Clinton Priest

Chapter Twenty

Clinton turns to me in frustration. "Whatever is going on in your mind," he says, "stop it. This is not the time for games."

"I'm not playing games," I tell him. "I'm simply feeling adventurous."

He stares at me like he's never seen me before. There's this light in his eyes that has never been present when he's with me.
"You remind me of someone I used to know," he says wistfully.

"What are we running from?" I ask.

"Who says we're running?"

"What are you keeping me from?" I ask him again and he chuckles darkly.

"If you're curious enough, then I'll show you your answer."

He takes my face in his and leans close. I'm suddenly reminded of last night when he'd leaned in close, on the verge of kissing me, and then he'd pulled back. Only this time, there's no disappointment. Lie. There is always a lingering sense of disappointment when it comes to Clinton.

His cold lips press gently against the corner of my lips. I'm fast becoming addicted to him; to everything he is. From the dark strands on his head to the sole of his hand crafted Italian shoes. Even the scent of him lingers long after he leaves me.

He's breathing deeply and slowly as though he's imitating the art of breathing. My breath on the other hand, has ceased and my eyes are shut tight. He is the second man to touch me like this. It's official. I'm one leg out of the convent.

He stays close for a while and then
I feel his attention shift from me to something else. I open my eyes and notice he's looking over my shoulder. There's someone behind me breathing heavily. I stiffen at the feel of his cold breath against my neck. I want to turn and look at him but Clinton's grip on my neck prevents me from even sneaking a peek.

The phantom behind me caresses the curve of my neck with the nail of his finger. There is a message in the calm way he touches me. A warning.

"He's mine," the man says, pushing his nail deep into my skin until it breaks  and I start to bleed. My heart beats rapidly and I tighten my grip on Clinton's shirt. I'm frightened. I'm exhilarated. I'm aroused; wet between my thighs. I have a new fetish for danger. And I've just had an overdose of it.

Clinton grabs the offending arm and twists it with unnatural strength and precision. I hear a snap and a surprised grunt of pain before the phantom disappears once more.

"Are you satisfied now?" Clinton asks me after a few moments of tensed silence.

Satisfied? No. Curious, frightened? Yes.

I step away from him on shaking knees and nearly fall to the ground. My mind is racing and the world is going around in circles before my eyes. Whatever just happened feels like a dream. Only the trickle of blood on the side of my neck tells me it isn't.

I look up at the man before me. He is staring at me, taking in my every gasp for breath.

"I can't breathe," I gasp out. I've never been asthmatic or prone to hyperventilation yet here I am on the verge of passing out because I can't seem to take in deep breaths.

He kneels in the grass next to my shaking body and draws me into an embrace. He's cold as ice yet I've never been warmer. There is a precision, a calmness with which he holds me that makes me think he's done this before. I wonder how many women he's held close to his firm body.

"Sleep," he whispers into my ear and immediately, my eyes close and the world fades away.