41. Venetia
A wave of warmth washes over me, a tingling sensation that spreads like a gentle fire across my skin. My body melts into the mattress, the line between dream and reality blurring. For the first time, the liminal space feels not terrifying but strangely comforting.
A moan escapes my lips, and I arch my back as I feel something wet sliding in slow circles across my pussy. Through the fog of sleep, my hand instinctively reaches out, and in an instant, I’m enveloped in the comforting familiarity of his hair.
Gradually, the remnants of sleep dissipate, pulling me into reality. Fragments of yesterday rush through my hungover mind—I woke up to a thousand-and-one roses on my doorstep, and since then, my resolve has crumbled. Conflicting thoughts battled inside my head, each louder than the last. Instead of preparing for the evening, I spent hours just staring at the damn flowers.
There was no card attached, but I didn’t need to be a genius to know who sent them. West, ever the stubborn prick, decided to play a game—and without a doubt, he won. He showed me with this gesture that I deserve better, even when it comes to small things like receiving flowers.
I couldn’t concentrate at all. My house is enormous, but the roses seemed to occupy every inch of space. No matter where I went, my eyes would catch their vibrant color. Even when I closed my eyes, their scent invaded my senses, refusing to let me forget them.
The irony is that I’ve always hated flowers. I still don’t care for the little bouquet Eli sent. Yet, somehow, the roses West gave me struck a chord. Their raw beauty, deep color, and scent—a strange mix of calm and unease—were something I couldn’t shake off. It’s probably fucking ridiculous to admit, but they’ve become my favorite flowers—the ones I can deal with, at least.
I didn’t know how to handle all the feelings West evoked in me, so I did what I do best—I muffled every single one. I swallowed my Xanax before heading to the party, then excused myself to get drunk with Grace. I don’t even remember how I made it back home.
What I do remember is that I couldn’t find West when I was ready to leave. His car wasn’t outside when I went looking for him, and he never answered my calls. The betrayal stung so deeply that I broke down in tears.
After that, everything became a blur.
Now, he’s back, and instead of feeling angry for leaving me, I’m just relieved that he’s here. “West,” I whisper drowsily, my eyes still closed as I caress his hair. “Where have you been? Why did you leave?”
He kisses my pussy, and I bite my lower lip, feeling a rush of euphoric tingles from his touch. This is the best way to wake up.
“Are you mad at me, baby?” he asks, his words sending a vibration through my core. I can feel how wet I am, how my juices slide down his lips as he brings me to life. “Mad that I left without saying goodbye?”
That’s strange. Why would he need to say goodbye? We were supposed to go back to my place together.
I try to move my legs, but something holds me in place. As I pry my eyes open, I glance down at him, then shift my gaze to my ankles. I’m spread open before his face, while each ankle is tied to the edges of the bed with rope.
A strange heat swirls in my belly at the sight, and I attempt to squeeze my legs, already knowing it will be futile. A soft, breathy sound rises in my chest as my body tenses with desire, only to be met with the realization that it’s not possible. We’ve never done anything like this before, and it probably should scare me—how he takes from me without asking first. But here’s the thing between me and West—we don’t need words to understand our needs. He knows I enjoy this.
Because I trust him. It sounds odd and ridiculous, but it’s the truth. The memory of our fights still stings, each harsh word a jagged shard in my heart. Yet beneath the scars, the comfort lingers—a quiet understanding that we’ve both tasted the bitterness of our cruelty. From these crumbles, trust has grown—a shared sense of vulnerability that binds us together.
“I’m not mad,” I finally say, a stupid smile breaking across my face. His tongue tickles me pleasantly as he alternates between sliding inside and just caressing my folds. “Not at all.”
“Mmm.” He pulls back from my pussy, his lips glistening with my essence. I bite the corner of my mouth, desire growing within me at the sight. “How does this feel, baby girl?” he asks, his hands gliding over my thighs before traveling to my bound ankles. I whimper, every part of me feeling incredibly sensitive as I try to clench my legs together again. “You’re so desperate to come, aren’t you?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I throw my head back, the world swirling in a dizzying blur. “Yeah,” I choke out, the vibrations spreading in sharp jolts across my legs. “I want to?—”
He rises and leans in, his face drawing closer to mine. Our lips are barely apart—a gentle push, and we’ll kiss. “And if I tell you to touch yourself,” he murmurs against my mouth, his warm breath tickling my skin, “what are you going to do but obey, huh?”
“West—”
“Do it,” he cuts in, his voice rough. The command sends a pleasurable tingle up my spine, causing my lips to part in delight. “Show me how much you want to come.”
