Chapter 20
Jolie—present day
Iwasn’t in Woodrow’s arms when I woke up, no longer in the position we’d slept, but I was still on his side of the bed, wrapped in soft sheets. The Kindle that we’d been reading was on my pillow, flashing its recommendations on the black screen.
He’d pulled me in close to read to me because I was struggling to see the words with the alcohol still in my system.
The story was a dark romance, the second I was whizzing through since my time in this much fancier captivity.
A story of a boy with mental health issues and a girl who’d been trafficked.
It was us. . . characters we both related to, so much so, the book unnerved me.
But I couldn’t let him stop reading until sleep pulled me away.
I looked around the room. The glamour from yesterday had faded. The pretty walls and mirrors stained by the lipstick that had been bought for me.
The words, “DON’T HURT HER!” were strung across the walls like decorations. Banners for a reunion I wasn’t ready to attend. I took in the room, and my eyes found more words, “SHE’S HURTING, TOO.”
I stepped from the bed, the soft carpet cushioning the soles of my aching feet, still sore from my high heels.
I wobbled, and after getting up and out in a single second, my head screamed at me for the stupid action. I’d forgotten how alcohol tasted. I’d forgotten the aftermath. I only remembered the drugs. . . needles and pills and powders, given to me to corrupt me into the perfect slave.
I brushed those thoughts from my head as I rubbed at my temple, trying to disperse the headache building.
I continued towards the bathroom door, my eyes still scanning around, wondering how we’d explain the state of this room to the hotel staff when the maids arrive.
When would that actually be? No one had been here since we arrived; they took the “do not disturb” notice on the door handle more seriously than most.
Deep mocha writing was everywhere, making my stomach somersault. Would we be fined? Arrested?
Oh, even the thought of another cell made me feel ill.
More thoughts came, and I began thinking if the police would be looking for Woodrow after the events at the dessert parlor.
The sound of shower water distracted me. And then I saw them. . . the words on the door. The writing not as perfect, less controlled, like everything else about him. The repeated words cut off mid-sentence. . . “Don’t hurt. . .” the word her, that always followed was replaced by, “Fuck you both.”
I tried the handle, my fingers shaking more than I’d have liked. To my surprise, it opened. I stepped inside, thinking that Hell would have blocked the door somehow if he didn’t want me to get in.
The idea of this being a trap terrified me.
I looked back, seeing nothing blocking the main entrance, and decided to proceed.
The room was misted and warm. . . the perfect definition of hot and steamy. Hell hadn’t heard me come in, hadn’t heard my breathing pick up as I stood in the room, watching what he was doing.
His back was to me, but it was obvious what he was doing by the way his left arm jerked.
His breathing was heavy, heard over the raining water that poured over his body.
He looked like a God here, and if he had woken up as another version of himself, I’d have happily bowed down and worshipped. I didn’t know what it was, but something about seeing Woodrow cry, about hearing what he’d done for our baby, brought back feelings I was trying to force from my heart.
I couldn’t hate him. . . or even stay mad at him.
I couldn’t even hate Hell, who I watched with a completely different feeling dancing around inside me. Lust.
His arm moved, the muscles in his back jumping up and down.
I looked around the room, to the tissues and towels thrown to the floor. He was following the orders of not hurting me, as much as he didn’t want to. He was releasing his frustrations in a different way.
I picked one up, confirming my suspicions.
The small rag was wet and sticky in my fingers. I kept it clutched tightly in my fist as I listened to the sound of growling, grunting, and the excitement of a man and his imagination.
I knew his eyes were closed without seeing them, and I knew whatever he was picturing in his mind was getting him close to his peak. I pondered over what he was thinking of to get off, and despite everything, I hated the idea of him doing this to the image of other girls. . .
But Hell’s standards were probably higher than Woodrow’s.
“Jolie. . .” my name moved through his lips on a sensual drawl that dropped me to my knees.
