Chapter Six #2
He licks me through it, not letting up until the aftershocks subside. Then he pulls his fingers out and licks them clean again, like he can't stand to waste a single drop.
I freeze when he towers over me, unzipping his pants.
He pulls his cock out, and I whimper at the reminder of just how goddamn big he is, at how daunting he looks. His cock is a hard, angry monster, precum welling from the slit.
He strokes the length, watching my face with a look that's half hunger, half challenge.
"You want this?" he asks.
I shake my head, my eyes wide, but I can't speak. My mouth is still full of the shredded lace of my own panties.
"Too bad." He kneels again, rubbing the head of his cock against my clit. "You're going to take it anyway. And I'm not wearing a fucking condom, Brielle. I'm coming deep in that pretty cunt, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do to stop me."
I choke on a whimper, frantically shaking my head, trying to tell him that I'm not on birth control. But either he can't hear me, or he just doesn't care because it doesn't stop him.
"Be a good girl and rock those perfect hips while I wreck you, princess," he breathes. And then he's slamming inside me in one brutal thrust.
I'm not ready for it, not even close. I go rigid, clawing at the floor as pain and pleasure surge through me in a brutal flood.
He notices.
For the first time, he looks uncertain.
He pulls the gag out of my mouth with shaking hands, searching my face. "Jesus," he whispers, his voice choked. "You're a virgin."
I nod, dizzy with shame. I don't want him thinking I waited for him, that I had some picture in my head of him being my first all these years. But…I did wait. As much as I hate myself for it, I waited.
"You should have told me," he says, softer than I've ever heard him. Something about the way he's looking at me, like he regrets everything that just happened…hurts.
I don't want his regret. I don't want his pity or shame, either. God help me, I just want him, every wicked, hateful, ruinous inch of him.
"Why?" I spit at him, my jaw aching. "It's not like you wouldn't be here anyway, taking what you want. That's who you are, Asher. It's what you do. You love my misery."
He flinches, just barely, before that cold mask slams back into place.
"Misery?" He slides his cock in a little deeper, slow and careful. The burn is white-hot, but it's not all pain. There's a well of pleasure in it, too, a fullness that makes me gasp.
He watches my face, every muscle in his jaw clenched. "You don't seem miserable to me, Brielle. In fact…" He thrusts all the way in, making me cry out. "You look like you're in heaven right now, stuffed full of my cock."
He's right. God help me, he's right. He feels so fucking good, like every dream and wish I've ever had come to life.
He moves, slow at first, then faster, fucking me like he wants to break me, to make me admit that I want this, that I want him.
I do. I want him so badly it makes me sick. Isn't that the problem? No matter how much I tell myself I hate him, I've never stopped wanting him. I've never stopped dreaming about him. I've never been able to let him go.
I reach for him with bound hands, clawing at his shoulders. He grabs my wrists and holds them above my head, pinning me to the floor.
He fucks me hard, never taking his eyes off mine. I see the monster peeking out at me, so fucking satisfied and possessive, it's a little terrifying.
"You're mine now," he says, his voice rough. "Say it."
I try like hell to resist, refusing to give him another sliver of my soul. But…resisting is hard when he's inside me, fucking me precisely like I belong to him.
"Say it," he snarls, slamming into me.
"I hate you," I whisper in response. It's pathetic. Even I don't believe it.
He laughs. "Yeah? Then scream how much you fucking hate me while you're coming on my cock like the obedient little slut you are for me.
Let the cleaning crew hear how desperate you are for this cock.
You sold yourself just for a taste, didn't you?
" He presses his lips to my ear, panting.
"This tight little pussy was worth the five million, princess. "
Something about the way he degrades and humiliates me has my inner muscles clamping around him.
No one else would even dare speak to me that way, but…
Asher isn't anyone else. He knows me in ways that are terrifying, and I think he knows just how much I fucking love every filthy, depraved, cruel word he says.
