll become… without you.”

This doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t make sense. My chest tightens, my breath coming in shallow gasps as my mind races to find an explanation. But there isn’t one. Not a logical one, anyway.

I open my mouth to respond, to say something that will force him to explain further, but before I can, a shout echoes from the hallway.

“Dr. Andrews!”

The voice is loud and urgent, scattering my thoughts. I rear back, my heart leaping into my throat as the spell between us shatters. Footsteps thunder down the corridor, growing louder with each passing second.

“Looks like the cavalry’s here,” Ghost says, his tone casual, but his eyes remain locked on mine, searching, probing.

Begging for understanding.

CHAPTER 33

GENEVA

The warning gives us a few precious seconds.

We hastily separate to revert back into our respective roles as prisoner and psychologist. No longer lovers and liabilities.

Ghost adjusts his features into the familiar mask of indifference as I straighten my clothes. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, an attempt to restore some semblance of the order that his touch disrupted. My professional mask feels heavier now, more difficult to wear after what has just transpired.

His transformation is almost seamless, a chilling reminder of his ability to switch personas at will. As he straightens his jumpsuit, the dangerous allure that had momentarily softened his demeanor vanishes, replaced by a cold detachment.

The guard steps inside with his weapon drawn, his eyes sweeping the room, calculating the threat level. The man’s posture stiffens when it lands on Ghost, and he tightens his grip on the firearm, a clear signal of his readiness to act. The tension in the room spikes, the air thick with the electricity of potential violence.

“Dr. Andrews, step away from the inmate,” he commands, his voice firm and authoritative. I immediately comply, my heart pounding as I move toward the corner of the room farthest from Ghost.

The inmate remains eerily calm, his hands visible as he holds them out in front. His eyes, however, glint with something undefinable. Amusement, perhaps, or anticipation? It’s unsettling how composed Ghost is. Very different to my racing thoughts and pounding heart.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” the guard asks, his gaze never leaving Ghost. He moves, positioning himself so he has a clear view of both of us, his body angled to provide both defense and offense should it become necessary.

I take note of his name tag. “Yes, I’m fine, Officer Barlow.” I speak clearly and concisely, using his name to deescalate the situation. Not only for me, but for Ghost.

Barlow nods but doesn’t lower his weapon. “A riot broke out in the east wing, so we locked down the facility. I need to escort you out immediately, Dr. Andrews.”

“Okay.”

The guard’s eyes land on Lobo’s lifeless body on the floor, his expression tightening as he processes the scene. His weapon shifts, leveling more squarely at Ghost, whose cuffed hands are still raised.

“What happened here?” Barlow demands, his voice edged with suspicion.

Ghost shrugs. “He fell, Officer.”

“Cut the shit, Ghost. What really happened?”

“Well, I saved the good doctor here from becoming a case study in blunt-force trauma.” He turns to wink at me. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Excuse me?” The guard’s gaze snaps to me, his brows furrowing. “Ma’am, is that true?”

I swallow hard, forcing myself to stand straighter even as my knees feel like they might give out. “The inmate named Lobo attacked me. He came at me with a knife and Ghost… intervened.”

Barlow’s eyes narrow, darting between us. “Intervened how?”

“Oh, you know,” Ghost says, his tone breezy. “A little impromptu lesson in self-defense for the doctor’s benefit. Oxygen deprivation is a solid tactic.”

The guard’s jaw tightens. “Are you telling me you strangled him?”

Ghost shrugs, the movement casual despite the cuffs. “‘Strangled’ is such a harsh word. Let’s go with ‘neutralized the threat.’ Sounds more professional, doesn’t it?”

“Jesus Christ,” the guard mutters. “Do you corroborate his story?”

I quickly nod, hoping to strengthen Ghost’s narrative. “The inmate was going to kill me, and Ghost saved my life.”

Barlow glances at Lobo’s prone form again, then back to Ghost, who’s now watching the interaction with the air of someone thoroughly enjoying the drama.

