Dreamfever (Fever #4)

by Karen Marie Moning

Enough images. I cleared my throat and forced myself to focus on his eyes. It wasn’t much better. Barrons and I have wordless conversations. And right now he was reminding me, in graphically lush detail, of everything we’d done in that big Sun King bed of his. He’d especially enjoyed the handcuffs. I had as many memories of his tongue as he had of mine. He’d never offered turnabout as fair play, even though I’d asked plenty. I’d never understood why. We’d both known nothing so flimsy could hold whatever he was. Now that I was clearheaded again, I understood. Even if it was only illusory, he was not a man to tolerate dominance. It was all about control with him. He never relinquished it. And that was a huge part of what chafed so badly, burned like salt in an open wound. I’d been completely out of control the entire time we’d spent in that room. He’d seen my most raw, bare, vulnerable self, yet he’d never shown me anything of himself that I hadn’t had to rip from his head against his will.