Reflected in You: A Crossfire Novel

at him. He wore black boxer briefs and nothing else.
    I loved that I got to see him that way—relaxed, comfortable, intimate. I wondered if Corinne had ever seen this view. If so, I could imagine her desperation to see it again, because I was desperate to never lose the privilege.
    “Maybe,” I conceded.
    “And you have to say them all aloud?”
    “Got a problem with that, ace?”
    “No.” Amusement lit his eyes and curved his mouth. “How many times have you seen it?”
    “A gazillion times.” I curved around and rose up on my hands and knees. “Want more?”
    A dark winged brow rose.
    “Are you the keymaster?” I purred, crawling forward.
    “Angel, when you’re looking at me like that, I’m whatever you want me to be.”
    I looked at him beneath lowered eyelids and breathed, “Do you want this body?”
    Grinning, he set his lap desk aside. “All the damn time.”
    Straddling his legs, I climbed his torso. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and growled, “Kiss me, subcreature.”
    “That’s not how that line goes. And what happened to me being a pleasure god? Now I’m a subcreature?”
    I pressed my cleft against the hard ridge of his cock and rolled my hips. “You’re whatever I want you to be, remember?”
    Gideon gripped my rib cage and tipped his head back. “And what’s that?”
    “Mine.” I nipped his throat with my teeth. “All mine.”
    * * *
     
    I couldn’t breathe. I tried to scream, but something blocked my nose . . . covered my mouth. A high-pitched moan was the only sound to escape, my frantic calls for help trapped inside my mind.
    Get off me. Stop it! Don’t touch me. Oh, God . . . please don’t do that to me.
    Where was Mama? Ma-ma!
    Nathan’s hand covered my mouth, mashing my lips. The weight of his body pressed down on me, squashing my head into the pillow. The more I fought, the more excited he became. Panting like the animal he was, he lunged into me, over and over . . . trying to shove himself into me. My panties were in the way, protecting me from the tearing pain I’d lived through too many times to count.
    As if he’d read my mind, he growled in my ear, “You haven’t felt pain yet. But you will.”
    I froze. Awareness hit me like a bucket of ice water. I knew that voice.
    Gideon. No!
    My blood roared in my ears. Sickness spread through my gut. Bile flooded my mouth.
    It was worse, so much worse, when the person trying to rape you was someone you trusted with everything you had.
    Fear and fury blended in a potent rush. In a moment of clarity, I heard Parker’s barked commands. I remembered the basics.
    I attacked the man I loved, the man whose nightmares blended with mine in the most horrific way. We were both sexual-abuse survivors, but in my dreams I was still a victim. In his, he’d become the aggressor, viciously determined to inflict the same agony and humiliation on his attacker as he himself had suffered.
    My stiffened fingers rammed into Gideon’s throat. He reared back with a curse and shifted, and I slammed my knee between his legs. Doubled over, he fell away from me. I rolled out of bed and hit the floor with a thud. Scrambling to my feet, I threw myself toward the door to the hallway.
    “Eva!” he gasped, awake and aware of what he’d almost done to me in his sleep. “God. Eva. Wait!”
    I bolted out the door and ran into the living room.
    Finding a darkened corner, I curled into a ball and struggled to breathe, my sobs echoing through the apartment. I pressed my lips to my knee when the light came on in my bedroom and didn’t move or make a sound when Gideon stepped into the living room an eternity later.
    “Eva? Jesus. Are you okay? Did I . . . hurt you?”
    Atypical sexual parasomnia was what Dr. Petersen called it, a manifestation of Gideon’s deep psychological trauma. I called it hell. And we were both trapped in it.
    His body language broke my heart. His normally proud bearing was weighted with defeat, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. He was dressed and carrying his overnight bag. He stopped by the breakfast bar. I opened my mouth to speak; then I heard a metallic clink against the stone countertop.
    I’d stopped him the last time; I’d made him stay. This time, I didn’t have it in me.
    This time, I wanted him to go.
    The barely audible latching of the front door lock reverberated through me. Something inside me died. Panic welled. I missed him the moment he was gone. I didn’t want him to stay. I