Chapter 10
Lauren
“Fucking quit,” I snap when Angel smacks my hand for the third fucking time when I try to reach for the power button to the radio. “It’s too fucking quiet in here.”
“I like it quiet,” he says, his tone conversational despite the grip he has on the steering wheel.
I hate the fucking silence. It drives me crazy. It’s too easy to hear all the shit in my head. I need a distraction, something else to focus on.
He doesn’t allow it.
I’m going mad, riding around town with this man. He doesn’t seem to have any real destination in mind, but he is sticking close to Farmington for some reason.
I want to question him, grill him about his plans, demand that he tell me why he isn’t leaving town, especially after abducting a little girl and turning her over to Cerberus.
I know I would never share the details of my work with him, so it doesn’t make much sense to expect him to offer anything to me.
The truck slows as we approach a ravine.
This could be it, where he finally gives in to that hatred for me that seeps from his pores.
I got a glimpse of that man last night.
He was rough, brutal, but I can also tell he wasn’t as bad as he could’ve been. I have no idea why he held back, but I’m fucking determined to find out or die trying.
The latter may become a reality sooner than I anticipated as the truck rolls to a stop, his eyes pinned on the view past my head rather than on me.
I hate him for the lack of attention.
He almost grinned when he found out what I did back at the diner. It wasn’t very noticeable, but I caught the slightest lip twitch. It felt like high praise coming from him, and my dark soul latched on to that for some fucked-up reason.
I didn’t know I needed it or would even like it. I thought he gave me exactly what I needed last night, but I woke up sore, my face crusty with cum, and I needed more. More of the same, something different, it didn’t really matter.
It bothers me that he isn’t speaking to me. Even if he opened his mouth to make threats I know he’s more than capable of following through with, my skin would feel like it’s on fire. I wouldn’t be fighting the urge to itch at it like an addict in need of a fix.
I huff a laugh at the thought. Street drugs have nothing on the drugs I use in the form of pain, abuse, and regret.
The danger makes me no less in need of what he may have to offer.
I feel like a child willing to get punished by acting out because being ignored is so much worse than abuse.
I’m starving for it. I knew I would be tossed away, discarded like trash.
It’s what always happens, but I never wanted it to happen so fucking soon, not before I was used up and worthless.
There are still so many cries of pain, so much begging for him to stop, left in me.
Why the hell can’t he see that?
The desperation makes my stomach turn.
The ghosts in my head demand attention.
His silence and mine aren’t the same.
“I’m glad we ran into each other. I’m not on a case right now, so I have nothing but time on my hands.”
I grin when his fingers flex on the steering wheel, but instead of putting the truck in park and teaching me a lesson, he slowly pulls away from the ravine and back onto the road.
I have no idea why I’m taunting him. I like having the upper hand unless I’m working. It’s the contrast in levels of stability that makes my heart sing.
I’m only allowed to be weak when captured, when in the pits of hell, some sick fuck’s basement, and when it’s sanctioned by the Bureau.
I’ve never done this before, tried to push someone into losing their shit so I can feed those dark parts of me outside of work.
Maybe I’m restless. My handler still hasn’t gotten back with me, and I know that’s his own damn choice.
The man doesn’t put his life in danger the way I do.
He sits in his cushy ass office in DC. He goes home to his wife and two kids every night.
There’s no fucking reason for him to be avoiding me.
When he takes a vacation, he forwards my calls and communications to someone else.
He’s punishing me because I took another break, because the last time I was in Costa Rica, there were too many close calls.
He knew this would happen. He knew I’d get the itch to get back to work. It’s a power move, and I fucking hate him for it.
“I can just ride along with you for days,” I say, instead of focusing on Alan and his lack of communication.
His jaw twitches, but he doesn’t say a word.
Fuck him and this damn silent treatment.
Fuck wanting him to speak to me.
I hate that he’s put me in this position.
Last night flashes in my mind, the pain, the pleasure, the way he did exactly what I needed. I swam in it last night as I lay crying myself to sleep. It was exactly what I needed and I hate myself for it. I hate him for it.
Most importantly, the thing I’m trying to keep from filtering in is why I went into his room to begin with.
