8. Luna #2
“I don’t care, Luna.” His tone is as good as an eye roll. “I’m not gonna taste your boyfriend’s cum.”
I smooth my mouth flat. Level my voice. “You will do as you’re told.”
“I will?” His brow lifts.
I bite my lip—just once—then release it. “Yes.”
It happens in an instant. My eyes can’t even widen in time for him to slide up my body, his hand cinching my neck. His cock shoves halfway inside me in a brutal jerk that makes me gasp, and it’s the only reminder that I can still breathe. He isn’t squeezing. Yet.
“And how do you intend to make me?”
I open my mouth to reply but only yelp as he thrusts hard. My walls clamp at the intrusion, sharp pain cracking my core. Mid breath, Sawyer’s hand around my neck squeezes—too tight.
I grab his wrists and pry. Plant my hands on his chest and shove. Kick my heels against the mattress.
He stares at me with rageful eyes, the same he showed me in a flicker earlier. As he squeezes my neck even tighter, a vein pops in his forehead.
Not a game.
Not for pleasure.
My hands reach for his eyes, but with the binding, it’s too easy for him to grab my wrists and hold them to my chest. His body weight sinks onto my throat while black spots dance in my eyes.
He’s gonna kill me.
My heels kick his naked rear in pathetic little jabs that grow weaker by the second.
He doesn’t relent.
He watches me fade with a look that suggests he’s holding something foul behind his lips. And is desperate to spit.
I should’ve known.
The black spots expand until Sawyer’s hatred begins to fade—only to snap back into view when the vice around my neck releases.
I gasp and sputter as his mouth plants to my ear. He lets go of my wrists and forms a cage around my head with his arms, his bodyweight suffocating. My chest barely rises against him as I suck in shallow breath after shallow breath.
“Is this what you wanted, Luna?”
Rhetorical.
Hot breath assaults my ear as he thrusts inside me in a rageful jerk.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Wait.
But he doesn’t impale me a second time. His forearm shifts to my neck and he leans until my breath is cut off again.
My eyes snap open, but before I can struggle, he eases off.
“Is this what you wanted?”
Not rhetorical.
“No,” I rasp.
He cuts my airway off as a muscle jumps in his cheek. His jaw is clenched so hard that two sharp lines slope his neck.
Wrong answer.
Think.
Can’t breathe.
Think.
Why does this feel familiar?
My eyes widen at a memory that bursts through my mind. Another time. Another game.
Sawyer must sense when I have the answer because he eases his forearm off my neck and waits.
I choke on a breath before shredding the word: “Yes.”
Pressure on my throat—not enough to cut, but enough to threaten.
“Yes, I want this,” I cry. “I want you.”
He keeps staring. Not good enough.
“Please Sawyer,” I whine, eyes watering as if they’re being squeezed. Emotionless tears roll to my ears that I hope he mistakes as sad. Maybe he’ll pity me. “Please fuck me.”
I watch his mouth, wait for the twitch of a smile. For victory to soften his hatred.
It doesn’t come.
His forearm leaves my neck as he rises to his knees. He yanks me up by my arm and flips me over so my face digs into the mattress, my hips raised so his cock fits between my legs.
I close my eyes and sigh as he sinks into me, more relief than pleasure.
He’s gentler than I expect. His hips move in slow rolls as his hands grip my waist. An apology maybe. Better yet, a truce.
My body quivers at his touch, but minutes pass without pain. When I catch my breath, I sink deeper into the mattress. Let my lungs fully release.
When a moan pushes up my bruised throat, I open my mouth; let it draw out as I arch my back and meet his thrust. Message as clear as I can make it.
I accept.
His movements slow to a crawl before he pulls out of me. I open my eyes and turn my head to look back as his cock presses against my rear.
When I see his clenched jaw, my heart stops.
He enters me with a thrust that splits me in half, my lungs filling with a breath that leaves in a scream. I shoot up only to be slammed back down.
Sawyer’s hand grips the back of my head and smashes my face into a pillow while he pulls out and shoves back in. Tears through muscle without care, without mercy, while my muffled screams shred my throat.
My fists slam the bed while my hips buck. I try to lift off the flat, scratchy pillow, but Sawyer’s hold is relentless. His thrusts are relentless. He is relentless.
Cruel.
Ruthless.
“Stop!” I cry into the pillow. Pitiful.
He doesn’t hear. Doesn’t listen.
“Sawyer.”
No reply other than a squeeze of my hip.
I grip the sheets and still my legs, muscles tensing as if the pain could be braced. It can’t. He knows it can’t, and it occurs to me:
This is what he intended all along.
Minutes pass before the fire in my lungs outmatches the pain Sawyer inflicts. My screams soften to groans, soften to wheezes—air grating on shredded vocal cords.
My legs, once braced with unbreakable tension gradually loosen with a tremble. White linen grazes my palms as my fists open.
The pressure on my head releases before a second hand latches onto my hips, my body rocking violently with Sawyer’s thrusts.
I turn my head and listen to him grunt his pleasure while a tear rolls over the bridge of my nose; descends to the pillow.
When I blink, another follows the same path. I marvel at it. Pretend it’s emotional instead of physiology.
It’s been so long since I felt the sensation on my lashes—thicker than water, thinner than mud. If I tasted it, it’d be salty. I remember that.
My attention draws behind me as Sawyer’s thrusts quicken. Fingers sink deep into my hips as he moans his release.
Will the cum leak out?
Will it hurt when I defecate?
The grip on my hips eases. Sawyer’s palm sweeps over my backside in a caress that pushes my eyelids closed.
It could be another trick.
But I don’t think so. As he pulls out, his fingers run up and down my spine. He kisses the middle of my back before lying down beside me.
Neither of us speak. Part of me wishes he would go.
The other part…
I keep my head turned from him and wait. Wait for him to leave. Wait for him to touch my back again.
Maybe even apologize.
Say he forgives me.
But it’s me who breaks the silence. “Are we even?”
No response. I bite my lip; curl the sheet into my palm.
Minutes.
And minutes.
And then, finally: “I’ll give you two women… If you promise me they won’t be harmed.”
The words should thrill me. I should roll over and look into Sawyer’s eyes just to ensure he’s being serious.
I don’t move.
“You have my word.”
The bed shifts as Sawyer gets up, followed by the soft shuffling sounds of him getting dressed.
When he’s at the door, he pauses. Looks back. “I’m not lying when I call you beautiful.”
His hand lingers on the frame a touch longer before he leaves. At least an hour passes before I find it in me to clean up his mess.