Chapter Four #2
"You're going to apologize for your attitude on your knees with my dick down your throat," he says, his voice so low it barely registers as sound. "If you behave, I might even let you breathe while I ruin your makeup."
I twist, kicking at his shin, but he holds me in place. He leans in, his mouth inches from mine. "You want to fight? Fine. Fight."
He kisses me, savage and biting, his teeth scoring my lower lip. I bite him back.
"Harder, princess," he groans against my lips, demanding that I bite him harder. I do. God, I fucking do, so hard I taste his blood.
He pulls back with a smile, licking the red from his lip with a slow, deliberate move.
"You're a fucking psycho," I spit, so turned on I can't think straight.
He grins, blood-stained and beautiful. "You shaped me with your own hands, Brielle."
He yanks me down all at once, forcing me to my knees. The rug is rough against my skin. I look up at him, hate and want mingling in my chest, burning like acid.
He unzips his pants, never breaking eye contact as he pulls his dick out. His cock is already hard, thick, and angry. It's a beautiful monster, just like he is.
He takes it in hand and strokes, slow and taunting.
"Open your mouth," he commands.
I keep it shut, my jaw locked, and shake my head. "Go to hell," I say between clenched teeth. It comes out garbled, but still recognizable.
He fists my hair and jerks my head back hard enough to sting. "Open."
I keep my lips pressed together, so he drags the head of his cock across them, smearing precum. The humiliation burns, but what burns worse is the way my body reacts—my thighs clenching, a flood of heat between my legs.
I barely manage to fight back a moan.
He senses it. Of course he does.
He uses his thumb to pry my mouth open with slow, unrelenting pressure. The taste of his skin, salt and sin, sends a bolt of liquid fire through me as the head of his cock smears across my bottom lip.
He doesn't ask again. He just pushes inside, inch by inch, until my mouth is stretched wide around him. I try to twist away, but his fingers in my hair are an iron cage.
He waits, savoring the control, watching me struggle to breathe around him.
I glare up, promising murder, but he doesn't care. He likes it.
"That's it," he moans. "Look at me while I use you."
He rocks forward, forcing himself deeper. My breath snags, then stops. My throat fights the intrusion as I gag, but he doesn't let me go. He just holds me there, not saying a word. There's nothing but the slow, predatory roll of his hips and the hollow sound of my own humiliation.
He picks up speed, fucking deeper, not letting me breathe except in the split seconds between thrusts. My eyes water, my makeup streaks, and saliva leaks down my chin.
I want to hate it, I want to hate him, but all I can think is how good it feels to be wrecked by him, to be owned by him. Right now, he doesn't hate me. He's enjoying himself too much to remember why he should.
"You're so pretty when you're crying for me," he groans. "I feel your tears dripping down my shaft. Can you taste them, princess?"
I dig my nails into his thigh, drawing blood through his pants. He just thrusts harder, one hand keeping my head in place while the other wraps around my throat, my pulse thundering under his grip.
"My pretty little cockwhore," he breathes, thrusting so deep I choke. "No one else will ever touch you, not while I'm alive."
The worst part isn't that he means it. It's the way my body clenches in response to his threats and degradation, a flood of arousal sweeping through me. It's the way he knows that he's the only one I've ever wanted to touch me.
He's right about me. I never wanted any of the men I tried to date. I just wanted him to hate the thought of me with them. I wanted him to hate it enough to do something about it. For as long as I've known him, it's been him I dreamed about. Always him.
He's close. I can feel the tremor in his body, the shudder in his breath. I look up at him, my eyes streaming, and he grins down at me, a beautiful monster. My beautiful monster.
He comes with a guttural noise, filling my mouth. "Swallow."
I do as instructed, too shocked not to. It's not like I have another choice. He holds my head there, forcing me to take every drop.
When he finally lets go, I fall back on my heels, gasping, my chest heaving.
He crouches down and wipes the tears from my cheek with his thumb, gentler than I expect. "Good girl," he says, his voice soft.
Something about that pisses me off, so I spit at his feet.
He just laughs in response.
He stands, tucks himself away, and smooths my hair back into place. He helps me up, his hands steady at my waist, and kisses me once, almost sweetly. His taste is everywhere, setting me on fire. I'm actually shaking with need.
I know he feels it, but he holds me there for a moment, his hands tight around me. "You'll pay for your smart mouth every time you use it," he murmurs.
I glare at him, hating how much I want to kiss him again, but I don't say anything.
He smirks, brushing his thumb over my bruised lip. "See? You're learning already."
He strides across the office, pausing at the door.
I gape at him, shocked. He's leaving? Now?
"What the fuck?" I mutter, glaring at him. "You use me, but don't return the favor?"
"I have an appointment." He smirks at me. "And I seem to remember saying that you were being punished for your smart mouth, not rewarded for it."
"I hate you."
His smirk grows. "Don't touch that pretty little pussy tonight, princess. It belongs to me now, and I'll know if you do. And don't touch the plug until you get home, either. Bring it with you again tomorrow."
He's gone before I can throw anything. But I do it anyway, launching the stapler at the door with all my strength. It hits with a satisfying thud before landing in a heap on the floor.