He holds me pinned beneath him, my wrists chafed and my legs splayed, and fucks me with a violence that's almost holy. Every stroke is a punishment, or maybe a confession. Either way, I can't catch my breath.
I can't fight the pleasure building to a fever pitch, either. My body doesn't care that I hate him. My body only cares about the friction, the pressure, and the way his hips crash against mine with every savage thrust.
"Look at you, soaking my cock after fighting me all week," he growls, leaning over me, forcing my bound wrists higher above my head. "Whose pussy is this, Brielle?"
I try to glare, try to summon my usual venom, but it refuses to form. I'm split open and laid bare, every inch of my body begging for more.
"Fuck you," I gasp, the words shredded by a sob.
He laughs, the sound harsh and triumphant.
"Fuck me? That's what you've wanted since I met you, isn't it, you desperate little slut?
" He drives in deeper, so deep I swear I feel him in my lungs.
The savage ache blooms into something that makes my body sing.
"You're so goddamn hungry for it, you could live off my cock if I let you.
Isn't that what you really want, princess? "
The friction, the fullness, the sick, perfect cruelty of it has me seeing stars. Every ruthless stroke sends me closer to the edge. I try to resist, I really do, but he's too good. He knows exactly how to break me with his violent worship.
His hand slides up my body, closing around my throat. He squeezes, cutting off my breath.
My vision narrows to a tunnel as the world dissolves. The only things that exist are the impossible pressure at my throat, the brutal, perfect stretch of him inside me, and the way his grip on my wrists makes me feel small and helpless and alive for the first time in forever.
"Want to know what I see when I look at you?
" His voice is a sandpaper rasp in my ear, his fingers a point of fire at the pulse in my throat.
"I see a brat who needs to be wrecked. A princess just begging for a leash instead of a crown.
A girl so desperate to be my little whore that she'll torch everything just to hide how much she wants it. "
He watches my face, his eyes bright and dark and so fucking self-satisfied. I try to snarl, to spit a denial, but all that comes out is a high, strangled whimper.
He likes that. God, he likes it.
"Isn't that right, Brielle?" His hips slam into mine, slower now, grinding out a rhythm designed to obliterate me. "You want me to break you, so you don't have to do it yourself. You want to be owned just like this."
I try to shake my head, but I can't.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be ruined? To be mine?" His voice is almost gentle. "You're never going to be able to fuck anyone else, princess. Not after me."
I can't speak. Can't even moan. All I can do is take what he gives me.
His hand tightens on my throat, just enough to make my whole body seize, pleasure cresting somewhere between terror and surrender.
"Come for me," he snarls. "Now."
I do. I shatter around him, my body locking up, my vision going black at the edges. He releases his hold on my throat, allowing me to draw a breath. After so long without one, it does something to me, sending me careening into some other dimension.
I scream his name, not even caring who hears. Not caring who knows what he's doing to me right now.
He keeps fucking me through the orgasm, wringing every last spasm from my body.
"Mine." He kisses me, savage and sweet at the same time.
And just for a second, I let myself believe that I belong to him. I let myself pretend that he doesn't hate me, and this isn't about revenge for him. I let myself pretend that this is real.
He fucks me until I come again, until I'm sobbing in his arms, until the pain and pleasure blur into one, and I'm too wrecked to feel anything but the way he forces me to take every brutal thrust.
This time, he comes with me, his hips slamming into me one last time before he buries his face in my throat, gasping my name. His body shakes as he spills inside of me, filling me so full I whimper in response.
When he's finished, he unties my wrists and holds me, stroking my hair with surprising gentleness. For a second, I see something in him that's not violence or cruelty. It's soft and warm. Maybe it's regret. Maybe it's love. I don't know. But it scares the hell out of me.
With his face buried in my throat, I think I hear him whisper my name.
But I must be imagining it.
He's a monster. He'll always be a monster. And monsters don't love.
So why is it so hard to remember that?
I don't know. Isn't that the problem? I've never known why I keep letting myself forget how dangerous he is to me.