Chapter 19 #2
I never got into therapy, choosing to raw dog my anxiety and treat the symptoms that internet doctors claim are manifestations of my trauma.
But I know well enough that sex crimes aren’t just about sex.
It’s about power. And asking him to tell me what it was like feels like giving him an unfair amount of power over me.
I’m too smart to deny that he has the upper hand, which is why I continue. “... if it felt good.”
Just saying the last part makes me feel like I'm failing myself, doing a disservice to everyone who's ever been in this situation.
But the truth of the matter is, I remember feeling good.
I didn't know if it was real or if it was just my brain trying to convince me that this wasn't all as bad as I felt like it was. Considering the casual routine we’ve fallen into the past few days and the fact that I can actually fall asleep knowing he’s beside me, I’m guessing it was real.
“I… made you enjoy it.” He says carefully, his eyes flitting over my face for any signs that he’s saying the wrong thing. “But sometimes, I think it was violent.”
I shudder but refuse to back down.
After everything I’ve been through, after watching my brother die and being one of the unfortunate ones chosen to be brutalized in the back of the truck, I’m not scared of a pretty boy with more money than manners.
“Can you show me?”
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head slowly. “I really didn’t record it. I didn’t want to leave a trail of ev—” He trails off abruptly, eyes scanning my face.
I believe him.
There’s no point in recording something if you don’t need to relive it—and he had me completely at his disposal. He could relive it for real as many times as he wanted to.
And I’m pretty sure he did.
“I didn’t mean videos.” I swallow. “I mean… like, can you…” I sink my teeth into my lip.
Fuck, Amber. You’re a strong, independent woman. Just spit it out.
I reach for the zipper that goes down the front of my dress and pull, ignoring the twisting in my stomach as the fabric parts, revealing my breasts.
I can feel my nipples are hard already, but they constrict further under his gaze.
“Show me?”
Each breath I take feels like it’s too dramatic, making my chest heave.
I’m terrified, but I don’t know why. Is it the fear of his rejection? Is it the fear of him not rejecting me?
I’ve had sex a thousand times, with plenty of people.
I’m not scared of it anymore, so why does asking for him to show me how he fucked me make my fight-or-flight instinct rear its head?
When he finally tears his gaze from my chest, he blinks at me again, and I wonder if I’ve somehow offended him with the suggestion.
“It's just sex.” I swallow the lie, the fact that it means something to me. “It's transactional, no big deal.” I shrug, hoping I'm selling the lie.
“Transactional?” He licks his lips, and I notice the shift in him. He looks… hungry.
And yet in spite of that, he watches me like he thinks this is some sort of trap.
The reluctance on his face tells me this was a bad idea.
I shake my head, reaching quickly for the zipper that stopped just above my navel, my cheeks flaming with his rejection.
“Forget it. It was stupid. I—”
I turn to go, deciding I’ll have to go bury my nose in a book or turn the TV on to try and forget his rejection. It’s ridiculous, but it stings.
Of course I’m not good enough.
A hand on my wrist stops me before I can escape him.
“It's not stupid.” He argues, making me pause. “I just... don't know if I can do that.”
I stare at him a beat, waiting for him to elaborate further.
He had no problem fucking me thoroughly for months, and now he doesn’t know if he can?
Is he… afraid of me? Has he never been with a conscious woman before?
No, surely he has. I mean, one look at him and it’s clear that women probably fall at his feet for the chance to suck his dick.
He just has that kind of face… and body.
When he doesn't elaborate, I decide I'll have to pull it out of him.
“What do you mean, you don't know if you can?”
He sighs, cocking his head as he thinks through whatever is holding him back.
“I mean, I don't know if it will be the same. I don't know if I'll be able to… maintain control if you're awake.” His eyes glance me over thoroughly, lingering. “I want to. God, I want to. But I don't know.”
I don't know what he means about maintaining control.
Does he think I'll try to dominate him? That's not my style. I can initiate because no man has ever turned me down before, but I don’t like to be in control.
I like to be fucked, not do the fucking.
Maybe I should want control since I never got to have it, but the heart wants what it wants, and my fucked-up brain craves whatever fucked-up shit it craves.
“I mean, isn't this what you got me for?” I challenge, laughing a little as I finally ask the uncomfortable thing I haven’t addressed yet. “To be a sex slave?”
It’s not like I want to be a fucking sex slave for anybody, but I already have been for months. So why is he being so weird about it now?
Cal opens his mouth like he's going to argue that point, but his mouth closes and he looks me over from afar.
He’s quiet as he considers his response for that, and then he shakes his head.
“I didn't get you to be a sex slave.” He sounds so offended by the idea that I almost laugh.
Almost.
I don't believe him for a second, given the fact that he kept me unconscious for months, apparently just so that he could fuck me.
I was sore everywhere when I woke up, especially between my legs.
I know he made very good use of me, so it concerns me that he doesn't want to now that I'm awake. Does he have some weird kind of kink? Maybe he's into necro and wanted to simulate fucking a corpse? I’m open to discussing kinks… I’ve never experimented much past a little back door play with one of my ex-boyfriends, who couldn’t get over his insane homophobia enough to commit to sticking his dick in.
I can play dead if that’s what does it for him… sometimes I feel like I’m half there anyway.
“Oh…” I clear my throat, deciding not to ask him what his intentions were then.
“I was going to kill you.” He blurts out suddenly, shocking me into silence.
My heart skips a beat or two as it seems to wonder whether we're in imminent danger, but Cal doesn't move for me. He bites his lip instead, and it's such an out-of-place gesture on a confident, gorgeous man like him that I almost laugh.
No, not almost.
I do.
I snort.
“Is this a joke?”
It has to be.
If he wanted to kill me, he would have done it by now.
Right?
I was at his mercy for months, totally helpless to do anything. If he wanted to kill me, there was nothing that could have stopped him. Unless... he wants more of a struggle.
A shiver presses between my shoulder blades like a cold knife as I imagine all the implications. I had to read The Most Dangerous Game in middle school English, and I've never recovered since.
That was well before I understood the true evils of humanity, but I figured it out shortly after that.
I’m a quick study.
His silence tells me that he was, in fact, serious.
I let out a long breath and close my eyes, trying to summon the strength of my ancestors to tell me how the fuck to get out of this hole I dug for myself. But then I remember I don’t have parents, so I probably don’t have ancestors to summon the strength from.
“Okay.” I nod, managing a small smile when my eyes open to find him watching me nervously. “That’s okay. Just forget I ever asked and—”
My breath snags in my throat when his fingers close around my upper arm and he uses the leverage to reel me into his chest.
The nervous energy from a second earlier disappears as suddenly as if it had been an act, and I decide maybe it was. Maybe he was faking the whole thing, playing with my fucked-up mind like a cat playing with the mouse before he opens his mouth to swallow her whole.
Suddenly, I don’t doubt that he could.
“No. Don’t forget it.” His voice is thick with lust, and it… does something to me. I clench deep inside and decide not to analyze whether that’s fear or desire. “Just… give me a minute?”
I say nothing, nodding just a small amount as he presses his forehead to mine, his head angled down because of our height difference.
A glance through my lashes assures me his eyes are closed.
We stay like that for a moment until I wonder if he’s trying to push his thoughts into my head through osmosis or something.
When he finally pulls away, it’s just enough to nod. His hesitation is entirely gone, like it never existed, and the shift I saw in him mere moments ago is confirmed by the confidence on his face and the determination as he tips my chin toward him, angling me so that our eyes connect.
“Are you sure?”