A shiver runs through me, not from the cold, but from the amplified sensations flooding my body. Every touch is a spark, every whisper a caress. It’s a strange blend of pleasure and discomfort. He’s not pushing, not forcing, just giving, and it feels almost tender, almost loving. But the reality of my bound ankles pulls me back to the raw truth of it.
It feels… perfect . A perfect balance of pleasure and pain that he keeps showing me.
The heat in my belly intensifies, a slow burn that escalates with every move. My breath becomes a series of sharp gasps, my heart thundering against my ribs. His eyes hold me captive, a silent command to keep going, and I obey, pushing myself toward the edge, toward the inevitable release that threatens to consume me as I circle my clit.
“Gorgeous girl,” he taunts, licking his lips. His eyes burn into me, hot and intense. I feel like I’m under a microscope, every flaw and imperfection magnified. Yet, in the heat of his gaze, I also feel a strange sense of liberation—a feeling of being truly seen and appreciated. He’s the only one who looks at me like this, like I’m something rare, beautiful, and his . “And so desperate. It would be a shame if you stopped, wouldn’t it?” He brushes his knuckles across my rosy cheek. “So stop .”
I’m teetering on the edge of oblivion, and just as a scream builds in my throat, he forcefully shoves my hand away, robbing me of my orgasm. Pain radiates through me in a powerful wave as I cry out, my legs instinctively trying to clench together. The knots around my ankles tighten, amplifying the agony. He laughs—a cruel, low sound that sends a quiver of unease down my spine, reminding me of his true nature: a jagged evil that feeds off the pain and suffering of others.
“West,” I call his name, fully aware that he won’t listen. I’m at his mercy now, and if he wants to toy with me, I’m powerless to stop him.
Grabbing my cheeks, he silences any words that might escape my mouth. “God, look at you.” He tilts my face from side to side, taking in every reaction he draws from me. “Are you going to beg me for what you need?”
If I weren’t so aroused, I’d tell him to go fuck himself. But at this moment? “Please, let me come,” I beg, the desperation in my voice prompting an amused roll of his eyes. “I’m begging you.”
His grip on my face loosens as he roughly shoves me aside and glances down at my pussy, seemingly weighing his next move. “You want me to help you?”
A flicker of discomfort from the way he sounds tries to pierce through the lust clouding my mind, but it dissolves into it. His tone carries an edge, like something’s off, but I can’t summon the energy to care, so I nod weakly. “Yeah?—”
“You want me to lick this pussy?” He places two fingers on my slit, dragging them up before slowly sliding back down, creating a slick, obscene sound. “You like it when I do that to you?”
“Yes, yes, God ,” I whimper, his dirty words sending shudders of pleasure through me. I’ve never had anyone speak to me quite like West does. “Please, please?—”
My pleas are abruptly silenced when he finally presses his mouth to my pussy, lapping at it with such passion that my eyes roll back. A deep groan bursts from my chest, and my body begins to shake as euphoria gradually spreads into every corner of my mind.
I’ve never wanted to come so desperately in my entire life.
When he sinks his teeth into my clit and gives it a sharp nip, I finally break. Convulsions wrack my body, and my back arches as a surge of high-voltage electricity floods my veins. I scream so loudly I’m sure people on the street can hear just how good he makes me feel. The bliss seems endless as aftershocks throb against my skull while I slowly come down.
“That was good,” he says, and somehow, I muster the strength to look at him. He’s a complete mess as he licks the remnants of my juices from his lips, igniting a fresh wave of desire within me. “You know why?”
My mind, clouded and slow, trips over his question. “W-why?” I stammer, my voice laced with confusion.
His gaze lingers on me for a moment before shifting back to my pussy. His touch is anything but gentle as he gathers my juices, his fingers pressing roughly against my skin and smearing them along my inner thighs, uncaring of my lingering sensitivity.
A smile slowly spreads across his face as he shakes his head. “Because this pussy is the best part of you, baby,” he says, nodding at the mess he’s drawn across my skin. “The one that makes you bearable .”
A fiery rush of heat crashes over me at his words. I don’t need to think long before the memory of my conversation with Grace invades my mind.
He heard it. And now, he’s mirroring my words.
He keeps looking at me, completely unbothered, as the bliss evaporates from my face without a trace. Panic builds, and I begin shaking my head, not even sure what I’m trying to accomplish. “No, West,” I choke out, watching as he stands up. I scramble onto my ass, frantic to pull my T-shirt down and hide the mess he’s made. “I didn’t?—”
“Mean it?” he finishes for me, hurt flashing in his sapphire eyes despite the fake smile he wears. “But I do. I do mean it, Venetia.”
