Chapter 19
Creed
Millie’s already at the gym when I enter. She waits on the bench by the boxing bags, looking up at the sound of my footsteps.
Say it, baby. Say my name.
She doesn’t, but those incredible, hazel-blue eyes latch onto mine and the softest little blush colors her cheekbones. I’ve never met another girl who blushes as adorably as Millie.
Everything about her is cuter than cute and it drives the monster inside me crazy. It makes the things I imagined doing to her last night, with my fingers tightly wrapped around my hard cock, absolutely criminal.
Millie looks delicate. More than a foot shorter than me, all soft lines and softer curves, full cheeks, full lips, gorgeous eyes. She looks like she’d shatter if I pushed too hard... and yet I can’t stop my filthy fantasies.
I can’t stop picturing her lying on her back, head just off the edge of my bed while I feed my cock deep into her throat, watching it bulge every time I bottom out.
I can’t stop picturing her eyes fill with tears while she gags, or her tied wrists and ankles, body sprawled over my thighs, ass up, writhing while I wring out every ounce of pleasure from her with my fingers.
Fuck, there are so many things I want to do to her. So many ways to ruin this girl and wreck that sweet innocent aura.
Cracking my neck left and right, I pull my head out of the gutter before every ounce of blood in my body travels south and drop my bag by the bench.
“Started without me?” I ask, jutting my chin at the heaviest boxing bag swinging back and forth.
She doesn’t reply and the calmness she induced with Eli yesterday is annihilated in a flash.
What the fuck changed again? Why the silent treatment? I fucking hate silence and she uses it against me like a sharpened blade. It’s one of the reasons I imagined punishing her last night.
The way she dismantles me piece by piece without even trying is another. I want to break her for it. I want to regain a shred of control by making her beg for me, for release, for five minutes to catch her breath.
I crouch beside her, rummaging through my bag for knuckle wraps. She sits very still, her skin-tight leggings hitting high up her waist, a matching training bra cutting off below her boobs.
They’re not big and that’s its own torture.
I was never into large breasts. Small enough to fit comfortably in my hands are perfect, and Millie’s tits look to be an exact match for my palms.
She shifts, pulling one hand out from under her. Slowly, she lifts it higher, ghosting her warm fingers over my forearm. I look up, catching her pouty mouth curling into an uncertain smile.
When I don’t stop her, she moves higher, lightly tracing her knuckles up the side of my neck.
Fuck, she’s not making this easier. After years of associating touch with control, pain, and coercion, I don’t know what to do with this softness she offers, but... the ever-present riot of contradicting thoughts buzzing inside my head dies down.
Goosebumps dot my nape while her eyes follow her fingers as they skim along my jaw before pulling back slowly.
“Was that hi?” I ask.
She pinches her lips, that adorable blush darkening a touch as she nods. I angle my body her way, placing both hands on her ankles. Just like yesterday, I drag up slowly, loving the way her breath hitches. It always does when I’m close.
She doesn’t move, watching my calloused fingers and split knuckles discover more of her. Calves, knees, thighs.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Or why. But I needed to touch her so... here we are.
My eyes devour every inch of skin she can’t hide.
The dip of her neck, collarbones, the column of her throat.
My brain short-circuits, filling with enticing images I’ve been trying so damn hard to bottle up.
The corks start flying, my body humming with everything I pushed down since the moment I first saw her.
I can’t put a finger on what it is about this girl, but she’s... fuck she’s an addiction.
I cup her hips, fingers splaying wide and pressing in hard as I tug her a little closer, our minty breaths mingling. She doesn’t inch away, submitting to my touch, to whatever this pull between us is, growing stronger and unbearable by the minute.
Her lips part ever so softly as she inhales a shaky breath. Her pulse is wild in her neck, a hastened little thrum I’d kill to feel under my tongue.
“Morning, baby,” I say, pinching her chin. “Ready for your second lesson?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, then wets her lips with the tip of her tongue like she’s gearing up to speak but words don’t come. If I weren’t breathing in the scent of her skin, it’d piss me off, but I am, the sweetness rewiring my brain.