My fingers clutched the rag tighter, pulling it to my naked chest and holding it there, feeling his essence on my skin. I should have probably dressed, but clothes weren’t a priority. He was.
I looked up, my eyes on the condensation dripping down the tiles as I tried to see around him to the look on his face. But his back was still to me. His hand on his length, vigorously milking it.
If I didn’t feel I was risking a black eye, I probably would have advised he give himself some leniency.
But then my name came again, in a low rhythm that did something to me. The demon from hell had cast a spell. He’d enchanted me into doing something I couldn’t believe I was doing, even as I moved to do it.
I put the rag between my legs; the blood from my short period had already eased. I rubbed at the arousal I was feeling, and my own breaths came faster.
“Fuck, Jolie,” he whispered like he was watching my every move.
I rubbed harder, my hips rising to meet the friction. I felt myself shudder. I already knew what I liked. It happened quicker than usual, listening to the sounds coming from Hell. Watching him as he pleasured himself for close to the dozenth time over images of me.
I started to moan, the rag, the cum, brushing against my clit. I tingled everywhere, goosebumps lining my arms and legs. The wetness between my legs grew and my legs became weaker.
I slumped, my feet taking the weight from my knees. Intense pleasure about to shoot through me at any second. I moaned again, too fucking loudly, and he heard me.
His body turned, his fist still wrapped around his thick cock. I froze, right on the knife edge of an orgasm.
“I didn’t tell you to fucking stop,” Hell’s voice rasped, breaking in parts of the short sentence.
He was in pain, and for once, I actually cared.
“More,” he whispered, barely a sound above the raining shower.
I buffed myself with the rag again, my eyes on Hell as he stepped from the shower, water trickling over his skin. I followed a droplet to his Adonis belt. To his balls. . . but I didn’t watch as it splat on the tiles.
“Faster,” he instructed.
I followed his orders.
“Open your legs wider. I want a better view.” He stepped closer, challenging me.
But he didn’t need to. I gave in, partly because it was something I was used to doing, giving men pleasure to try to avoid pain. And, partly, for Woodrow. Because it was still his beautiful face staring back at me, even if it was Hell’s cold expression sat on top of it.
“Good girl.” His mouth moved soundlessly.
And those words, God, those words did something to me.
I didn’t need more orders. . . I just needed more.
I dropped the rag, replacing it with my fingers, and I lay back, stroking myself. My eyes still on my enemy, my lover. . . my husband. My everything good and bad in the world, asking him to join me, to replace my touch with his.
“Why the fuck are you doing this?” he croaked.
“It’s a peace offering. No more violence. . . you can have my body if you agree to that. Agree to what we once agreed.”
“For always?”
“Always.”
“For always, you acknowledge that you’re mine?”
“No violence.”
He didn’t immediately answer. And moving down between my legs, he looked almost disappointed that the bleeding had stopped.
“If you run from me again, Woodrow won’t stop me from killing you. If I can’t have you, no one will.”
I nodded, agreeing with only a hint of fear shining behind the arousal in my eyes.
His lips landed on mine, surprising me. I stiffened, and that fucked him off. His hands pinned me down, one on my throat, the other at the side of my head, smoothing through my hair.
I hated that. Hated that I didn’t quite hate it as much as every other time he did it.
I was warming to him.
His fingers opened my mouth, and he gave me a look that said, “You either want this, or you don’t.”
“I wasn’t expecting a kiss,” I said, but my mouth opened to welcome his tongue.
His hand slipped under my ass, positioning me to where he wanted me. I was right under him, lying on the bathroom floor with my hips high, expecting his cock to fill me, but it didn’t.
He put his fingers at my entrance and slipped two inside. A slight curve to his digits had me writhing beneath him and panting into his mouth.
“Come for me. Prove your truth.” His whisper tickled my lips, making me eager for another kiss, to prove to him I wasn’t a liar. To prove to Woodrow, who I figured was still present somewhere—a whisper to Hell’s screams; their roles a reversal from last night at the parlor—that I could handle this.
