Broken Worth

Chapter 12

Beatrice knew she shouldn’t have tried to sleep. When she’d been with the Albanians, fear had kept her awake. She’d never known when her husband would come to her room. Now he was dead, but the fear lingered.

Maybe it was because his death had been so abrupt that her subconscious still couldn’t accept it. When her body gave in to its need to rest, her mind would show her all the things she hadn’t forgotten.

She should have never talked to Montrell about running to her father. Talking never helped.

Her husband had left her alone for a time after she was returned to him. It made her recovery almost peaceful in a way. The fracture in her jaw had healed first, and she’d lost weight with the four weeks of soft foods. It was the delicate bones in the wrist he’d broken that seemed to take forever. The doctor had switched the cast to a brace after six weeks. She had been cupping it with her other hand in the hallway, wondering if she should ask to call the doctor back because days after switching to the brace, it continued to ache.

Her husband had paused at the top of the stairs. As he continued to stare at her hand over the brace, she dropped her arm to her side. His dark eyes narrowed, and his mouth set in that way that meant he was unhappy with her.

A part of her hadn’t cared. When he began crowding her back toward her room, she lashed out. The slap at his jaw hurt her injured wrist more than it hurt him, and he grabbed the brace with one hand, her jaw with the other.

The memory of the pain he’d inflicted after she ran swamped her, letting him shove her into the room. He didn’t bother closing the door as his weight pinned her to the bed. The Velcro coming free was loud even over her heaving breaths. She cried out as he dragged her arm over her head by that barely healed wrist.

“Stop your lying!” her husband had snapped. The force of his words sprayed a light mist of spittle onto her jaw. His eyes were on hers as he dragged her skirt up between them. She tried to buck and kick, but his hold on her wrist tightened, and a wave of dizziness rushed over her. She closed her eyes, praying that she’d pass out.

“You shouldn’t have milked it for so long,” he told her. “A wife needs to fuck her husband regularly. Or it turns into this.” He was making it her fault. He liked to blame her when he got rougher. She bit back a cry as he ripped the strings on the only underwear he allowed her. It dug into the top of her hip, leaving an abrasion she’d feel later. She’d feel all of it.

She tried to close her legs, even though she knew it would just draw things out, but his hips were already between them.

“I’ll teach you to avoid me,” he growled, already freeing himself from his slacks. His hand gripped her thigh, shoving her legs open wider as he forced himself inside.

She tried not to hold her breath through the pain of it. Holding her breath made the scrape of him worse.

“Goddammit—dry as sand like usual.” His disgust washed over her. He grunted as his hips surged against her, rocking the wrist he still gripped hard into the bed.

She couldn’t block the sob that escaped.

“Fucking liar. Look at me, gruaja ime!” He shoved into her harder, making her aware of her body instead of being able to float away. Or maybe that was her closed eyes. She usually stared into his eyes like he asked because it could make him kinder. It was a false kindness, but she would take it. She’d take almost anything that made things just a little better.

“I said look at me!”

His free hand moved to her throat, squeezing in warning. This time, she didn’t care. Not looking became the thing her mind clung to in order to avoid the pain. His other hand finally left her wrist, which felt like someone else’s as it lay broken on the bed.

Both of his hands wrapped around her throat as he continued to fuck her. She couldn’t breathe. He told her to look at him repeatedly, and each time only made her cling to her stubbornness as the lightheadedness returned, as her chest burned, as her unhurt hand clawed at his, where they continued to squeeze.

Time stretched, and her body doubted it would ever receive oxygen again. And then there was a throb down below, a mutinous one that she hadn’t ever expected to experience with her husband. It was the worst betrayal. Her brain tried to deny it, chanting no, no, no, no in her head as the throb intensified and spread and broke when his hands grew even tighter.

And suddenly those hands were gone, the air rushing into her spasming lungs as he braced against the bed and thrust into her clutching pussy. “Yes!” he shouted as he held himself deep inside her for his own orgasm.

His lips turned to brush her ear as he whispered, “Don’t open your eyes. Lie to yourself about who made you come.”

And then he was gone, the room empty except for her sudden, uncontrollable sobs.

