Chapter 18
Pissed, humiliated, and definitely done with the evening, Cilla hurried away from the booth toward the bathrooms. She wanted to go to her car and drive home, but she’d had too much to drink, and she was feeling woozy. Once she got to the bathroom, she’d order an Uber, wash her face with cold water, then go wait outside. What she would not do is?—
Suddenly, she was moving, but she stumbled past the bathrooms on the right, and was dragged through a door on the left at the end of the hall.
Thrust through the doorway into what looked like a dark office, Cilla stumbled on her heels and just barely righted herself before the door slammed and, with a yelp, she was thrown to the top of the desk. A large body pinned her to the surface as she struggled, dragging in gulps of air. But she recognized the scent, the frame, the man.
“Patriot—” she couldn’t finish as the air was knocked out of her when he slammed his mouth down on hers. His large hands were suddenly everywhere, holding her down, gripping her hips, and tugging her clothes from her body. In a matter of moments, she was breathless and nearly naked in a dark office on someone’s desk, but by the glimpse she could catch of Patriot’s face in the scant light from under the office door, she could see that he was a hair’s breadth from devouring his prey.
Her.
“You’re mine, Cilla, and I am going to fucking claim you,” he growled, and then he was ripping her panties from her body, and pulling her ass over the lip of the desk so she was hanging in the air, at his mercy. She didn’t hear him unzip his jeans, but he must have, because in the next breath she was impaled on his fat cock.
She cried out at the thick invasion, shock and rampaging need lighting her up inside.
“Yes, fuck. So goddamn tight—you feel so fucking good, baby. Mine! Mine, Cilla!” he spit, his voice guttural. More animal than man, he bit down on her shoulder, driving pain and pleasure through her until she couldn’t keep her sounds down. She mewled, groaning as he shifted, making her fall back flat on the desk. His hands on her hips held her in place as he pounded into her, grunting with each hard, powerful thrust. He drove her to the edge and back, harder and deeper he thrust until she had no idea how she could draw breath ever again. He was inside her, part of her, a living, breathing explosion of sensation she wouldn’t survive intact. He leaned over her, taking her mouth once again, swallowing her shriek as her orgasm rushed her, claiming her, filling her with blistering pleasure, then hollowing her out. But Patriot immediately filled it again, driving her toward the brink, moving, forcing his cock deeper and deeper, the base of his dick sliding against her swollen clit. A keening wail escaped her chest as he bit down on the neck, groaning as her pussy clenched around his pistoning cock.
Her second orgasm built, drawing all her strength, siphoning every nerve ending to her pussy where it filled her channel, making everything more sensitive. Her pussy fluttered, and she lifted her hips to meet each thrust, his heavy balls slapping against her twitching asshole. Everything was bright, swirling colors blinding, her heart racing, her blood rushing to the surface of her skin. She was too hot, her body was overheating, her legs where they were wrapped around his waist were shaking from the effort of holding on to him as he set a maddening pace.
“Fuck, yeah, that’s it, baby, squeeze my cock, baby. Milk it, take my cum baby, take all of it, it all belongs to you—shit, fuck!” He jerked, grunting, his hips moving faster in an uneven rhythm. “I’m coming—fuuuuuck!” He thrust two, three, four more times, then bottomed out, and groaned long, low, and deep. She could feel his cock thicken, then jerk inside her, emptying itself while filling her to the brim, triggering another release that made her back bow off the desk and a scream loose from her throat.
The shrill call of her cellphone jolted her awake, jerking her away from the back office and the sturdy desk, away from the unadulterated bliss of her orgasm, away from the strong, warm arms of the man she loved—and into reality.
Choking back a sob of frustration, Cilla slammed her hand down on her bedside table, blindly searching for her cell. It rang again. Finally locating it shoved up against her stack of smutty paperbacks, she snatched it and answered it.
“This better be life and death, woman, because I was in the middle of the best dream!” A dream of what should have been but never would be, because Patriot was a lying, cheating asshole, who ghosted women he claimed to care about.
Are you sure about that? There was that voice of reason again, the same voice that kept her dangling on with starry-eyed hope, like a fool. Sooner or later, that voice would finally figure out the truth.
What is the truth?
Ugh.
“Stephie, I’m in crisis, and I have no idea what to do!”
