Does It Hurt?

by H.D. Carlton

“My name and God’s don’t belong in the same sentence, bella,” he rasps, his voice as rough as the rock below us. “One is holy, and the other is depraved.”

Enzo and I stand in the eye of a hurricane, a perfect storm of lust and hate.

It’s paralyzing—the way he hates to want me. It’s empowering.

“Oh God,” I cry, trying to keep my voice down but failing miserably. “Can you see him, baby? Ask him for forgiveness.” “Why?” I pant, another high-pitched moan nearly swallowing the word. “Because you worship me now.”

“You’re not dying.” “You sure? I think I hear Jesus talking to me.” “Then you’re definitely not dying. Jesus would never talk to you.”

He steps into my space and catches my chin between his fingers. I gasp, and an electric shiver zips down my spine. “I’m more than aware that you’re a capable woman, Sawyer. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.”