Beatrice had curled into herself on the bed. Clutching her wrist against her chest had only made the pain worse. She’d rested it against the bedspread and stared at it, knowing in her heart that it was broken again. The smoothness of the skin made her mind stutter in the memory. There should be scars there. She could almost see them, and the thought had her jerking awake from the dream.

The scar was more than evident in the lamplight of her new room at the Coronella estate. It made sense that it hadn’t been there that night. Her body’s betrayal, so soon after her father’s, had led to those dark moments on a hotel bathroom floor. Her husband had choked her to orgasm again that night.

Him watching her almost bleed out on the tiles had changed things. He hadn’t choked her for a long time after that, even after she recovered.

Her finger brushed over the scar. Sometimes she believed she’d never recovered.

She could feel her husband’s possession of her body even now, even knowing he was dead. It was as if she’d never married another man.

A man who had once given her true pleasure, not her body’s frantic reaction to pending death.

She frowned at the thought, sitting up in bed before pushing to her feet in order to pace off the racing thoughts. They only raced faster.

She couldn’t clearly remember how it had been. That was another life; more like a movie she’d once seen than her own past.

Her feet staggered as she stopped in front of the dresser. Her hands clutched at the top of it. Montrell was her husband. She was married to someone else, but she was acting as if the Albanian still owned her.

She forced herself to think about letting Montrell fuck her instead. Her jaw tensed at the idea of it. He was bigger than the Albanian. It would hurt like hell.

But it hadn’t hurt all that much when he’d taken her virginity.

She shook her head, and her eyes were drawn to the movement in the mirror. She didn’t know who she was anymore, but she wasn’t that girl from before. Her body no longer reacted to stimulation the way it had. Sex wasn’t going to feel good. It would hurt.

That was fine. She wasn’t looking for an orgasm. Her body only knew how to do that if she was choked into it.

Montrell would never do that. He was sweet. He wouldn’t purposely bring her pain. She was starting to believe that.

Her eyes shifted to the dresser, where they found the knife she’d asked Vespa for. It lay next to the pearl cuffs she only took off at night. Vespa. Was it wrong to fuck her husband if he was in love with someone else? She pushed the thought away. She hadn’t confirmed her suspicious. Besides, he was her husband. She wasn’t the other woman.

Beatrice reached for the bracelets first.

She couldn’t continue to keep herself pure for a fucking ghost she’d hated. She hoped he was nearby, watching. He’d howl in jealousy that she was his. But she knew she wasn’t.

Montrell wouldn’t be happy. She wasn’t going to his room for pleasure, but he wouldn’t hurt her out of anger.

She grabbed the knife, just in case.

Montrell rolled to his back, huffing out a breath in frustration. His cock ached. It didn’t help that his mind kept replaying Beatrice telling him he was sweet. His brain had twisted it. When he closed his eyes, it was as if she whispered it in his ear, her breath fluttering over his neck as she pressed hotly against him.

He should masturbate and relieve the ache, but it felt somehow wrong to do that to her calling him sweet.

He didn’t feel sweet. He felt hot and heavy and tortured as hell.

When his door opened, he thought he’d drifted off. He was going to have a wet dream if his subconscious was throwing out Beatrice sneaking into his room for sex. The thought brought relief with it. At least the ache would finally go away.

He could almost smell her. She’d purchased the same perfume she’d worn so long ago. One time, he’d inhaled it deeply into his lungs, burying his head against her neck after he’d sunk his cock inside her. She wore it more lightly now, but the tantalizing scent of jasmine had drifted his way and made him hard more than once in the last few weeks.

Smelling it now wouldn’t exactly make him harder. Not even the cold air as she threw the comforter and sheet back cooled his libido. She paused, staring down at him, and he kind of wished his cock would soften. He was a big man all over. The way she stared at his erection, it was as if she’d forgotten that fact.

He sucked in a breath, wondering if this was really happening. Had Beatrice finally come to his room for what he thought she had? He waited for her to say something.

Beatrice said nothing as she climbed on top of him, the silkiness of her nightgown rubbing along his cock as her weight pressed him into his own stomach. She lifted her nightgown to pull it free. Her pubic hair brushed along his cock instead, and he realized she’d left her underwear behind before the last of his thoughts melted out of his ears.

