Sinful Addiction

XIX

ELENA CASSANO

        Something lodged right in between my ribs that felt like a ticking bomb. His hands gripped me in the darkness before I could even move. His hands careless, and rough as they slid over me. Vodka-coated breath hushed into my ear. A pained look shadowed his face. The very night impaled itself on my soul. Something warm and soft in me was killed, and it began to rot.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. I jumped slightly in my seat. The lit candle flickered on the coffee table. Once. Twice. My heart raced. I hated the fact that I felt weak and fucking lethargic whenever there were thunderstorms. And coupled with the darkness, I could feel something jack-knife twisting in my chest.

Now I realized the reason why I always found it difficult to sleep through thunderstorms. It always reminded me of that night.

Jesus, I'd wanted a drink of water, and I got a fucking panic attack waiting to happen.

The sound of footsteps across the stairs spooked me. The combination of lightning and thunder sent a frenzy through my blood. A sharp breath passed my lips. My heart jumped and then clenched at the mere sound of his voice. The voice haunting me both day and night for years. My eyes fluttered on their own accord, pulling me into the memories of everything attached to that eerily, vehement voice.

God, I hate that voice.

Footsteps slowly creaked on every step of the tiles. Death lurked in every doorway with hell at one dark window. Huge. Dark. His face so cold, emotionless mask. His hard, muscled, sin of a body covered by a white T-shirt, and grey sweatpants.

        He walked around the kitchen with a phone pressed to his ear. The sound of Russian words falling effortlessly from his lips.

I didn't think he noticed me until a shrill cry of thunder echoed in the wind. I shuddered, my heart raced. I squealed quietly, my foot jerking against the fridge.

He went still immediately. Icy eyes immediately zeroed in on me. His expression was intense, and it made my heart clench.

Turning my head, I mustered up every tiny ounce of courage I had to face him, and not fall apart. Or throw myself at him, and bury himself into his neck, and just breathe him, and never let go. It was shameless. I was shameless. Wanting to find comfort in the arms of the man I hated.

"Elena." I forced myself to meet his eyes in what I thought would be a bottle of wills. And then I was sorry I had even glanced in his direction.

He held me with a single look. And I was unable to rip myself away from his fixed stare that held me in place. "Tell me what's wrong." His voice filled with a warm sensation. I'm fine. I wanted to admit out loud to him but all I accomplished was a mumble that sounded like sleep-talk. "Elena." The voice called out, forcing my gaze to his.

     I sighed and shivered. I didn't know how I had gotten here. Wrapping my legs around his waist, and my arms around his neck.

The Russian carried me over to the couch. He had to take a step forward to keep his balance. "You're fucking heavy." He grunted roughly.

I felt the dip of the couch underneath our combined weight. I pressed my face into his neck, my entire body shaking. He felt so right, so warm, so comforting. So irresistible. The base of my throat tightened, and the back of my eyes burned. What the hell was I doing?

"Elena." He rasped, his hand trembling when he slid it into my hair and cradled the back of my head. He cupped my face with a palm, running a thumb across my cheek. "Are you crying?"