Chapter 19 #3
The name spills out before I remember that I’m not supposed to be using it anymore, and this time, I really do not want to piss him off.
I want him to continue. I want him to fuck me so hard it’ll make me sore for days.
I need his body in mine, and when it ends, as it invariably will, I need to keep the memory of it in all my nerve endings.
Luckily, he doesn’t protest right now at his name in my mouth. He merely kisses me all the more passionately, driving into me with a force that blows my mind away.
Then his lips leave mine to find my breasts, and he tugs one nipple before sinking his teeth into it, and sucking away the burn.
He does the same with the other, sucking viciously on my stiff nipples as he continues to drive into me relentlessly.
His cock pulses and stiffens, filling me entirely, and I gasp at the stretch that I’ve missed so much.
His every lunge touches some deep part of me that makes my inner core explode with heat.
My toes curl, my body squirms with the need to find some outlet for the sensations coursing through my veins, but his own legs pin mine under him, and all I can do is take, arching into him desperately to try to feel every inch of him.
As he fucks me, one of his hands leaves my hair and finds my folds. He speeds up, groaning, as his thumb rubs my clit, and I arch into him so hard I wonder if I’ll break. The heat in my core goes electric, every nerve ending in my body haywire.
“Quill!” I cry out, and the orgasm crashes into me just as his own body spasms and shudders, and thick ropes of cum fill me.
“Fuck,” he groans, stilling inside me, his body shaking against mine.
Then his body lies heavy against me and I close my eyes, trying to savor this moment that I know will end far too soon.
And it does, very abruptly, all because of me and my stupid mouth. I’ve suddenly realized he came inside of me, and I blurt out, “What the hell, Quill? I don’t want to get pregnant. Especially from you.”
He withdraws in a loud wet plop that has me blushing furiously again. “You’re on the pill,” he grunts.
I sit up abruptly, my mind reeling at the implication behind that throwaway phrase. “Uhm… how do you know?”
“I know everything about you, cricket.”
He stands, zipping his fly and adjusting himself as I do my best to gather enough saliva in my mouth to swallow.
By all rights, I should be terrified, and I am, but I’m also feeling like I’d be up for another round already.
It’s like the thought of him keeping an eye on me from afar, some warped version of the silent protector shit, makes me feel…
loved, in some fucked up way. Or, at the very least, taken care of.
I’ve steeled my heart against him, I’ve done my very best, but I can’t control my body as it hums for him.
Once more, he seems to regret the old nickname the moment it leaves his mouth. He turns to me, looking down at me with a cold expression that makes me shiver with apprehension.
“I know you’re a fucking whore who just couldn’t wait to fuck every guy you meet,” he says, switching abruptly to a neutral voice that makes the viciousness of his words stand out starkly.
I’m not a fucking whore, but there’s definitely something wrong with me, because my heart breaks again at his words, and my mind rebels angrily, but my panties… well, they’re still wet. Maybe wetter than before.
Guess I still have a kink for degradation.
Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just throw his accusation right back at him. You think I’m a whore? You’re the one who told your friends to rape me. I’d never had anyone until I had you. But you told them to rape me, and now I’m a worthless whore in your eyes.
Sometimes I do feel like a worthless whore, though. I should have stopped it. I should have kicked and screamed and forced them off me.
I always thought I was a feminist. I never victim-blamed anyone, until I became a victim. Now I blame myself. Because something is wrong with me. Maybe I’m exactly what Quill thinks I am.
Someone who lets others fuck her, then throw her away like garbage.
I’m garbage.
Quill sees right through me.
He probably doesn’t need to see very far into me right now, because I suspect my face is currently the perfect reflection of how I’m feeling inside.
But I clench my jaw, unwilling to cry yet again in front of Quill. I swallow furiously, pushing down on the lump in my throat, refusing to blink so the tears burning my eyes don’t fall.
I guess I’m tense enough with the effort not to cry that my expression must be unsettling. Well, at least, Quill definitely looks unsettled.
His cold expression is gone as he edges back toward me and sits down on the bed beside me.
I turn resolutely away, not sure if his body being so close to mine will make me break down in tears again, or beg him to fuck me.
It’s a strange sensation to be so close to crying, while simultaneously being so turned on I’m leaving a damp spot on the bed.
He places his hand on my wrist and I jump, so startled by the unexpected touch, searing into my skin, that I’m unable to control my reaction. He seems to misinterpret it, because he backs away immediately, and I bite down on my desire to ask him to touch me again.
I’m not that pathetic. Am I?
He’s still looking at me quietly, and I realize the hurt that was in his eyes earlier is sadness. Sadness, as if he’s lost something.
Except the only person who lost anything is me. I’ve lost everything. I even lost the beautiful pretense that was our relationship, because I know now that it was only a hopeless little dream.
Some cruel game he dreamed up to hurt me. To win my trust and my heart, then to shatter me to pieces by telling his friends to rape me.
What have I ever done to deserve such pain? What have I ever done but wear glasses and talk too much?
I turn my head away from him as the dangerous lump rises again in my throat. I’m still managing not to cry, but I know my skin has turned splotchy red, and my nose is the shade of Rudolph’s.
I hate how my skin is such a giveaway. I hate that Quill knows that about me. I hate how he knows everything about me.
Even facing away from him, I’m so tuned into him that I can tell he’s opened his mouth several times just by the very light breath that falls onto my neck.
It’s like he’s started to speak then thought better of it.
Maybe he’s searching for words. Words to tell me just how much a worthless whore I am, I guess.
What I don’t expect are the words that he does settle on.
“I’m sorry your parents died.”
Well, that did it. Wiped away all desire to cry. I can’t fucking believe he would say that. I actually let out a laugh, and it’s not strangled at all. It’s a full belly laugh.
I turn back to him and see him staring at me like I’m deranged.
He’s the one who’s deranged. He’s the one who killed my parents and is now offering his weak condolences.
Or maybe fake-apologizing for killing them. Like a feeble sorry is going to change anything.
“What the fuck?” I spit out.
His brow clears as he probably realizes I’m angry, not clinically insane. He also looks a bit startled, and I guess he’s never heard me swear before. I didn’t used to be the swearing type. But a lot can change in three years.
“Language, cricket.”
His deep sexy voice, paired with the mild admonishment, would definitely make me want to fuck the hell out of him at any other time. But this whole situation is just too absurd.
“What. the. Fuck,” I say again, insisting on the swear word just to rile him up. But he’s once more looking at me with a neutral expression, and doesn’t take the bait.
“You killed my parents,” I lash out, “and you think you can make it up to me by saying sorry?”
It’s his turn to face me with a furious glare, and that glare is far more lethal than mine could ever be.
I cringe back, my heart beating a mile a minute, terror taking the place of anger, and when he sees my reaction, his features relax again.
In the place of his anger rises something that looks like… confusion.
Then he says, “What the hell are you talking about?”