I needed to get my head examined. The woman had been stalking me, fucking stalking me around the kitchen, and I had scuttled back like she had the plague. The skin I'd wanted to touch and taste had been within my grasp and I turned into a fucking saint.
Banging my fists against the solid wood door, I lowered my head to the surface. "Kiema. Come on. Talk to me."
No answer.
"Shit." I turned and slid down to my ass, back against the door. All I could see was her convulsing body as she emptied herself into the toilet. The toilet that looked like it held a piece of her internal organs. I squeezed my eyes closed, rubbing my fingers against them.
The scene played out in my mind again. The taut body bowed back like a crescent moon. The pale skin that held none of the life I'd come to expect of her honeyed tones.
The blank eyes.
I won't be the one to cause that again. Not in this lifetime.
But what if she was right? What if my touch doesn't hurt her anymore?