My skin prickles with goosebumps, and a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. The world seems to tilt on its axis, the familiar sounds and sights blurring into a chaotic symphony of fear. My lungs burn with each shallow breath, and a deep, aching tremor vibrates through my body.
“Please, West, just listen to me,” I beg, my hands working to loosen the knot on my left ankle first. “Untie me. I… I can explain.”
“Explain what?” He takes a step back, and I struggle harder to break free, but the knot is too tight. It’s just too fucking tight. “Everything is just the way it needs to be. I gave you what you wanted—the only thing that fucking mattered to you.” He narrows his eyes, and a laugh bubbles up from his chest, though the sound lacks any humor. “Or is it my cock you wanted? Because this isn’t enough for you, is it?”
Fuck. No, no, no, no.
“No, I?—”
“You don’t have to say much, Venetia. Just tell me you fucking want it,” he cuts in. “Tell me that all you want is to fuck me because that’s the only thing we’ll ever be good at—and nothing more.”
With each word he speaks, my heart bleeds deeper, the sting cutting through open wounds. “It’s not true!” I screech, feeling my muscles growing tired from all the effort. “I was—I was drunk and high when I said that?—”
“Don’t fucking give me that,” he snaps, ignoring the pathetic sounds I make along with my feeble attempts. “These weak fucking excuses. How are you even brave enough to blame it on drugs?”
The scent of his cologne, usually a calming aroma, now feels like a suffocating fog. His hand clenches into a fist before he nervously rubs the spot beneath his nose, his lips curling into unsettling smiles, up and down. And suddenly, the realization crashes into me, shattering the fragile remains of safety.
He’s high. This was the reason for my unease. I didn’t pay much attention earlier, but now I see the signs—the large pupils, the rapid breathing, the unnatural expression on his face, and the way he fidgets as if he wants to crawl out of his skin.
“You relapsed?” I ask weakly, my voice cracking on the second word. My vision dims, the sharp lines of reality dissolving into a hazy, indistinct mess. “You’ve been sober for?—”
“Stop!” The sound of his scream makes me flinch, my body reacting on its own. “Stop making that fucking voice and acting as if you care about this!”
Despite all my words and actions, I care. I don’t know why, but I do. The feeling broke through the hatred and disgust, and I need him to realize that. I just want him to hear me. “But I do?—”
“I said fucking STOP!”
I let out a shriek as he grabs the chair from beside my table and throws it against the wall at the end of the room. My hands shoot up to cover my face, tears pouring down my cheeks in streams of sorrow.
He doesn’t want to hear me.
“Untie me,” I plead, holding onto the fragments of my common sense. My breathing is labored, the rock in my chest growing heavier with each second, and the salt of my tears tightening my skin as I refuse to give up, despite my strength wavering with every passing moment. “Please, untie me, West. I… I just need to touch you.”
My throat tightens, words dying in my mouth. The panic, a churning storm within, erupts. I try to clutch at him, but he stands rigid, a statue of indifference. His breathing, quick and shallow, is the only sign of his awareness as I’m left to drown in the waves of my terror.
Yesterday, I was angry and confused by everything he made me feel, and what I said to Grace wasn’t true. It’s just my nature to push away and deny any goodness that tries to enter my life. I’m not trying to excuse my behavior. I just don’t want him to think I feel this way about him. I want him to hear the truth, to explain it, to say the words that will make him change his mind and help me.
But the words won’t come.
I feel like I’ve lost my voice. The passage of time doesn’t matter; the claws of my past will always reach me, dragging me down and keeping me trapped in the shell they created. The shadows are too dark, too consuming for my fractured mind to overcome, and I know I’ll never find the strength to escape.
“I’m sorry.”
Weak pleas tumble from my lips, devolving into indistinct croaks and whimpers, as if I’m a broken record. For a fleeting moment, a spark of mercy seems to flicker in his glistening eyes, but it vanishes when his face twitches, contorting into an expression I never thought I’d see from him.
Disgust.
He was the only one who found beauty in me, the only one who stayed despite the venom of my hatred and anger.
And now, he looks at me with the disgust I always knew was waiting beneath.
He leaves, the slam of the door a physical blow to my already shattered spirit. I open my mouth to scream for him to come back, but only a strangled gasp escapes. The words, the pleas, the accusations—they’re all locked away, swallowed by a wave of despair that crashes over me.
Shame, regret, and guilt, swirl together, a vortex of self-loathing that pulls me down, down, down. I feel myself dissolving, fading away, the glimpse of hope slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.
Because I know that this time, he won’t come back for me.