I bucked my hips, meeting his thrusts, and then I came. I dripped down his fingers, soaking them, my juices flowing down my ass and onto the tiles.
I didn’t have time to come around. I didn’t have time to enjoy the waves of my come down. I was yanked up onto my knees by my hair. My hands rushed to my scalp, protecting it.
So much for no violence.
He let go the second I was back on my knees. He stood in front of me, his cock, big and proud, pointing at me.
“Prove it,” he said again. “Suck me. Without the teeth this time. Remember, it isn’t only me you’re hurting.”
The memory of a blasting headache was louder than his words.
“. . .or pleasuring.”
There was an expression on his face that almost looked like sorrow, but it was hidden within a second of it arriving.
With my eyes on his face, I guided him to my lips. The tip was oozing precum, his body shaking with the need for more. I smeared the tip across my lips before I took him inside my mouth. I held on to our eye contact as I sucked, my hands assisting at the base to increase his pleasure.
“I can’t come. Make it happen.”
I nodded, not commenting on the fact that he hadn’t had any trouble so far this morning.
My fingers stroked softly, nothing like he was touching himself. With a pop, I let him fall out of my mouth, but I kept eye contact as my hand moved up and down his shaft.
Adding gentle pressure, I let him feel my nails, fingertips guiding them to his tip. He twitched in response, on full alert to the awareness of potential pain. But he somehow enjoyed the thrill and didn’t stop me.
My hand found a rhythm, and my lips moved back, kissing his length. He collapsed against the wall, fingers splaying and shielding me in.
His eyes were barely open, his hip bucking as his body begged for more.
“Put me back in your mouth,” he directed.
And with my eyes on him, I did exactly what he wanted. I closed my lips around him, my tongue circling his cock, my fingers doing the same at the base. My other hand took his balls, full and heavy and filling my palm. I massaged lightly with gentle fingers, and he let out a moan.
I took him as deep as I could, my throat feeling tight against the size of him. Looking up at him, I smiled, and he looked back at me like it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
I changed my pace, sucking harder, deep and slow, pulling the moans from his body. He started driving his hips faster, fucking my mouth. He was soaking with my saliva as I deep-throated his cock. My head bobbed, swallowing as much of him as I could.
“I’m gonna come. I don’t want you to swallow,” he rasped.
I blinked twice, my eyes sheening with the struggle of breathing around him.
My lips tightened as I moved up and down on his shaft, my throat gripping his cock as he spurted his hot cum onto my tongue.
He pulled out of my mouth, a trail of his cum dripping down my chin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand before he pulled my hand away and lurched me to my feet.
My back hit the tiled walls; my weight lifted to his waist. I was light, but I still had him losing his balance somewhere in his euphoria.
His fingers spread along the wall, smearing the beads of condensation beneath them.
His lips landed on mine, his tongue prying them apart. I didn't know if I should swallow yet or not, but I'd had no direction to do so. So, I kept his cum in my mouth, accepting only tastes of it down my throat as we kissed.
He pulled back, leaving me wanting more as he sucked his cum into his mouth and stared at me as he inserted his fingers into his mouth. I couldn't pull my eyes away from him. From the raw look of hunger on his face.
His fingers slipped from between his lips with a pop, the digits covered in his cum. The white liquid made his lips shine, and as a result, I found myself licking mine.
With me pushed against the wall and my legs open and wrapped tightly around his waist, he reached between us. His sticky fingers brushed my pussy lips, still puffy from my last orgasm. He pushed inside me, the force brutal and unloving, and yet, somehow, I still craved more.
I felt empty when he removed them.
I forced my legs apart wider, my heat so close to his naked skin as I waited for his next intrusion. He looked even more sexual this time, coating his fingers in the cum to push inside me.
“This is where my cum belongs,” his broken voice told me. “No matter what. . . my cum belongs right here.”