Tempted by Deception (Deception Trilogy #2) by Rina Kent

“I didn’t say it to scare you. I’m just relaying facts.”

“Here’s a fact for you, Lia. Deadly thorns thrill me.”

I swallow. “But they injure you.”

“It’s worth it.” He motions at my forgotten plate of food. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because I’m going to fuck you until you scream, my deadly thorn.” And with that, he picks me up and carries me in his arms toward the bedroom.





15





Lia





For two weeks, we fall into a sort of routine.

I go to rehearsal, and when I get home, I find Adrian waiting with either takeout or home-cooked food he brings over. I know he doesn’t cook here, because he said he brings them from his house.

Then he carries me to the bedroom and fucks me until I fall asleep. Sometimes, he does it on the table, making me straddle his lap as he owns every inch of me. Other times, he grabs me as soon as I step inside, lifts my skirts and fucks me in the entrance.

But it doesn’t end there.

It never ends there.

After that, he takes me in the bedroom or in the shower. Sometimes back to back as if he can’t stop touching me, as if he craves me again as soon as he’s finished.

When I can’t take it anymore, which basically means I’m sobbing through my orgasms, he cleans me up or carries me to the shower. He makes sure I’m fully comfortable and sometimes dresses me, though just in a nightgown or a long shirt so he can touch me as he pleases during the night.

I try keeping my distance from him by scooting to my side of the bed or sleeping with my back facing him. But the moment he stimulates me, I’m right there with him writhing and begging for a release that I’d had not long before.

It’s crazy how I’ve become addicted to the pleasure only he can conjure. How I crave his rough manhandling and savage fucking.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a masochist. Because all I can think about is what he’ll do each night. How he’ll take me, spank me, and set my world ablaze.

In the mornings, however, he leaves. Every fucking morning, he goes out like a thief. Like I’m his slut and he doesn’t want to be seen with me.

Ever since the first time we had dinner at the diner, he’s never taken me out again. I haven’t asked for it either, because that would mean I want some sort of a relationship with him.

I don’t.

The only thing I’m waiting for is for him to get bored and leave me alone.

He doesn’t seem to be getting bored, though. If anything, his appetite for my body seems to be growing over the days to the point where he takes me again almost immediately after he comes. I don’t know if he’s easily stimulated or has a strong stamina, but I do know that I’ve been slowly but surely emulating his rhythm.

He’s made me get used to him—addicted, even—so that all of my lines have blurred.

I tell myself that it’s wrong, that I shouldn’t want a man like Adrian this carnally or with this much abandon. And yet, I also know I can’t stop it. To my doom, it’s not just because of his threats and invisible hold on me.

Ever since he came into my life, my rehearsals have become smoother and easier. I’ve never grasped a character as much as I do Giselle. In a way, I’m projecting my situation onto her. The fact that I had no choice in falling into the hands of a much more powerful man who can hurt me.

The only difference is that I know what I’m in for.

Something that’s only physical.

Adrian’s sole connection with me is stimulating my body so he can satisfy his crazy sex drive. But I’ve been using what we have to grasp Giselle’s character.

Even Stephanie and Philippe have noticed it. The director has been telling me it’s his favorite performance by me yet, and for the first time, I agree. For the first time, I don’t think that I could do better.

Stephanie and Philippe keep chastising me about how I don’t join their night fun anymore. Little do they know that I have my own fun. And honestly? I would rather spend quiet nights at home rather than at a club.

Well, as quiet as they can get with all the sex.

Other than that, nights with Adrian are calm. He keeps his words to a bare minimum, even when he’s the one who strikes up the conversation.

We talk about my rehearsal, or he asks me how I’m doing, and I end up talking more than needed. Ballet and classical music are my only subjects of obsession, the only things I can talk about forever to soothe my nerves. Ever since Adrian figured that out, he asks me how my day went like we’re some old couple.

When I once countered and asked how his day went, he raised a brow and said, “Are you sure you want to know?”

No. I didn’t. I really didn’t want the reminder of what he is and what he does. It makes it easier to have him inside me every night when I pretend he’s just a stranger with whom I have a mind-boggling type of chemistry.

Only a stranger.

On my way home from rehearsal, I stop by a boutique to buy new panties. Adrian has ripped most of mine, even when I told him I’d remove them myself.

I falter in front of a row of red lingerie, reaching out to inspect their low cut and the invisible lace. I pull my hand back before I touch them. God, what am I doing? Am I really thinking about wearing lingerie for Adrian?