12. Lessons Learned
Lessons Learned
Isla
Once I reach the bottom and take two steps out, the lights flick on one by one. Do they usually do that? Something about it feels like a horror film, the somewhat damp hallway stretching and yawning open before me.
The door on my left leads to the training room/ gym. Filled with every manner of torture, including the fucking treadmill. But on the right?
Anticipation brings a wicked smile to my face as I reach for the doorknob.
Locked.
I mean, that's a pretty clear message. Do not enter.
But I've never really listened to Eamon's warnings before, have I?
Darting up the stairs to grab my tools, I stay light on my feet, hoping to make it back down before the lights turn off again.
On my knees in front of the locked door, I use the two bobby pins to move each little piece of the lock, taking far more tries than it should. It's definitely not the first time I've picked a lock drunk, but it is the first time in a couple years.
This was just a party trick I used to get us into pools and stuff in college, and now here I am using it to break into the scariest person I know's… well, I don't know what kind of room is behind this door, but I'm about to find out.
I hear the tell-tale click and twist the second bobby pin, the door swinging into another blackened, frigid room. Triumph overrides every sense of self-preservation I have, making me almost jump up in excitement.
On my feet, I lean into the room, searching for a light switch. Once I find it and flick it up, monitors surround me, coming to life.
What the fuck?
The footage before me shows at least seven different angles all around my apartment, including a few more outside in the entryway.
Stepping further into the room, I see he has a handful of these stations. One has five cameras pointed at a warehouse, and another has ten cameras on a shipping dock.
What are these?
This psychopath has cameras in my home. And now I'm trapped in his. I have to get out of here before he finds out; I don't even want to know what he might do if he catches me.
"Was the locked door not a clear enough message?" A cold voice asks from behind me.
Fuck.
I swing around, biting down the fear at the giant, very red-eyed man before me, letting my fury match his so I don't get swept away in a flood of terror.
"You have cameras all over my apartment."
"You broke into my private office."
"You've been watching me! There's fucking cameras and microphones covering every inch of my home!" My voice doesn't shake, but the effort to keep it that way increases.
"Isla," he grits. "I don't think now is the time to trade off on which invasion of privacy is worse."
"You only say that because yours is and we both know it." Angry pressure builds behind my eyes, and I blink it away. "How long?"
If he feels any guilt, he certainly doesn't show it. "I had the cameras installed in December, and the people tailing you since November."
Shame brings heat to my face, thinking of all the times I masturbated right on that bed where he, or whoever else was here, was watching me. I storm forward, shoving him to try to make him feel as shitty as I do, even though I know it's futile. "You fucking asshole," I bite. "You planted people, cameras, everything in my life. I've never stood a chance at getting away from you."
"You and your friends were doing nothing to keep you s—"
"Oh, spare me the fucking bullshit about my life and my safety," I shove him again. "Did you get off on watching me, you sick fuck? On getting to see me all alone in my home while I—" I can't even force the humiliating words out, but the message is clear.
With every ounce of strength I've got left, I push him aside, trying to squeeze past him to get upstairs before he can answer me, before he can humiliate me further.
One step. Two. Before the third can land, I collide with the wall, a fuming Eamon only barely clinging to his mortal form towering above me with one hand cradling my throat and the other cushioning the blow so my head doesn't crack on the concrete behind me.
He looks every bit the demon he is right now, with swirling scarlet eyes that I can feel locked on mine and canines far longer than any human's should be. His panting breaths match mine, and every instinct I have screams for me to run, hide, fight back, do anything to get away from this monster.
But I'm frozen, lost in him and the way his scent wraps around me. The way the size of his hand on my neck and the pressure leave me lightheaded. Against all my better judgment, against any thought I might have, the flood between my legs drowns out any and all sense. I'm prey in the sights of the scariest predator that prowls the night, and I've never been fucking wetter. Half of me wants to escape; the other, more insistent half, screams to wrap my legs around him and feel if he's just as affected by this moment as me.
