Chapter Eight #2
"Shut the fuck up, Brielle." I slam the mug on the counter, coffee sloshing over the rim.
"No. We need to talk about it."
"No, you need to get on your knees."
"What?" She blinks up at me.
I step closer, crowding her against the fridge. "You heard me, princess. On your knees. Now."
Her mouth works, maybe to protest, maybe to ask why, but I don't give her the chance. I grip her hair hard enough to sting, and push her down until she's kneeling on the kitchen tile.
I fish my cock out, already half hard, and stroke it in front of her face. "Since you insist on using that fucking mouth, you'll use it for what I want. Open."
She does, her lips parting obediently, her tongue glistening.
I push into her mouth, watching her eyes the whole time.
There's nothing soft in this, nothing gentle.
I'm using her to erase the ache in my chest, to drown out last night's shame, to remind her that I don't deserve kindness, not from her.
I grip her head with both hands and fuck her mouth, my thrusts relentless and deep. She gags, choking on my cock. But she doesn't pull away. She doesn't fight or resist.
She holds my gaze, tears streaming from her eyes as I use her.
I don't let myself feel sorry.
I don't let myself feel anything.
I just force myself down her throat, fucking it until the feel of her choking on me is all I remember.
I come in her mouth, holding her there until I'm empty. Then I pull out, letting the last drops smear her lips. "Swallow," I order.
She does, licking her lips and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She doesn't look away, even as her cheeks flush.
I lean down, grabbing her jaw. "Go to your bedroom and bring me the toys you use to pretend you don't need anyone."
She stands, her legs shaky, and walks down the hall. I watch her go, knowing she's going to do exactly what I told her.
I down the rest of my coffee and wait.
She returns with a slim pink vibrator in one hand and a purple monster of a vibrator in the other, holding them like they're grenades that might go off at any second.
I take them from her and march her to the living room, shoving her face-down over the back of the couch.
I yank her hoodie up and then rip her boyshorts down, exposing her, and flick the pink vibrator on. She whimpers, her whole body arching when I press it to her clit. She's soaked already, her pussy clenching around nothing, desperate for attention.
I drive the toy against her until she's shaking, her ass grinding back against my hand.
Then I pull it away.
She cries out, half in protest, half in agony.
I press the tip against her asshole, using her own arousal as lube. She tries to clench, to resist, but I hold her open with one hand and slowly press the tip of the toy past the tight ring of muscle.
She moans, tensing when it slips in.
"Relax," I order, holding her down with one hand. "This is what I've been training this little hole for, Brielle."
She chokes on a whimper, practically melting beneath me as I force the toy deeper. Christ, she loves this shit.
I pump the vibrator in and out, her body trembling with every thrust. Her arousal drips down her thighs, the smell of her making me even harder.
I yank the toy out and toss it aside, then press my fingers to her ass, stretching her open. I watch her face in the reflection of the TV screen, the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes squeeze shut when I go deeper.
"Christ, you should see how fucking greedy you are for me to fuck this hole," I growl. "You're so fucking wet for it, you're making a mess, Brielle."
She sobs in response, pushing back against me.
I slip my fingers out, lining my cock up. She doesn't even tense this time. She's too fucking greedy for it.
I push slow at first, and then all at once, making her take every brutal inch.
"Fuck," she gasps, her nails clawing at the leather beneath her.
I reach for the other, bigger toy, flicking the setting to max, and slip it into her cunt. The vibration is so brutal it's audible as I fuck her with it, using my whole fist to drive it deeper, feeling the tremor all the way through to her cervix.
She's babbling incoherently now, her face mashed against the couch.
Her legs kick as she convulses, so I catch them between my knees, pinning her in place as I fuck her with the toy, my cock buried to the hilt in her ass. The sensation is obscene—her pussy spasming around the toy, her ass convulsing around my cock, the whole length of me vibrating from the toy.
"You like that?" I growl, one hand clamped around her hip hard enough to bruise. "You like being fucked by a toy in one hole and my cock in the other?"
She sobs, but not in pain. I know what her pain sounds like. This is something else. She's coming hard and constant, a rolling seizure that leaves her limp between my hands.
I thrust slow and deep, until I feel my own orgasm building, and then I let loose, fucking her like a madman. Every thrust is a punishment, a refusal to let her get too close. I want to hurt her. I want to own her. I want to fill her so full of me that there's no room left for her pity.
"Say it," I growl, slamming into her. "Say you're my filthy little slut."
She chokes on a sob, but says it anyway. "I'm your filthy little slut."
"Louder," I demand, smacking her ass so hard my palm stings.
She screams it, the words bouncing off the high ceiling. "I'm your filthy little slut!"
I drive into her faster and harder, until I feel her tighten and pulse around me again. She comes with a scream, her whole body shaking.
I pull out before I come, jerking myself until I explode across her back, thick and hot and messy. I paint her skin, her ass, the backs of her thighs, and watch the tremor in her legs as she tries to catch her breath.
I remove the toy, flicking it off, and then tuck myself away, zipping up while she lies there, wrecked and panting.
"You're not allowed to wash me off all day," I say. My voice is steady, but my hands shake.
She stays draped over the couch, her hair a wild snarl, her body marked with my seed, my handprint red against her ass.
I look at her, really look. Faint, jagged scars from the accident crisscross her side. They're barely visible now, but I see them. The skin is smooth and pale, but the lines never go away.
"I've never forgiven myself for almost killing you," I blurt, the words out before I can stop them. "I doubt I ever will. The nightmares should haunt me, Brielle. They're what I deserve."
She blinks, her lips parted. For once, she doesn't have a smartass reply.
I almost want her to tell me that it wasn't my fault, that she's fine now.
But I know she won't lie to me. She won't give me a single fucking inch I don't take by force because that's what I did to her, that's what I turned her into.
I almost killed her, and then I kept her bleeding, just so she never forgot what I did. Just so I never forgot, either.
I need her to hate me. It's the only way I can live with myself. But I wish to God it could be different. I wish, just once, that I could deserve her.
I turn away, walking to the window. The city is gold and blue, crawling with life, but I don't see any of it. All I see are the ghosts of every mistake I've ever made with her.
She clears her throat. "Asher—"
"Don't," I say, cutting her off.
There's a long pause, one full of everything we never say. It claws at me until I want to peel my own fucking skin off just to escape the sensation.
"I'll see you Monday morning," I mutter, not trusting myself to look at her. I grab my jacket and head for the door, leaving her naked and shaking on the couch.
I need her to hate me.
It's easier if she does.
But I'll never be able to outrun the sound of her voice telling me that she loves me, or the feel of her lips on mine, or the scars she'll carry for the rest of her life because of me.
I'll never be able to outrun the reminder that the last thing I said to her that night—that I didn't love her—was a fucking lie.
I step out into the hallway, closing the door behind me, but the ghosts follow anyway.
They never stop.