“That’s what happened,” Ghost says. “Scout’s honor, Officer.”

The guard shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re no Boy Scout. After you killed that guy, you didn’t lay a hand on Dr. Andrews,” the guard says, incredulous. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

Ghost nods, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What can I say? Chivalry isn’t dead. Lobo, on the other hand…”

Barlow mutters a curse before bringing his radio to his mouth. “I need backup in Interview Room C. Possible homicide. Inmate contained. The civilian is safe.”

My stomach churns, but I force myself to stand still, my arms folded tightly across my chest. I can feel Ghost’s gaze on me, sharp and unrelenting, but I don’t dare meet it. Not now. Not with the guard watching me like a hawk, his disbelief and suspicion palpable. Not when I disregarded the panic button.

Does that mean I wanted Ghost to come to me?

I refuse to answer that.

“Backup’s on the way.” Barlow lowers his radio but keeps his weapon aimed at Ghost. The energy in the room feels like a live wire, sparking with unspoken threats.

Ghost leans against the wall, his cuffed hands resting casually on his stomach. His grin hasn’t faded, but his eyes gleam with something I can’t place. “Relax, Officer. I did you a favor. Lobo wasn’t exactly a model inmate.”

Barlow scoffs, but doesn’t respond, and the room falls silent again. I shift uncomfortably, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor, the walls, my hands… anywhere but Ghost. If I look at him now, even for a second, the truth of what happened between us will be written all over my face.

Ghost has touched my skin and gotten underneath it, becoming a part of me that I can’t get rid of.

The sound of heavy boots echoes down the hall right before two more officers enter, their weapons drawn. They take in the scene quickly: Lobo’s lifeless body on the floor, Ghost’s nonchalance, and me standing stiffly against the wall.

“What’s the situation?” one of the new arrivals asks, his eyes scanning the room.

Barlow jerks his head toward Ghost. “This inmate killed another inmate. Claims it was self-defense. Dr. Andrews confirms he saved her.”

The second officer frowns, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before turning to Ghost. “You have anything to say for yourself?”

“Just that I’m an exemplary citizen,” Ghost drawls, his grin widening. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

The officer snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Cuff him to the table,” he orders. “We’ll sort this out.”

As the guards move toward Ghost, the tension in the room shifts again. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t flinch as they secure him to the table, but the air crackles with unspoken words. He’s letting them handle him now because it suits him.

“Let’s go, Dr. Andrews,” Barlow says, urgency lacing his tone. He steps closer, the weapon still in his hand but his body language shifting to guide rather than threaten.

I move quickly toward the door, acutely aware of Ghost’s gaze on my back. It’s so strong it’s like a physical touch and my skin prickles with the memory of his hands on me.

When I reach the doorway, I can’t help myself. I turn and look at him over my shoulder. Ghost is watching me, but there’s no sign of his typical mocking smile. This time his face holds something else.

Longing. No, pain. Acute, excruciating pain.

It guts me where I stand. I’ve never witnessed vulnerability in Ghost. Not even when he kissed me.

“Dr. Andrews,” the guard says, his voice harsh this time. “We need to go.”

I nod, though my feet are rooted to the spot, my chest tight as Ghost’s gaze holds me captive. He doesn’t speak, but the raw desperation in his eyes says a lot. And it’s overwhelming.

Why is he looking at me like that? Like I’m a breath of air and he’s drowning? Like he’ll die without me?

And then it hits me, all at once, with a force so sharp it stills my heart. Ghost cares about me. That’s what this is, what his eyes are saying, what that raw, unguarded emotion is screaming.

This isn’t possible.

Men like Ghost don’t feel things like this. They’re wired differently, incapable of true connection or genuine emotion. Psychopathy doesn’t allow for it. I’ve spent years studying it, dissecting it, cataloging every trait and symptom.

He shouldn’t be capable of this.

And yet, Ghost is looking at me as if I’m the only thing holding his world together. No, like I am his world.

