Chapter 7
Annabelle
Ilean into the cold metal of the bookshelf, my legs feeling like they’ve been replaced by lead.
This place is normally my sanctuary, but now it’s just a backdrop for the mess he made of me.
Ethan stands there, looking as neat and composed as if he’s just finished reading a newspaper instead of railing me into the non-fiction section.
My skin is crawling with the sensation of his hand on my throat. Why does it feel so good? Why am I not running scared, screaming for help? Doing anything except staring at him with this pathetic, needy heat still pulsing in my pussy?
“Finish your shift,” he says, his voice filled with arrogance and the demand that if I don’t obey, there will be consequences. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”
I can’t find my voice. I just nod, watching him walk away. As soon as he disappears down the stairs, I sink to the floor, my back sliding against the hard spines of the books.
I’m a disaster. My mother’s killer is still out there, the police have given up, and here I am, letting a stranger fuck me in public like I’m nothing but a toy.
But he makes me feel like something. Even if that something is just possession.
My knickers are wet with him, a heavy reminder that I’m not in control anymore. I don’t want to be. I want to let the world go dark and let him be the only thing I can see. He was rougher, edgier than he was this morning. Or maybe I was seeing him through a haze of shock.
His hands on me felt tighter than last night, more possessive.
I might’ve been drunk, but I remember his touch like it’s burned onto my skin.
I force myself to stand, ignoring my aching thighs.
I push my cart down the stacks pretending I am a normal woman who organises history books instead of a woman who just had her throat squeezed while she was used as a cum dumpster in her place of work.
I move through the rest of my tasks on autopilot. Every time a patron walks past, I feel like they can see it on me. They must be able to smell the sex or see the way my hands won’t stop shaking. I avoid the manager, terrified she’ll see the ruin in my eyes.
The clock on the wall ticks down. Every second is a hammer blow. When three o’clock finally hits, I grab my bag from the back office and push through the heavy oak doors into the sweltering afternoon.
The black Porsche is idling across the street. It looks like a predator waiting in the weeds. I hesitate. Some part of my brain that hasn’t succumbed to whatever this is pauses. My blood roars in my ears.
Walk away, Anna. The voice in my head is practically screaming at me.
Go to him, Anna. Let him look after everything, let him look after you. The other voice is louder. This is one I listen to.
My hesitation is noted. The driver’s side door opens, and he gets out in a smooth move that makes my clit twitch.
He stares at me over the roof of the low car for a second before he circles around. He strides towards me, his confidence and arrogance on display for the world to see.
“Something wrong, Annabelle?” he asks.
I blink up at him, but I have no words.
He takes my hand, squeezing it hard enough for my bones to ache. “Come.”
That one word hits me somewhere foreign.
I move forward. One step in front of the other. Every step feels heavy, the summer heat pressing down on my shoulders, but the pull of him is stronger than the urge to flee.
I’m so focused on putting one foot in front of the other that I don’t register the car until it’s already on top of us—a flash of silver and a horn blast that splits the air, tyres screaming against hot asphalt as it jolts to a stop close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off the bonnet.
Before I can react, Ethan’s arm sweeps back, and I’m behind him, my face nearly pressed into his shoulder blade.
“Fucking watch where you’re going, arsehole,” he says, low and even, which is somehow worse than if he’d shouted it.
“Fuck you!” the driver yells back. “Get out of the road.”
I flinch from the altercation and the fact that we were nearly mowed over.
“Excuse me?” Ethan says, his face dark. “What did you just say to me?”
The silver car idles, its engine humming a discordant tune that vibrates through my teeth. I pull at Ethan’s hand, wanting to drag him back, but he stands perfectly still. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. The driver is a middle-aged man with a red face and a death wish.
“I said get out of the fucking road,” the man repeats, his knuckles white on the wheel.
Ethan doesn’t release my hand as he steps towards the window, dragging me with him. The air around him drops ten degrees. “You almost hit her.”
“You stepped out!”
“You were speeding in a thirty zone.” With his free hand, Ethan reaches through the open window. It happens so fast, I barely see his hand move. He grabs the front of the driver’s shirt and yanks him toward the door frame. The sound of tearing fabric is loud enough to make me flinch again.
“If you ever come that close to her again,” Ethan whispers, the threat vibrating through the air, “I will peel the skin from your face and make you eat it.”
The driver’s bravado vanishes. His eyes go wide, his face turning a sickly shade of grey. “You’re a fucking psycho,” he spits out.
Ethan lets out a cold laugh. “You don’t know the half of it, mate. Fuck off before you dig your own grave.”
The driver glares at him, and then at me. I look down, wishing the road would open up.
The car peels away, tyres smoking. Ethan turns back to me. The rage is gone, replaced by that cool, terrifying control as he cups my face. “Are you okay, Tinks?”
I nod. My legs have gone wobbly. The driver’s grey face flashes in my mind. Ethan’s thumb brushes my bottom lip, and it dissolves. I look down at our joined hands. “I’m fine,” I whisper.
He stares at me for a long moment, but then he leads me to the passenger side, opens the door, and helps me in, his hand under my elbow.
As the door thuds shut, the world outside vanishes.
There is only the scent of his aftershave and the weight of his presence as he gets in and starts the engine.
We don’t talk as he pulls away. My hands are still shaking, so I tuck them under my thighs.
“I made dinner,” he says, his voice conversational now, as if he didn’t just threaten to flay a man alive. “I hope you like beef.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Dinner.” Dinner, I didn’t have to cook. Dinner, I didn’t have to think about, plan, shop for, or spend energy making, only to sit there and pick at it, then let it go mouldy in the fridge for days.
