Chapter Nine #2
"Don't you dare," I rasp when he pops the cap off, pressing the tip to my thigh, but I might as well not have spoken at all. He ignores me like I didn't, the marker gliding across my skin as he scrawls his ownership across me, stamping me with the same degrading names that make my blood steam.
"PRETTY SLUT" on my left thigh, "MY TOY" on the right. "COCKWHORE" on my stomach. The bastard even scrawls his name across my bare mound like he's signing a contract.
"Too bad it's not permanent," he mutters, recapping the marker.
I just glare at him in response, trying desperately to pretend the words written across my skin don't mean a damn thing to me. That they don't mark me as his in ways far more permanent than the ink. Except…they do. I think we both know it.
Once he's finished writing his filth, he uses the marker to toy with me again, barely brushing my inner thighs with it, grazing the lips of my sex, never quite touching where I need him to.
"You like this," he says, half surprised, half triumphant.
"Fuck you," I whisper, refusing to admit that I love it.
He leans in, sinking his teeth into my inner thigh in a punishing bite, right beside where he wrote pretty slut. "If you want to come, you'll ask nicely."
I shake my head, but my body is already betraying me, my hips lifting toward him again.
He laughs, that same wicked, dangerous sound that always thrums against my clit. "Still such a fucking brat," he says, "even when you're tied up and begging for it."
He pushes the marker inside me, slow and unhurried, and I nearly arch off the chair. His name cracks on my lips, but that only makes him smile.
"I could fuck you with anything right now, and you wouldn't tell me no, would you, you filthy little slut?
" He pumps the marker in and out, never going deep enough to finish the job.
And damn him, I love it. I love that he uses me like this.
I love that he knows me so fucking well.
I love that he's the only one who could possibly make me desperate enough to want a fucking marker inside me, binder clips on my nipples, and filth scrawled across my skin.
He watches my face the whole time he fucks me with the marker, drinking in every quiver, every gasp.
"You're going to come when I decide you can," he murmurs. "Not a second before."
I clench my teeth, determined to hold out, but he's too good. He knows my body better than I do, and every touch is calculated to drive me insane.
He brings me to the edge and then stops, again and again, until I'm a shaking, breathless mess.
"Please," I whisper, broken.
His grin is cruel and gorgeous at once. "Not yet."
He stands, towering over me, and leans in until his lips are at my temple. "You look beautiful like this," he says, so quietly it almost doesn't register.
For a split second, his mask slips, and I see something vulnerable flicker in his eyes. But then it's gone, replaced by the monster I know so well.
He drops to his knees between my splayed legs, burying his face in my pussy. His tongue lashes over my clit before he works the marker into my ass, slowly at first and then deeper, harder, faster, until I'm biting my lip to keep from screaming so loud the whole goddamn office hears me.
Just when I'm about to go over, he pulls away, leaving me empty and aching.
He unties my wrists, his hands gentle. "Finish it," he says, like it's a mercy. "Use the marker to fuck your ass while I watch."
I do, one hand shaking around the marker as I fuck myself with it, every move desperate and wild. My other hand is between my legs, desperately trying to finish the job he started. He watches, his eyes locked on the sight of the marker in my ass and my fingers between my legs.
"Come now," he orders.
My body responds to his command on instinct.
I come hard, shuddering and whimpering.
He removes the binder clips all at once, which only prolongs the orgasm, leaving me a boneless, stuttering mess. I droop in the chair, panting and shaking, my whole body somehow numb and on fire at the same time.
When the last aftershock pings through me, he massages my wrists and legs, his touch gentle, before he helps me out of the chair, steadying me while I find my balance.
"Why?" I ask, breathless, desperate to understand why he's so fucking fascinated with breaking me. Or, perhaps, to understand why I'm so willing to let him do it.
"Because I can." He runs a thumb over my cheek, his touch soft. "Because you let me," he says before turning back to his desk as if nothing happened. "Because we're exactly the same."
I gather my clothes with shaking hands, trying to remember who I am.
I don't succeed.
On Tuesday, I wake up with him in my bed.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, staring at him blankly. "Why are you in my bed?" The better question might be how is he in my bed. I changed my lock code after he broke in last time.
"I told you that your security is shit, princess," he says, smirking over at me.
