Asylum

Chapter 15: Torture

Late Monday morning

I opened my eyes. Finally.

Though I had been waking up in Ivan's bed every morning for the last nine days – my mind boggled at the realization that it had somehow only been nine days – I had never awakened before him, but a heavy-lidded glance in his direction confirmed that this morning, he was still asleep.

As I lifted my head a few cautious inches, a smile of pure delight stole slowly across my face. He was so beautiful. Though the sun had been fully risen for hours, it cast only a weak, gray light through the late February sky. Ivan was an artful daub of gold and bronze against the faintly glowing white of the sparse bedroom.

He was lying on his side, facing me, one arm thrust beneath our pillows – I had felt the slight but solid lump under my cheek through the lofty down when I woke – the other was resting across the small of my back. His tousled hair caressed the crisp cotton of the pillow case, and the dark fans of his eyelashes lay motionless on his tanned cheeks. Sleep had softened the twin lines of concentration between his brows to mere suggestions, gentle furrows leading to the long, straight prow of his nose. His lips, which I knew from experience to be even softer than they looked, were parted slightly, completely relaxed.

My eyes glided appreciatively over the curves and planes of his muscled arm and torso. He had pushed the covers down during the night, exposing his chest and abdomen. Ivan was always warm, I'd learned. No matter how cold it was outside, the collars of his coat and shirt were always open, as if he had a crazy surfeit of energy that had to be released. And though he often wore gloves when he went out, his hands were never cold. Perhaps he wore them to ensure he left no fingerprints, I thought, then reminded myself that I should find that possible explanation more alarming.

I felt my smile split into a ridiculous grin. I knew I was taking an inordinate amount of glee in watching a man sleep, but I couldn't help myself. I had never met anyone like Ivan, anyone who made me feel the way he did, and I wanted to savor every moment with him, especially since I feared this messed-up heaven couldn't possibly last.

Perhaps he felt the pressure of my gaze, or the tension of my body through the mattress or under his hand, or maybe he had simply slept long enough, but his tempest-blue eyes drifted open and met mine.

"What are you smiling at?" he asked.

"Sorry, was I smiling?" I ask unapologetically, and tried unsuccessfully to force my features into a more sober arrangement. "Maybe it's a little creepy ... me watching you sleep. I promise I've only been doing it for a minute or two."

He smiled lazily, readjusting his head on the pillow. "It's only fair, I guess, since I've watched you sleeping every other morning you've been here."

My mouth flew open in mock outrage. "I think I'm going to have to make you pay for that," I threatened with an entirely inadequate amount of menace. Rearing up from the bed, I threw back the rest of the covers and stretched a long leg over to straddle his hips. His lazy morning erection stiffened into a hot, hard rod against my mound.

"Hmm, I'm intrigued," he murmured, running his hands up my lean flanks and gently kneading my breasts. "Just what form is this punishment going to take?"

I caught his wrists in my strong, slim fingers and pressed his arms down to the bed, shoving them under the pillow beneath his head. I was face to face with him now, my weight pinning his arms to the mattress, my lips hovering a fraction of an inch over his.

"No hands," I told him, and tenderly bit his lower lip before pulling away.

Ivan groaned. "That's not punishment," he complained. "It's torture. There's a difference."