Chapter 14 Violet #2
It makes me think of my foster mother accusing me of dressing like a whore and tempting my stepfather. When I was eleven.
Really, took me a lot of effort to step out of my comfort zone tonight. My thoughts need to focus and stop drifting elsewhere—to black-inked forearms, cold brown eyes, and a gruff voice that wraps around my spine like barbed wire.
After skimming my fingers on my wrist a few more times, I’m about to leave the bathroom.
The door bursts open and a tall figure appears.
My heart lunges, and my lips part as Jude walks in.
No, he walks me back.
His hard chest slams against mine, and he’s still striding in. I have no choice but to step back or he’ll topple me over.
His gaze is dark, so dark under the ambient red restroom light, and my hands shake around the strap of my bag.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in a low tone as the door slams shut, locking me in with my worst nightmare.
“The question is, what are you doing here, Violet?” The rough timbre of his words steals my breath, my thoughts, my sanity.
Jude’s deep voice, like all men with similar voices, puts me on edge. But his does something more. Something I refuse to acknowledge, no matter how violent the war in my stomach gets or how many goosebumps erupt on my skin.
I jump when my back hits the wall, and he looms over me like a threat, or maybe a curse—I’m not even sure anymore. But I’m once again hit by how tall and massive he is. He truly is the tallest man I’ve ever seen.
The most dangerous, too.
Jude lifts the spaghetti strap of my camisole with his index finger, and even though the contact with my skin is brief, I catch fire. And just like that, inappropriate images of these same lean fingers someplace else rush through me like an aphrodisiac.
“It seems you have the very wrong idea about how this works.” He lifts the strap again, and the fabric rubs against my nipples, making them hard, or maybe it’s his body against mine. “Just because I lengthened the leash doesn’t mean you get to roam around as you please.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“You’re whatever the fuck I want you to be.” He places his arm above the top of my head and leans down, his brown eyes like orbs of violent intent. “Your life is mine, remember?”
“Then stop the empty threats and take it.”
“I told you that won’t be happening. At least, not yet.”
“Then leave me alone! Whether I date or fuck or work or breathe has nothing to do with you.”
I thought he was intense a moment ago, but now his face looks taut, and his hand lands on my shoulder as the strap falls to my arm. “Did you just say fuck?”
I gulp. His voice sounds so low, it tightens my stomach with that uncomfortable feeling again.
“Answer me. Did you wear makeup and this thing—” He tightens his grip on the strap. “—to seduce the four-eyed asshole so he’d fuck you?”
“So what if I did? I told you that’s none of—”
His knee slides between my legs, pressing up against my core that’s been aching since he showed up. I grab onto the wall with both hands, my bag slipping down to the floor, its contents clanking on the tiles.
“Do you believe that little fucker would give you what you want? What you need?” His lips hover so close to mine, if I just tilt forward—
No. What the hell am I thinking?
“He might not be filthy rich or a popular athlete, but at least he’s not a murderous stalker,” I say with a miniscule bravado. “He also happens to be my type.”
He doesn’t like that last bit, not even a little, because he’s increasing the pressure against my core, and I’m spiraling.
Because should it feel so damn good?
“Your type, huh?”
“Yeah. I prefer nerdy, normal guys.”
“You’ll prefer whoever the fuck I tell you to.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Fuck how it works.” He moves his hand to my nape and fists my hair, forcing my head back as he slides his knee back and forth, back and forth.
The friction is maddening, pulling at the same strings from the other night. Dark pleasure I don’t want to give in to mounts and mounts until I’m delirious.
“You’ll do as you’re told.” The low growl of his voice makes me shudder.
I glare at him. “Get a pet for that.”
“I have you, so why bother?”
“Just get out of my life, Jude! You don’t get to invade my space, then disappear and reappear as you wish. Just let me fucking be!”
“We’re making progress if I’m disturbing you to the point that you’re yelling.” He rubs his knee against my pants and I purse my lips, fighting, trying my best not to succumb to these strange feelings.
I know he can feel how hot I am, even though clothes separate our skin.
And I don’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing me like this.
But as the pressure mounts, my hips jerk uncontrollably, stirring a type of abandon I didn’t know sex offered.
My feelings and perception of sex are skewed. Maybe because I witnessed it my whole childhood in a negative light, where men used a woman, not caring how she felt. Or because it was transactional. Or because the men I’ve had sex with have never made me feel worshiped.
But, at any rate, my first real pleasure was on that kitchen counter, and my body’s felt awakened ever since, thirsting for…more.
After that time, darker fantasies I used to repress invaded my dreams and in all of them, there were these dark-brown eyes. I wanted to write about them so bad, but knowing Jude would find my most embarrassing thoughts and moments, I just kept them in my subconscious.
My dreams.
But it doesn’t help when he corners me—it triggers those illicit fantasies.
The need for something.
Anything.
Jude lowers his mouth so that his hot breaths skim my ear. “Here’s how it’ll go, Violet. You go back to your sorry excuse for a date, thank him for his time, and fuck off home.”
“You don’t tell me what to do,” I snap.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Do as you’re told. Don’t make me intervene.”
And then he pulls away, releasing me completely and vanishing as silently as he appeared.
I slide down to the floor, my knees shaking and my heart nearly lunging into my throat, and my pussy still throbs with an unsatisfied ache.
My limbs barely hold me, but I stand up with a renewed sense of rebellion.
I was losing interest in Toby earlier, but I’ve found it now.
Screw Jude Callahan.
On a cactus.
Until he bleeds out.
Amen.