They didn’t return when her hand wrapped around him, angling him as her thighs shifted wider. The tip of him brushed her warm entrance.

Sudden worry allowed the thoughts to rush back, pinging in his head in a jumbled snarl. Montrell’s hands reached for her hips to stop her. “Wait, Bea, we—”

The blade of a knife against his throat cut off the words. It didn’t cool his libido at all. His body shuddered as he swallowed against the sharp edge.

“Don’t touch me,” Beatrice said. In case he’d missed the knife, she pressed it in a little harder, showing him how serious she was.

The fear in her eyes let him take a full breath. “Bea?” Her name held all the questions he couldn’t speak. They all seemed important, and he couldn’t settle on which one to start with.

“Let me do this, Montrell.” Her hips shifted, trying to find the head of his cock.

She bit the hell out of her lip as she brushed against him, as if the throbbing heat of him burned her.

And he couldn’t keep quiet. “Please wait. If—”

“Would you just shut up?” she cried in frustration. “I don’t want to hear you talk right now. I want to get this done.”

The small hope he’d had of her coming to him in trust died inside. The bitterness of the broken dream choked him as he watched her brace her hand on his chest right below where her other hand held the knife. Her hips shifted and twisted as she tried to settle on him.

His body wasn’t smart enough to care. He wished his desire for her would flee so he could become limp and prevent her from achieving what she was intent on doing, but when her pussy found his tip, he wanted to come right then and there. His brow furrowed as he considered trying.

Beatrice’s face looked determined, and he’d promised her she could do whatever she wanted. He’d meant whatever made her happy, though, and she didn’t look happy. Her eyes were narrowed but somehow vacant, as if she wasn’t seeing him. There was a flutter around her gorgeous cheekbone, above her clenched jaw, as she shuddered over him.

“I’m doing this,” she muttered to herself. “I don’t want to be his anymore.” Her body bore down on top of him.

Or it tried to.

Her pussy only managed to surround the head of his cock. It still felt like bliss to him, but her face flinched and her body jerked. She tried to take him again but only worked the hell out of his tip when she kept flinching back up. She wasn’t nearly wet enough to take his full erection without pain.

“Stop!” he growled, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. He didn’t know what the hell else to do.

Beatrice reminded him that she held a knife to his neck when she nicked his skin. “You’re not in control here. I am.” Her expression was back to fierce instead of pained. He preferred fierce. He didn’t want her to hurt at all.

So he tried to tell her that. “You’re not raping yourself with my cock.”

The sound she made, as if he’d slapped her, made him regret his words. Her body jerked up, freeing his cock. “I-It’s not rape,” she said, the slight hesitation in her words squeezing his heart. It was as if she was trying to convince herself. Her next words barely made a sound. “This is my choice.”

“And I want you to make it.” He let his head fall back against his pillow as he tried to relax his body. His mind raced to find a way to convince her of what he really wanted. His gaze didn’t leave her face. There was no way she’d let him touch her. She wasn’t ready for that. She shouldn’t be there at all. “It’s too soon,” he said. That was the truth that mattered.

Beatrice shook her head. “I’m not his. I don’t want to be his. But my body can still feel him inside it.”

His hands clenched where they rested on the mattress, far enough from her legs not to touch her. Rage coursed through him, and Montrell wished the fucker was alive so he could kill him again. He shook his head, and she jerked the knife away from his neck so she wouldn’t cut him.

“Bea, having me inside you instead doesn’t make you mine. You belong to yourself. You coming into my room at all is the most precious gift.” He took a deep breath as his hands loosened. “Don’t take that gift away from me.”

“Goddammit, Montrell.” She shifted her pussy over his cock again until she found the tip. “Stop pretending. You’re hard. You want this.”

He reached for her hips to stop her, but the knife came back, pressing into his flesh again.

“We’re doing this,” she breathed as she thrust against him. His cock slipped a little deeper this time, just past the head. The tears his girth brought to her eyes hurt him much worse than the blade did.

“Please, stop.” He hated those tears. If she cried harder, he would really go soft.

“It’s fine,” she muttered, biting her lip as she rocked him deeper. “It always hurts. Sex is supposed to hurt.” Her small gasp of pain made him grab her hips, despite the threat of the knife, to stop her movements himself.