I sit back at my desk, shaking, my mouth raw and my body thrumming with heat and rage. I wonder how much longer I can keep losing to him before I just stop fighting altogether.
But the truth is—I'll never stop fighting. And he knows it.
That's why he wants me.
That's why he'll never let me go.
I try to scrub the memory of him off my skin in a scalding shower as soon as I get home, but the feel of him all over me lingers, refusing to fade. So does his taste.
My knees still ache from the carpet burn, and my throat feels battered and raw.
By the time I collapse onto my couch, my hair dripping onto a faded concert tee, it's after seven. I'm exhausted, but my brain is on an endless highlight reel of every fucked-up, infuriating thing Asher did to me today. I could kill him. I could kill myself for letting him win.
The living room is dim, lit by one salt lamp and the bright glow of the city through the window. I curl up in a blanket, my phone pressed to my ear, listening to it ring until Liam finally picks up.
He sounds tired. "Hey, baby sis. What's up?"
I close my eyes, burrowing deeper into my blanket. "Did you know that your best friend is a complete fucking sadist? Like, literally Satan in a suit?"
There's a pause, then the familiar rumble of his laugh. "Is this a first-day-of-work rant, or did he commit actual war crimes here?"
"It's not funny," I groan. "He made me work in his office all day, like a trophy on a shelf. I couldn't even breathe without him hearing it. Then he sent me for coffee, didn't drink a drop, and had me do a spreadsheet for hours just to delete it. He's torturing me, Liam."
A yawn crackles through the receiver. "You know he only does that because you let him get to you, right?"
I scowl into the room as if he can really see me. "Tell that to my blood pressure."
My brother is quiet for a moment. "Brie, you need to stop letting him have real estate in your head. He's an asshole to everyone, not just you."
I hesitate, picking at the threadbare hem of my blanket. "You never see how he looks at me. It's like he wants to eat me alive just because he hates me."
Liam sighs, and I picture him running a hand through his perfect black hair, probably staring at a script or a scheduling app at the same time. "That's not hate, Brie."
I bark out a laugh. "Oh, so it's love now? That's rich. The only thing Asher loves is power."
Liam is gentle, but he doesn't let up. "You don't know him like I do.
He acts like he doesn't give a fuck, but it's just armor.
He found his parents' bodies after they were murdered.
His uncle had him working before he was even fourteen.
And then there was the accident. He's fucked up, Brie, but if you ever let yourself see beneath the armor, you'd realize that he's not as bulletproof as he wants to be. "
I almost tell him about his best friend's hand around my throat and the way my body betrayed me completely, but I can't. I'm not ready to admit it out loud, especially not to Liam.
"He remembers finding his parents?" I ask softly, my heart aching at the thought. They were shot to death in a home invasion when Asher was eleven. It was just a random act of violence, but Asher was the one who found them when he got home from school.
"Would you forget?" Liam asks instead of answering.
I hesitate for a long moment, and then sigh. "No, I guess not."
"He remembers," my brother says, his voice soft. "But I don't think that's what haunts him. It's the fucking car accident."
"Did he tell you to say this?" I ask, my eyes narrowed.
Liam chuckles. "No, he'd kill me if he knew I was trying to play therapist. But you didn't see him after the accident, baby sister. I did. He was a fucking mess."
My breath catches. "What do you mean?"
He hesitates, as if weighing how much to say.
"You think he's untouchable, but when you got hurt, he didn't leave the hospital until they dragged him out in cuffs.
He wouldn't talk, wouldn't move. He just sat there for hours while you were in surgery.
If you hadn't made it…I don't think he would have either. "
The ache in my chest is sudden and vicious.
"Stop it," I say, but it comes out shaky.
Liam softens. "I'm serious, Brie. He's not what you think."
A tense silence settles between us.
"Maybe I don't care what he is," I say, though the words shake, giving away the lie.
Liam sighs again, long and patient. "You're still angry about the accident. It's okay. Just…don't write him off. Promise me?"
He's wrong. I'm not angry about the accident.
I'm angry about everything else—about the way Asher spit that he didn't love me and that I was just a little girl.
About the way that he's spent every damn minute of the last five years trying to prove it.
But I can't tell my brother any of that. "Fine. I promise," I say instead.
"Good. Now eat something and go the fuck to sleep, or you'll be useless in the morning."
I hang up and sit for a long time, my phone clutched to my chest. I stare at my own reflection in the window, at the shadows under my eyes, and the stubborn tilt of my chin.
I want to believe Liam, I do. I want to believe there's a human heart under all that steel and cruelty, that everything he says and does is just armor because he's been through hell and doesn't know how to survive it and be soft at the same time.
But hope is a poison, especially where Asher is concerned. I know that better than anyone.
I slide the phone onto the couch and bury my face in the blanket, letting the city noise drift in, a lullaby for the lost. I close my eyes and will myself to sleep, knowing that Asher will hurt me again tomorrow.
And I'll let him.
Because as much as I hate him, as much as I want to be free of him, there's some part of me that loves him just as much. And that part desperately wants to know how far he'll go and what he'll do when he finally runs out of armor.
Maybe I want to see him break. Or maybe I want to be the one who breaks him.
I'm not sure I even know anymore.