"Stop breaking into my apartment, Asher," I growl, smacking him over the head with a pillow.
Wrong move.
He yanks the pillow out of my hands and throws it across the room. Before I can process, he has me on my stomach beneath him, my face smashed against a pillow, his hands digging into the nape of my neck.
I try to fight back, but he's already sprawled over my body, his cock hot and hard and jabbing at my thigh.
"Let me go," I snarl, bucking, but it comes out muffled and pathetic.
He just laughs in response, leaning over me until his mouth is pressed to my ear.
"You really think you get a say?" His voice is smoke and gravel. His hand drags my hips up, forcing my ass high. For a second, I think he's going to spank me. Instead, he bites my shoulder hard enough to leave a perfect, instant bruise.
I twist helplessly as he shoves my face deep into the pillow again, suffocating my protest. His other hand slips down, two fingers plunging inside me with zero warning, and I realize I'm already soaked for him.
I hate that he notices.
"You keep saying no, but your pussy hasn't gotten the message," he growls, his voice thick with disgust and hunger and something I can't name.
He doesn't waste time as he drags his cock up my slit, then slams himself inside, all in one brutal, perfect thrust.
I scream into the pillow, half pain and half desperate relief.
He fucks me like a demon, his hands braced on my hips, every thrust calculated to split me open and leave me sobbing.
It's so fast, so raw, my body doesn't know which way is up.
He keeps me pinned, his teeth against the side of my neck, then slaps my ass.
Once. Twice. Hard enough to make me yelp.
And then harder when I push back against him, asking for more even though I want to fucking hate him for doing this to me.
"This is mine," he spits out, punctuating his declaration with another savage thrust. "You're mine. Say it."
I try not to. I swear, I try. But the words are just there, raw and unfiltered, no matter how hard I try to keep them to myself. "I'm yours."
He doesn't let up, not even a little. His hand snakes up to my throat, pulling me up against him, so I'm choking and gasping while he fucks me so deep I can't even think. His other hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back until I'm forced to meet his feral gaze.
He's so goddamn beautiful, smirking like this is the only place he wants to exist, his cheeks flushed, my name a rumbled growl on his lips.
"Did you dream about me last night, princess?" he rasps. "Was I fucking you like this while you were moaning my name in your sleep?"
I try to lie and tell him no, but I choke on the words.
He fucks me harder, and then harder still, until I'm right at the edge of blackout. Then he lets go of my throat, slapping my ass again, milking every humiliating sound out of me.
When I come, he bites my shoulder again, holding me in place while my body convulses around him, helpless and perfect and so fucking his I might as well not have even bothered washing off his name last night.
He comes a second later, grinding against me so deep I swear I can feel him in my stomach.
He doesn't move for a long time afterward. He just pants against my back, his sweat dripping onto me, his cock still hard inside me.
I can't move. I can't even breathe.
When he finally pulls out, he presses a kiss to my cheek, soft, almost apologetic. The contradiction is so acute that it leaves me shaking.
Then he slaps my ass and climbs off the bed, sauntering naked toward the bathroom. He looks over his shoulder, grinning like a demon.
"We're showering. Don't make me drag you."
I hate him. I hate him so much it scrapes the inside of my ribs. I hate how I can't stop trembling, and that some part of me already wants round two.
I lay there, my breath refusing to even out, listening to the sound of the shower. There's no cleaning what he did to me off my skin, but I drag myself out of bed anyway, because I know if I don't, he'll come back and haul me in by my hair.
I step into the bathroom, steam hitting me in the face.
He stands under the spray, his eyes closed, water running in rivulets down his chest and the ink of his tattoos.
The scepter on his spine looks like a weapon, the crown and bloody thorns on his chest a warning.
I watch his eyes flick open, watch the way his gaze drags over my ruined body, and the way his cock twitches at the sight of the mess he made.
He holds the shower door open for me.
"Get in," he says quietly, as if this is a normal morning, as if he's not still inside me in every way that matters.
I step under the scalding water, my eyes closed. For a second, he lets me just stand there, soaking. For a second, I think he might let me have this, just a minute to wash away the ache and the aftershocks.
But he kills that thought when he crowds in behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, his chest pressed to my back, his cock already hard again.