Stephie snorted, and Cilla could swear she heard the woman roll her eyes. “I have an idea—get out of bed, lazy bones! You promised me chocolate, but I’m making you pay me with a favor instead.”
Suddenly wide awake, Cilla did not like the mischief in Stephie’s voice. Sitting up, Cilla pushed her hair out of her face and blinked down at the bedsheets, which were twisted around her legs, legs that had been wrapped around dream-Patriot’s waist. It really was a good dream.
“And what favor would that be?” Cilla asked warily, forcing images of Patriot pounding into her on the office desk from her mind. They weren’t real, and she’d have to get over it…as soon as heart heart stopped hurting and her body stopped craving his touch, his lips, his scent, his weight pressing down on her. The wetness between her thighs was a testament to the fact that just thinking of him still made her want him.
“You’re going to be my plus one at a party,” Stephie replied with much too much cheer.
Closing her eyes and feigning a patience that was in very short supply, Cilla inquired, “And where is this party?”
Please don’t say Unchained clubhouse, please don’t say Unchained clubhouse….
“Nope. Not gonna tell you until you promise you’ll come with me. I promise, you will have the fucking time of your life.”
Dammit!
Cilla, knowing Stephie wouldn’t let this rest until she wore Cilla down to the nub, groaned, threw herself back onto her pillows, and grumbled, “Fine. I’ll go. But this better be the bestest of all best times of my life—and I mean it.”
Stephie giggled into the phone, which made the hair on Cilla’s neck stand on end.
Oh hell, what did she just agree to?
Her answer came the next night when Stephie showed up at her door, shopping bags dangling from her arms, a bottle of vodka peeking from her purse, and a wicked smile on her face.
That smile should have been the first red flag. The second should have been the Barbie clothes Stephie pulled from the shopping bags.
“Nuh-uh. Nope.” Cilla crossed her arms, plopped down on her bed, and shook her head. “There is no way you are squeezing my fat ass into those jeans, and there’s no way that top can contain my nipples, let alone my boobs—you are out of your mind, why are you just smiling at me? What’s with that look? Why aren’t you putting those pre-shrunk toddler clothes back in the bags?”
Stephie planted her hands on her hips, huffed, then glared down at Cilla.
“You promised you’d go with me to this party, and this party has a strict dress code. So that means no muumuus, sweatpants, sweatshirts, or basically anything you’ve ever worn in your life.”
Cilla gasped in outrage. “What’s wrong with what I wear? It’s comfortable?—”
“We aren’t going for comfortable, honey, we’re going for fuckable. And that means you have to get off your sweet ass, put these clothes on, and get in the bathroom so I can glam up that face and hair of yours.”
Cilla shook her head once again, but Stephie was already there, pulling her up to her feet. Damn, she was strong for a skinny bitch!
“Come on, you promised, and you can’t go back on a promise,” Stephie remarked, pouting.
Rolling her eyes at her friends antics, Cilla heaved a sigh. Taking that as her acquiescence, Stephie squealed and clapped.
“Alright! Let’s get you out of your mopey clothes and put on your party clothes!”
Cilla grumbled, “I wasn’t moping.” Lying liar!
Stephie clicked her tongue and gripped Cilla’s chin, making Cilla look Stephie in the eye.
“You are moping, and I can understand why—Patriot fucked up big time. But that’s over and done with. Now it’s time to take back your confidence, pour some steel down your back, and have some fun getting a little revenge.”
That made Cilla tense, confusion and then wariness filling her. How did Stephie know about Patriot? Had he said something? Did everyone in the club know about how he used her, and then dropped her like a beat in an EDM song?
“Revenge? What the hell are you talking about, Stephie? Revenge against who, for what?” Cilla could feel the tension snaking up her body to her neck, ready to strangle her. “How do you know about Patriot? Does everyone know?”
God, if everyone knew, did that mean they were all laughing at her behind her back?
Oh my God, I’ll have to hide from all of them—but they come into Millie’s! I’ll have to quit?—
Sighing heavily, and cutting off Cilla’s mental downward spiral, Stephie released Cilla’s chin, and turned to pick up the pair of jeans that she must have bought in the juniors’ section of Macy’s.
“You’ll see,” she sing-songed. “But first, get dressed. We have a party to attend.”
In all the rush and frustration of getting ready, Cilla forgot to ask Stephie where the party was. And she’d regret it.