She tips her chin down, nuzzling her face into my palm, eyes hooding over for a second before she retreats, straightening her spine as if she’s just remembered herself.
I could push. God knows I want to grab her face and close those pouty lips with mine. I’m dying to slam her against the wall and fuck her raw. But that’d be wrong.
Dropping her hands, I reach behind her back, pulling a pair of boxing gloves off the shelf. She immediately jerks her hands away, pushing them under her butt. A silent no.
“It’s safer this way,” I insist.
She shakes her head, narrowing her eyes, that defiant part of her peeking through. I guess she craves the sting, the feeling of earning control despite the cost.
“Fine. A little pain never killed nobody.”
That’s probably not true.
Satisfied, Millie extends her arm and I run the pad of my thumb along her scabbed knuckles.
“If you don’t reopen those today, you’re doing it wrong.”
I wrap her hand quickly. Hyde learned the skill overnight when the fight club started, but after a while, I began doing it myself. Since then, I’ve done it so many times I could wrap Millie while blindfolded.
“Close your fist,” I say, checking it isn’t too tight. “Good. Now the other.”
Once we’re both ready, I yank my t-shirt over my head, tossing it aside. Just like every time I’m shirtless, Millie’s eyes trace the ink scrawled over my chest and arms. She’s particularly drawn to the snake curling around my neck.
“Shoes and socks off,” I instruct, removing mine.
And something about seeing her barefoot, hands wrapped, hair up in a swinging ponytail turns the filth that’s been drowning my mind into something gentler.
The tears welling in her eyes as she swallows my cock dry out.
Instead of using her mouth to get off, I use mine to get her off and ready for me.
Instead of her head hanging from the edge of the bed, I’m crawling up her body, touching, kissing, tasting the crook of her neck.
My forehead meets hers and I stare into those mesmerizing eyes, pushing into her slowly.
So fucking slowly my spine tingles just thinking about the sweet torture.
This is getting out of hand. Whether I imagine fucking her hard and fast or savoring every second, it’s all messed up given who she is. I owe Hyde my life. I owe him for forgiving me. I owe him respect and touching Millie would be far from respectful...
Forcing myself to refocus on reality.
Teaching Millie how to fight should earn me a few brownie points with Hyde. I still feel like I’m toeing some invisible line where he’s concerned. Like one wrong move will tip me over the wrong side and I’ll lose him forever.
“Remember your stance,” I say, watching Millie stop before the medium-sized bag, hands up, elbows tucked in, feet shoulder-width apart. “Good. Now send your demons back to hell.”
She exhales a long breath with a ghost of a smile.
Determination lines her face next and instead of sending her demons back to hell, she fucking summons hell right here, throwing one hard punch after another.
The bag swings forcefully while Millie lands her fists, silent in her rage.
Nothing but her hastening breaths and the thud of skin on leather echoes around the empty gym.
I take a stance beside her, in front of the heaviest bag, and follow her lead, ramming my knuckles hard and fast. I’ve always pictured Jeremiah’s face while letting out my rage, but there have been a few notable exceptions.
That guy in freshman year who broke my nose.
Then the guy who fucked Noah’s girl in sophomore year.
She was as much to blame as he was, but I couldn’t fathom battering a girl, even inside my head, so I imagined him.
Then last year, it was the fucker who landed Millie in a hospital bed, IVs snaking from her arms, her stomach pumped.
Me. That’s who the fucker was. Me.
But also Evan. Though picturing him was tricky. I’ve never seen his face, because I respected Hyde’s wishes. He asked me not to dig, not to watch the videos and I agreed.
Mainly because I don’t think I’d rein the need to kill him if I saw what he’d done. Hyde watched it all before Evan’s website was taken down. He sat through every single clip, and his recollections were enough to turn my stomach and awaken a burning need for vengeance on his behalf.
Stealing a glance at Millie, I imagine, not for the first time, what Evan looks like.
I have nothing to go by save for a few details from Hyde.