Blood dripped from the blade’s shallow cut at his neck.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried.

His hands dropped away. “You’re too dry, and my cock is a big fucker.”

She snorted, less than impressed. “The Albanian hurt too. It’s not because of your giant dick.”

“But you admit it’s giant.” He tried out a lopsided smile, even though it was the furthest thing from what he was feeling.

Her sudden stillness as she blinked at him was worth it. They were both breathing hard, he realized, but in all the wrong ways.

“You’re not wet enough, Bea.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, and one of the tears fell. “I don’t get wet anymore. Stop making this harder for me than it already is.” She opened her eyes, and there was a renewed determination there. “Sex is about pain.”

His fists clenched the sheets as a new idea took hold. “Is that it? Do you want to hurt yourself?” And for the first time, he was angry with her. “If so, we’re stopping right now. You’re not using me for that. I was serious about protecting you. Even if it’s from yourself.” He reached for her, serious about pushing her off, but he froze as a paleness filled her face.

“I don’t want to hurt myself,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. She lifted herself off of him.

The motion sent a shudder through his body. Her eyes flew open as she stared down at him in shock. He was a prick, a total, piece of shit prick, and now she knew it.

“Well, hell, I’m hard as a rock, Bea. Of course I fucking want you.” In light of that admission, he blew out a breath, then tightened his jaw. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

The knife moved away from his throat, which was a damn shame. He was a sick fucker. He wanted to come at knifepoint. Another time, maybe.

His thoughts scattered when her hand cupped his cheek, her fingers brushing over his beard. “You really are sweet.” She sighed, pulling away all too soon.

“Let me touch you.” The words were out faster than his brain could stop them, but the shake of her head was immediate.

“No. It wouldn’t work anyway. I told you.” There was something in her eyes, something he hated more than the pain. “I don’t get wet. My body doesn’t work right anymore.” She started to shift away from him.

He grabbed her hips, and suddenly the knife was back at his throat as her expression went hard.

“I said no,” she warned him.

His hands fell away at the reminder. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Just let me think.” His brows pulled together at the obvious solution he’d been too out of it to realize. “Well, what about lube?”

She blinked as her face went slack in confusion. “What?”

“I’ve got—” He started to reach for the nightstand but halted as the knife pressed against his neck. Damn it if his cock didn’t jump against her ass. He lay flat, breathing through the sudden surge of desire that was strangling him. He gestured toward the nightstand and was grateful when her eyes slid away. “Top drawer. I’ve got plenty of lube. I like to masturbate with it.”

And her eyes were back on his face. “You—” She swallowed, staring at him.

“Yes, I masturbate. Pretty damn often. Nothing shameful about it.”

She looked away, and there was a pinkness to her cheeks that made him want the hell out of her. He wanted to suggest that she masturbate herself. Right now. Fuck, he’d come without a touch if she orgasmed from her fingers rubbing her own clit.

She reached inside the drawer, her hand already lifting out the bottle of lube, and the idea that he might be able to come inside her after all trapped the suggestion of them both masturbating in his throat. He was an ass, after all.

He swallowed, feeling the goddamn knife against his Adam’s apple before he could force the words out. “Have you ever masturbated, Bea?”

Her fingers went slack, and the bottle of lube smacked his chest. Her lips pressed together, and she pushed the blade against his neck, ratcheting up his need another notch. “We’re not talking about this.”

The expression in her eyes made them look almost bruised.

She dipped her chin at the lube. “This will really help?”

“It’ll make us slippery as fuck, if we use enough.” He lifted the bottle, flipping open the top. “You want to put it on, or me? I don’t expect you to touch me.” He’d probably come if her lubed-up hand gripped him in any way.

“You do it,” she said with a frown.

“Lift up then.” Montrell squeezed more than was needed into his palm. She looked down between them, and he spread it on his cock with her watching. His own hand was almost too damn much. He pressed his head back into the pillow, trying to count to ten to distract himself as he added more. He wanted his cock to be slick as fuck if they were going to do this.

He nudged the bottle against her arm. “It should be both of us. Take some.”

Her head lifted as she stared at him, and she wrinkled her nose. “It looks messy.”