Quicker than I can think, he strikes, using his grip on my hair to wrench my head back, sending twin puncture wounds into my neck so quickly the pain comes before I even register what's happening. A scream leaves my throat, only to be cut off by the giant palm covering it as he takes from my throat. I can feel every drag as he sucks from the small holes, the pain so severe it's drugging, blissful, and agonizing at the same time.
He groans into my skin, tightening his grip and plastering his massive, rock-hard body against mine, his terrifyingly large dick pressing insistently against my hip as he holds me close.
A soft moan slips out even as I push against his chest, trying to shove him off of me before he actually doesseriousdamage. But when he rocks against me, groaning again, every thought empties from my head but the need to hear that sound as he buries himself inside of me, filling me so wholly, stretching me until I can't take any more.
"Eamon," I finally manage to whimper out, and his mouth stops its assault on my neck.
He looks down at me, blood smeared across his lips and running down his chin. With a wicked, crimson-soaked grin, he places his hand back around my neck, his thumb resting right over the painful wounds. The warm dribble of blood cascades down my neck, and he watches the slow fall of it until it falls between my tits, the tiny silk pajamas barely covering them.
With painstaking slowness, he leans in, laying his tongue flat against my sternum and licking a long stripe up my front, all the way up to where his hand caresses my throat. A filthy, depraved moan leaves my mouth, the warm softness of his tongue against my skin sending sharp, almost painful spikes of pleasure between my legs.
Standing up to his full height, he angles my head up forcefully. "Open your mouth."
I stare up at him, dumbfounded. He couldn't possibly have just said what I think he said.
Squeezing my neck, he repeats, "Open your fucking mouth, Isla."
Accepting my fate, I do as he says, opening as wide as I can with his bruising, harsh grip around my throat, sticking my tongue out.
The second I do, he groans again, flexing his hands against me like he can't help it. I don't dare move, scared of breaking this spell we're both stuck in together.
The second the spit hits my tongue, the flavors of him and whiskey and the unmistakable copper of my blood bloom across my mouth, making my eyes flutter at the utter indecency and depravity. I only have a split second to savor it before his lips are on mine, sucking my tongue into his mouth as if he needs every drop of my blood and can't let even thesmallestbit go to waste. His tongue sweeps against mine, his lips harshly commanding mine open to take every second of this wild torture.
When I break away to breathe, he moves his mouth down my throat, rubbing his lips against the slow trickle of warmth still cascading down it, making an absolute mess of us both.
"I did watch you," he coos against my skin. "I watched you take one of those toys and fuck yourself with it over and over again, screaming and sighing and so fucking gorgeous."
A humiliated and very horny whimper escapes me again as he continues to taunt against my blood and sweat-slicked skin.
The fingers not wrapped around my throatfind their way down, sinking underneath the pajama pants. I beg my mouth to tell him to stop, tell him he can't touch me, but I'm so fucking needy I think I might actually cry if he doesn't.
"What were you thinking about, my little hunter?" he asks, his tonemaking it clearhe already knows.
I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of the answer.
He chuckles, biting my earlobe and tugging on the flesh as his fingers find their destination between my legs. "You're so fucking wet, Isla— Christ." A big finger teases my entrance, swirling the wetness back up to my clit, "Tell me you don't think about me when you make yourself come."
Against my will, memories of doing just that flash across my mind, and I bite down on my tongue to keep the truth from escaping.
Another wicked laugh escapes, the warm air hitting my neck and leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Come on, little hunter. Open that pretty mouth and lie to me." His fingers taunt and tease me, never giving me the satisfaction of rubbing where I need him to or filling me the way my body craves.
"I don—" The words are cut off with a choking moan when one of his fingers finally slides inside my pussy, the stretch already incredible as he pumps it in and out, a groan so depraved it's nearly a growl rattling his chest.
Finger working me slowly into a mess, he lifts his head to gaze down at me, lust written in the lines across his face, the swirling red in his eyes dancing fervently, crimson smeared across his lower face, both dry and still wet smears of my blood creating a macabre scene that leaves me both terrified and delirious with need.