My mind scrambles to make sense of it, to reconcile the impossible contradiction. He shouldn’t care about me. He can’t. But the emotion in his eyes is too real to ignore.

“Dr. Andrews,” the guard says again, his tone firm, almost impatient. “We need to go.”

Barlow steps closer, his presence breaking the fragile connection between me and Ghost. The man clamps his hand around my arm. “Now.”

On instinct, I glance at Ghost.

His entire body stiffens, his hands raised but not in surrender. His jaw clenches, his shoulders coil like a predator about to strike, and his eyes—the raw, unguarded pain from moments ago—darkens with something else entirely.

Rage. Protective, territorial rage.

I see it in every part of him. His taut muscles. His hands twitching against the cuffs. But in this moment, it’s not the metal that binds him.

It’s me.

Ghost is mentally calculating, judging how to close the distance between him and the guard, and how to neutralize the perceived threat to me. My body stiffens when I realize what’s about to happen.

“Ghost, don’t,” I say sharply.

His eyes snap to mine, but the fury doesn’t subside. His gaze flickers to the guard’s hand on my arm, his intent clear: Remove it, or I will.

Barlow doesn’t notice. “Let’s go,” he says again, tugging me toward the door.

I yank my arm free. “Don’t manhandle me.”

The guard frowns, his eyes darting between me and Ghost. My pulse is erratic, my skin clammy, but I manage to summon enough authority in my tone to encourage him to back off.

“I can manage without your assistance.”

Reluctantly, Barlow steps back, his hand falling to his side. I don’t miss the way Ghost’s body relaxes ever so slightly, though his eyes remain fixed on me, watching my every move with an intensity that leaves me breathless.

One of the guards mutters something about procedure, but I don’t hear it. My focus is locked on Ghost. His breathing is uneven, his jaw tight, but his rage is fading, replaced by something quieter and more measured. He’s still watching me, his eyes bright and assessing, as if making sure I’m okay.

Ghost would have risked his life to stop a man from touching me. And I just saved him, in the most subtle way I could, by taking control before the situation spiraled out of hand and he got hurt.

Or killed.

“I’m ready,” I murmur, though my words are hollow.

Before I leave, I glance back one last time. Ghost is still watching me, his expression unreadable now, but his eyes—God, his eyes—are alive with something I can’t name, something that tangles with the confusion and yearning swirling inside me.

“Go,” Ghost says quietly, his voice low and rough. It’s not an order. It’s permission. A way of telling me that he’s all right, even if neither of us really believes it.

The door closes, and the sterile brightness of the hallway momentarily blinds me. Barlow stands beside me, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside my heart. My hands are trembling, but I keep walking, forcing my feet forward even as my mind races back to the man I just left.

Ghost cares about me. He saved my life. And I just saved his.

Does that mean I care about him too?

Neither should be possible. Or permissible.

The guard ushers me out, guiding me through the maze of hallways toward the relative safety of the administration area. Sirens wail in the distance, a discordant symphony that heightens the surreal feeling enveloping me. I mentally piece together the fragments of the last hour, trying to make sense of what happened, and what it meant. Not just to me, but what it meant to the man who saved me.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Dr. Andrews?” Barlow asks after a long moment, his voice quieter now. “That inmate didn’t hurt you, right?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, too quickly. “I just—never mind. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced but gives me a nod. “That guy’s dangerous. Don’t let him fool you into thinking otherwise.”

Dangerous.

The guard says it like it’s a warning, like it’s a threat I need to protect myself from. As the word echoes in my mind, all I can do is laugh internally. Ghost isn’t dangerous in the way the guard means.

He won’t use his words to hurt me; he’ll use them to entice me.

He won’t use his power to oppress me; he’ll use it to embolden me.

He won’t use his hands to harm me; he’ll use those very hands to pleasure me.

The memory of his touch, his lips, and the way he made me feel… it’s been seared into every part of me, impossible to ignore. That’s the danger. Not because of what he’s done or what he’s capable of, but the way he’s turned me into a woman who risked everything.

Just for one taste of the chaos he offers.