I look out the window, watching the familiar streets of my town go by.
Everything is the same, yet everything is different.
I am being driven home by a man I met less than twenty-four hours ago, a man who has decided we are not a one-night stand, and I’m going along with it because he is stronger than me.
He reaches over and rests his hand on my thigh. “I went through your kitchen. You’ve been neglecting yourself, Annabelle. That stops today.”
I don’t argue. I can’t. I just lean my head back against the leather seat and close my eyes, letting the darkness take me.
“I will be taking care of all your meals from now on. Is there anything you are allergic to or don’t like?”
It takes several seconds for his queries to process. “No,” I whisper. “I eat anything. I just... I forget.”
“I’m here now,” he says, his fingers tightening on my thigh. “I’ll take care of you.”
I want to ask why. Why me? Why now? What is going on?
But I don’t want to drive him away. He is dealing with the things that usually drain me.
The food, the commute, the cleaning. There are red flags flying all around me, but I just can’t bring myself to care.
The burden of existing is being stripped away, layer by layer.
We pull up to my cottage, but the sight of it doesn’t bring the usual wave of exhaustion.
He kills the engine and turns to me, his gaze heavy. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I frown, momentarily dragged out of my misery. “What for?”
“For letting that prick nearly run you over. I should’ve been watching more carefully. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s not your fault—”
“It won’t happen again,” he states and gets out of the car, moving around to open my door.
I don’t bother arguing. I don’t care enough to. If I’d been hit, fine. Killed, even better.
He helps me out of the car, and I let him lead me up the path. I open the door, and he leads me inside. The scent of the food hits my senses, and my neglected stomach growls.
I stand in the middle of the living room, feeling like a ghost in my own home. Ethan moves behind me, his hands landing on my waist. He pulls me back against his chest, his heat seeping through my shirt.
“Shower and change,” he murmurs. “Then we can eat.”
“Okay,” I say, happy with the instruction of what to do. But I don’t move.
He turns me and takes my hand, pulling me towards the stairs.
I follow him mechanically into my bedroom.
He lets me go and enters the en-suite, flicking on the shower.
Then he returns and kneels, removing my shoes first, before straightening up and reaching for the hem of my tee.
He pulls it over my head, his eyes lingering on my breasts before he unclasps my bra.
He goes to work on my pants and knickers and throws everything in the laundry hamper.
I just stand there, unable to get up the will to move.
He kicks off his shoes and strips off his clothes. His hard, inked body makes my breath catch in my throat.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and place my hands on his chest. He moves closer to me until his hard cock is pressing against me.
He cups the back of my neck and walks me to the en-suite where the shower is steaming up the mirror.
He helps me inside and climbs in behind me.
The hot water sluices over us, but the heat of his skin against my back is more intense.
He takes the sponge and begins to scrub my skin, his movements methodical and firm.
He washes away the remnants of the library, the traces of his cum between my legs, only to prepare me for more.
I keep my eyes shut, focusing on the pressure of his fingers against my skin.
He turns me to face him. “Eyes on me, Tinks.”
I open them. His blue eyes are dark, fixed on mine with a focus that makes my heart stutter.
He doesn’t say another word as he lifts me, my legs locking around his hips by instinct.
The tiles are cold against my back as he slides into me.
I let out a broken sound, my forehead dropping to his shoulder.
He moves with a relentless, heavy rhythm that leaves me breathless. Each thrust is a reminder of who is in charge. My fingers curl into his wet hair, seeking purchase in the storm. I don’t want to think about anything. I only want this. The obliteration of self.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmurs, slamming into me.
I’m like a rag doll in his arms. I try to tighten my muscles, to participate in my destruction, but it’s too much effort.
“Let me do all the work, Tinkerbell,” he whispers, pressing into me harder, one hand slapping onto the tiles above my head. “Just let me fuck you. You don’t have to do anything.”
“Ethan…”
“Shh, Tinks. I’ve got this. I’ve got you.”
The steam is so thick I can barely breathe, or maybe that’s him.
His hand fists in my wet hair and wrenches my head back, and the sound I make is not dignified.
He uses the angle to go deeper, harder, until the cold tile is the only thing keeping me from dissolving entirely.
I stopped clinging to him somewhere between the first thrust and the last shred of myself.
Now I just take it. His mouth finds my throat.
He bites down, and I let him, because it’s too much effort to protest.
“That’s it, baby dollie,” he mutters. “Don’t move. I fucking love this. Fuck.”
He grips my hips and rams his cock even deeper. I don’t think there is anywhere left for him to go. I choke out a moan, and his hand snaps up to close around my throat.
“No sounds,” he says. “Dollies don’t make noise.”
His grip tightens around my throat, enough to make breathing difficult.
It sends a rush through me, a dark, twisted thrill that I can’t explain.
He keeps moving, his hips slamming against mine, each thrust harder than the last. The tiles are slick with steam, and his body is a wall of muscle pressing me into them.
“You feel so fucking good, Tinks,” he growls, his voice a low rumble in my ear. “Pliable. Perfect. Mine.”
I can’t respond, can’t even moan with his hand around my throat.
All I can do is feel—feel him inside me, feel the cold tiles against my back, feel the heat of the water and the steam surrounding us.
It’s overwhelming, consuming, and I want more.
My orgasm hits me like a rocket through my veins.
I choke out a cry, clamping down around his cock as my pussy spasms so hard, I think I’m going to pass out.
He releases my throat just enough for me to gasp in a breath before his hand moves down to my breast, squeezing my nipple hard. His mouth captures mine in a bruising kiss, swallowing my rapture. It’s possessive, dominant, and I melt into it, letting him control every part of me.