I’m not working. I’m not on some mission to bring a dirtbag to justice.
I know it’s the delay in assignment. I need to work, and since Alan is being a dick, I have to find that outlet somewhere.
Ignoring me is another form of punishment Angel is using, only this time, I hate it completely. I don’t want the emotional punishment without the physical. The two go hand in hand, and he’s depriving me of half of what I need.
I watch his face as he slowly drives the streets of Farmington. Maybe if I push him far enough, he’ll flip that same switch he did last night.
Reaching for his thigh, I hide my grin when his leg muscle tenses.
He’s not exactly immune to me. The tightness in his leg speaks of his hatred for me, but the beginning of a bulge in his jeans tells the other half of the story.
The man wants to fuck me. He enjoyed what happened last night even if he refuses to admit it. There’s power in it, his ability to act a certain way while his body betrays his lies. I feel hungry for it, the lack of control he has on his cock when I touch him.
If he hates me for it, even better. It only means the punishment this time around might be enough to tide me over for longer than twelve hours.
I hate him, too. Down to the marrow of my bones, I despise this man.
He’s a part of the problem I’ve worked my entire adult life to eradicate.
He has no moral compass. The only thing leading him around is dollar signs, and fuck whoever he has to plow over to get paid.
His only concern is himself, and that makes him more dangerous than some of the traffickers I’ve met along the way.
“You want me,” I whisper as I inch my hand up further, brushing my fingers over his thickening length.
He doesn’t make a sound as I trace the thick head of his cock with the tip of one finger.
I hate the way I have to swallow because of the desperation pooling in my mouth.
I hate the way my heart rate kicks up and the way my clit throbs just by touching him this way.
Hatred isn’t new for me. I’ve become an expert on hating myself as much as I hate the men I bring to justice. They actually go hand in hand. Someone with an ounce of self-preservation wouldn’t be able to do what I have in the past. It’s what makes me such a commodity for the agency.
“Looks uncomfortable,” I say, trying not to feel offended when he pulls his head back before I can plant my lips on his neck.
He doesn’t slow the truck or shove me away when I pull his zipper down. He also doesn’t help me at all to get his cock out of his jeans. There’s no lift to his hips as I struggle with the denim.
There’s no force, no begging, no threats or demands to please him.
It’s another power play. He knows I want it, that I need him to give that shit to me, and he remains in control by not doing it.
I grin, my eyes cast down as I pull him free. Words mean absolutely nothing. He can’t deny his own need. It’s already leaking from the tip of him, glossy and slick… desperate.
He still hasn’t said a word. There are no arguments for or against what I’m doing, but I know better than to assume I’m the one in the position of power right now. I know better. This man isn’t the type to relinquish any form of control.
Teasing the head with my finger, I look back up to him, but nothing has changed. He isn’t looking down at me. There’s no challenge in his eyes. It’s as if I’m not touching him at all.
My hatred for him grows once again.
He’ll take what I have to offer and remain stoic the entire time.
I’m not foolish enough to believe he’d grunt with pleasure and beg for more if I take him to the edge before backing off, but if I get him close enough, he may take charge and dominate me the way I need.
Who cares if he’s pissed when it happens?
That’s when I get the most relief from this constant itch under my skin.
Unclipping my seatbelt, I lean forward, my lips mere inches from the tip of him. He grows more in my hand as I sweep my tongue over the head, telling myself that I hate the taste of him, but knowing that I’m lying to myself. I circle my tongue, tracing the plush head before mouthing it.
Jesus, I despise him for how slick I am right now, hating myself more than I hate him for not begging me to strip naked and ride his cock while he drives around town.
I don’t do shit like that. I don’t willingly do anything sexual. It isn’t what gets me off, and it doesn’t feed the demons inside of me that keep me in a constant state of hunger for pain and humiliation.
That’s what makes this man so fucking dangerous to me.
A smarter woman would’ve woken up and left town after what happened last night. My stupid ass sought him out, taunted him… wanted more from him.
Just as I open my mouth to take him deeper, his hand fists my hair.
I don’t have a second to prepare before he uses much more force than necessary to shove me down onto his cock.
If I could manage a smile with a cock in my throat, I’d have one spread from ear to ear on my face.