"Come on, Isla. You can do better than that," he taunts, adding a second finger and rubbing his thumb against my clit, forcing a cry from my throat. "Try again, baby."
Baby.
Holy fuck.
I've never really liked that word, but dripping with condescension from his mouth, it's the filthiest, sexiest thing I've ever heard.
"I don't," I finally manage to whimper out, even while my hips move with him, riding his hand like a wanton slut.
"Oh, you don't, huh?" He looks down at where his fingers fuck into me, moaning at the wet, sloppy sounds. "Well, you definitely will now." A third finger squeezes in, and I scream, the stretch nearly unbearable with how large his hand is, and the motherfucker just chuckles again, enjoying every second of how strung out and desperate I am to come.
Leaning in, he grunts into my ear, all pretense of laughter and teasing gone as he doubles his efforts, pulling a choked scream out of me with every thrust of his hand, "You'll never get off again without thinking about me and how I stretch this naughty little cunt out with just my fingers. You'll spend every night fucking yourself wondering if you could even take my cock since your pretty little pussy struggled just to take these."
The cruelty and hatred behind his words make me hot all over, full of both shame and need. I know he's right. This moment will haunt me forever. But I'm so close, nothing he says would deter me from soaking in the pained pleasure he's giving me. A sobbing fuck you slips out before I can stop it, and for a second, I wonder if he didn't even hear me.
But his response comes right when he wants it to. "Yeah, fuck you too, sweetheart. Now come all over my fingers. Make a fucking mess for me."
Pleasure washes over me immediately, drowning out any embarrassmentI might feelat his cruelty. The only things that matter right now is riding out the orgasm, wave after wave as I cry out, and the squelching of my cunt as it squeezes around his fingers almost painfully. His groan leaves goosebumps all over my skin as his hand works me through it.
Overstimulation sets in, and I try to push him away, but hekeeps working, wanting the discomfort, craving it, needing it as he watches my face twist in agony.
When he finally releases me, my legs collapse, and I fall to the floor. He looks down impassively, licking the mess off his fingers with depraved, smug satisfaction. His eyes drift closed, savoring the taste of me.
He squats down, elbows on his knees in a gesture so condescending, I want to slap him, but my body refuses to cooperate, still coming down from the high. Running a finger through the trickle on my neck, he stares at it and takes another lick, like he needs just one more drop.
"What did we learn today?" he asks.When I refuse to answer he does so for me,"Locked doors mean do not enter. Don't do it again. I've given you free reign of every room that you canmake use ofhere,this isn't one of them."
Then he walks away, leaving me literally bleeding on the cold floor, feeling even worse than I did when I found out he was fucking following me.
How the fuck did that just happen? I discovered he did something fucked up, and somehow I'm the one who ends up a ball of shame and self-loathing?
Barely containing the tears trying to escape, I tiptoe to the shower and wash off all the remnants of blood and the release between my thighs, wincing at the sensitivity.When I reenter my room insweats,there'sa bottle of water, ibuprofen, and two littleheart-shapedbandagessittingon my table next to my phone.
The dam finally breaks, and I sink to the floor, sobbing.
I've never felt so filthy, so used. I've been degraded and fucked every way someone could possibly imagine, yet I've never felt wrecked like I do right now. Like he stripped me bare, took every bit of my soul, and left nothing behind for me to continue living.
Everything he's said and done up until this point has been manageable, but using my body like it's a weapon against me is fucking sick.
He's fucking sick.
And if he thinks he can get away with it,hehas no idea who he's dealing with. Sex is the language I speak more fluently than any other, the currency I've used to pay for emotional intimacy for years.
If anyone can turn it into a torture method, it's fucking me. Whetherhe'lladmit it or not, Eamon wants to fuck me so badly it's turning him reckless, and that's something I can use to my advantage.
I let the tears fall, let them turn into a furious tidal wave. Let my feelings have me, just for today. And I'll start the repayment for all this bullshit tomorrow.