Rich boy, hockey player, both parents are lawyers.
I honed the image, borrowing from teen college movies.
A stereotypical hunk. The popular kid in a varsity jacket, shades pushed high into his beach-blond hair.
I ram my fist into the bag over and over until sweat breaks out across my back and blood stains the white wraps. Millie’s panting beside me, chest heaving, sweat glistening in the valley between her breasts, her wraps as bloody as mine.
I drop my fists and catch her bag, calling a break.
She collapses onto the bench, pulling two bottles of water from her bag. She hands me one and I drink half, then splash the other half over my head, shaking it off.
Millie yelps, shuddering all over as water droplets hit her skin. Her hand flies over her mouth, mortified that she made a sound.
Pumped by my murderous thoughts, her reaction only boils my blood further. She said my name yesterday. I’d hoped for more words today. Hi, yes, no.
Eli. Eli. Eli.
I blew my load all over my stomach, recalling how my name sounded on her lips... soft, quiet, fucking perfect.
And now she’s mute again and it grates twice as badly.
“You’re starting to really piss me off,” I grit out, dropping the empty bottle in the nearest trash can. “You speak to Hyde, Noah, Dash, Abby... but not me. What’s that about?”
She starts tearing the label off her bottle.
“What the fuck are you punishing me for, Millie?”
Her eyes snap to mine, confusion and a hint of nerves clouding her features. She pinches her lips and swallows hard, then lets out a shallow, shaky breath. She holds my gaze, refusing to give me anything. Not even a fucking gesture.
It’s clear she won’t speak, so I grab my t-shirt and pull it over my head. Normally, I’d stay another hour, alternate between proper exercise, weightlifting, running, and throwing my fists, but this space is too suffocating for us both.
I don’t even bother unwrapping my wrists. I’m in a rush to get the fuck out of here as I sling my gym bag over my shoulder.
“I’m here every morning from five-thirty to six-thirty. Unless you want to explain what I’ve done to deserve this silent treatment, make sure you’re not here.”
I don’t wait for anything else. It’s not like she’ll talk to me. Something unpleasant coils in my chest as I move toward the exit, every step beating loudly against the floor.
Before I push the double door open, the sound of her small fists ramming against the bag reaches my ears.
I make the mistake of looking back. She’s throwing punches like she’s deranged, posture and stance forgotten, chin trembling.
She’ll fucking hurt herself.
Growling under my breath, I turn around, crowd her back, and grab her wrists before she throws another punch.
“Stance,” I say, kicking her feet apart. “Elbows in.” I uncurl her fist and curl it the right way. “Thumb out or you’ll fuck it up. I don’t give a shit how pissed off, sad, or overwhelmed you are. Think before you throw your hands.”
Shaking me off, she spins and slams her open palms against my chest, tears dancing in her eyes, anger twisting her features.
She’s a mess.
From smiling to fuming to crying and murderous.
I can’t keep up. I doubt she can, either, but I won’t just fucking stand here and take it. Grasping her arms, I forcefully turn her back toward the bag.
“You’re not using me as your outlet, Millie.”
I crowd her further, my back flush to her chest, the top of her head level with my collarbones.
I curl my fists around hers and guide her hands, throwing punches.
My fists thud against the leather with much more force than hers did, but she doesn’t stop me.
I do, afraid I’ll crush her delicate bones.
“Hit it,” I clip. “Harder.”
She rams her right hook into the leather.
“Harder.”
Left, right, left again. Harder. Faster.
“Imagine the person who hurt you most. Imagine they are the bag and hit harder.”
I don’t move away. I should but that’d mean denying myself the heat of her rage seeping into my body. The bag swings, and she whimpers, hissing through the pain of her torn knuckles splitting further, blood soaking the wraps.
She keeps going until her body’s too exhausted, and she collapses onto the bench, shaking with the effort. She doesn’t look up, tears sliding down her nose as she dips her head low.
“Don’t forget your stance again,” I tell her, already marching away. “Next time, I won’t be here to correct you.”