He scowled at her. “I’m serious, Bea. This will make you wet and take away the pain.”

“I—” She swallowed again, her eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t want to touch myself,” she admitted in a whisper.

He couldn’t breathe. Not around the knot that her vulnerability had embedded in his chest.

She positioned herself over him again.

He tried to shake his feelings loose, to let her do it, but she needed to be fucking wet. He tapped her arm with the bottle again. “You need it. Please, Bea.”

She bit her lip, staring down at the bottle. “No,” she repeated. “I don’t like to touch myself.” Then, with her voice strained, she added, “You do it.”

His chest seized when her hand trembled on the knife, making it shake. They were going to need to change her views on masturbation.

“You sure?” he asked, trying to read her face.

“I’m over talking about this.” She was still too damn tense. She would hurt herself despite the lube, taking him all tense like that.

“Let me get myself again first,” he said. He dumped enough lube on his hand that it dripped onto his chest hair, then reached down between them. His slick fingers rubbed up his length toward the tip. She hovered close enough that his pinky brushed her pubic hair. “Sorry. You were closer than I thought,” he murmured, the head of his cock sensitive as hell as he palmed it. His fingers brushed her more deliberately, the backs stroking over her lips.

He was staring at her face, watching her brow wrinkle at the sensation.

“Dang, I didn’t get enough lube,” he lied, letting his hand turn and rub her for real before he brought it up between them.

Her eyes opened, narrowing on his in suspicion. “Don’t you think that’s enough?” she asked.

“Nope,” he answered, forcing himself not to smile as she continued to stare. He had no idea how much he squeezed out this time because his eyes were on her. “Let me press him against you. See if my giant cock is slick enough now.”

She rolled her eyes but then froze as he slicked the lube all over the outside of her pussy with his fingers. Her eyes widened as she stared into his. “Oh, did I miss? Let me try again.” There was still plenty of lube to rub on her. He watched closely, seeing that twitch at her cheekbone as he slicked over the hood of her clit. He let his knuckles rub slowly back and forth, spreading the lube as she frowned. “There it is. That’s not so bad, is it, Bea?” he murmured. “Nice and slick, so it doesn’t hurt.”

She blinked, the frown on her face so fucking cute. “That isn’t…” she trailed off as his finger turned and swirled in a barely there circle.

“Sorry,” Montrell said, and he did feel a little guilty. “I know you didn’t give me permission. But you need this too.” He continued his light touch over the hood of her clit, wondering how long he’d be able to get away with it. “I’ve told you before,” he continued, a little breathless as her chest rose and fell with what he hoped was a wave of arousal. “Not hurting you is my priority. It trumps what you want sometimes.” He pulled his hand away, shocked when her hips followed it subtly. “Hold on, Bea. More lube.”

He was quick to dump it on, moving his hand between them again. “Spread your legs a little wider,” he suggested, desperate as hell to get his hand there again. “That’s a good girl,” he breathed, and he spread the lube right over her budding clit this time.

Her gasping breath blew his goddamn mind.

“The lube feels pretty good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, beginning to trace a circle against her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it tingled. Felt a little hot even. Sometimes it makes me throb.” He wasn’t talking about the lube, and he was the one fucking throbbing as her hips twitched toward him. He added a bit more pressure.

Her breath shuddered. “I-Isn’t that enough?” she asked.

It wouldn’t be enough unless he could make her come. That was his new goal when her hand trembled on the knife again and he started to think maybe she really could. “No, you need more,” he said, switching from circling to a direct rub over it. He pretended to spread the lube, shifted back, and did it again. And again. “Almost done,” he murmured. She was sucking in breaths now, and her legs were shaking. His finger slicked over her. “You’re probably throbbing something fierce now.”

“I—” She swallowed, trying to think. “I’m not sure.”

He was fine with her denial. Her hips more obviously followed his hand when he moved it up, dumping on more lube even though they were practically bathing in it already.

She frowned at him. “Montrell, I—” Her breath stuttered. “I want to be filled.”

Fuck. If he had less restraint he would have thrust up toward her. His own legs shook with the effort of holding back. “Last pass,” he promised, unable to hold back his smile when her legs shifted wider as his hand moved between them.

Her eyes narrowed in on his smile. “You—”

He rubbed over her clit very deliberately this time, breaking her focus on whatever she would have said.

“Do you think it’s enough?” he asked. His finger was moving back and forth, the lube letting it speed up almost too easily. She didn’t try to answer, her gorgeous mouth sucking in air now. “Close your eyes to concentrate,” he suggested.

She obeyed.

“Such a good girl,” he groaned, panting a bit himself. He swallowed, his tongue heavy as he imagined it on her clit instead. Someday soon. “It’s okay if there’s a throb or an ache. You might feel a tightening, even.”

“Inside,” she gasped, her hips trying to shift him away from her clit. “I want you inside of me.”

He couldn’t deny her; he moved his finger to her entrance. “That’s a good idea. Need plenty of lube there.” He pushed some of it inside her as he slipped his finger in with it. Not deep. Just enough for her to feel it. She pushed down, taking it in deeper, and they both groaned.

“That was easier, wasn’t it, Bea?” he asked, trying like hell not to take it further. Not until she came. “My finger’s smaller than my cock.”

Her eyes blinked open, locking on his in confusion. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good.” He nearly swallowed his tongue as she moved against him. “Does it feel good?”

“I’m not sure,” she murmured, the words almost slurred.

“That’s okay.” He pulled his finger back, scared he would start thrusting into her with it—he so wanted to thrust. Rubbing her clit would be better, he told himself, and she let out another soft sound as he did. “What about this? Good, right?”

Her hand fell off the knife at his neck as she braced both hands against the bed, trying to shift her hips away from his suddenly very insistent finger. “Montrell?” It wasn’t a shout like he wanted. It was a fearful question.

He wished he could take her fear away. “It’s okay,” he promised. “You probably feel a throb. Almost a pulse. Lean into it, Bea. You can let go. I’d never hurt you.” He slowed down instead of speeding up, pressing a tad more firmly as he rubbed his thumb over her. “You can orgasm, Bea. I promise.”

She made a choking sound as her hips pushed into him instead of away.

“Feel that throb? Accept it. Let it spread.” He followed the rhythm of her hips, firm but still gentle, and so fucking slick with all the lube. “Focus, Bea. You’ve got this. Let it feel good.”

She cried out as her body jerked, trying to get away in the end. His arm clamped around her, holding her against his stroking finger as she shook.

She was climaxing, and he wanted to roar with his satisfaction. His balls tightened, and he felt like he could come with her. His mind latched onto the thought, and he imagined it, pretended he was buried in her pussy as she squeezed around him with every shudder. He shouted as his cum shot between them.

She tensed as it hit her thigh.

“It’s okay, Bea,” he said, not letting his finger stop drawing her orgasm out. “You’re safe.”

Her arms gave out as she collapsed on top of his chest. It was still a little sticky from the spilled lube, and her hair was right on the spill, but he didn’t fucking care. His arms wrapped around her in a hug as she came down from her orgasm.

She’d fucking had one. He couldn’t feel properly guilty about forcing it on her.

Beatrice suddenly pushed herself upright. “You touched me,” she accused him.

“Did you hate it?” he asked, not needing the answer.

“I told you I wanted you inside me!” she snapped before reaching between their bodies. Her hand jerked away from the mess he’d made. “Did you…?”

“Oh, yeah.” He couldn’t contain his smirk of satisfaction. “I’m totally tapped out.”

“That’s—” She glared, scrambling off of him. “Goddammit, Montrell!”

He couldn’t hold in his chuckle either. “Don’t play. You feel good.”

She shook her head before her chin dipped and she frowned at the floor. “This wasn’t what I wanted.”

And at that, his satisfaction fled. “I know. But it was what you needed.” Her head snapped up, and a fierce glare followed. His cock stirred as her gaze settled on him.

“Fuck off,” she growled, turning to flee.

“Wait, let me clean—”

He tried to sit up, but the knife she’d left behind nearly impaled him. He moved it to the nightstand as the door slammed behind her, and then he flopped back onto his bed. He hadn’t been lying to her. His orgasm had wrecked him even though he hadn’t gotten inside her. He closed his eyes to remember every moment, ready to polish the memory for another round in the shower once he had the energy to move again.