Chapter 15 Violet #2
“Your mouth and your cunt are telling me very different things.” His voice is silk and gravel, right against my ear. “Which one should I believe?”
He slides one finger inside me.
I cry out. Pleasure, not pain. My hands push at his chest but there’s no strength behind it, no conviction, and he doesn’t move. Just watches my face while I fight myself.
“So tight.” His finger curls inside me, finding spots I didn’t know existed. “You’re going to feel so good around my cock.”
“I hate you—”
One finger becomes two. Stretching me. His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his fingers thrusting.
I’m making sounds I can’t control. Gasps. Whimpers. Moans that would humiliate me if I could think straight. Still trying to protest, the words meaningless against the evidence of my body.
“You need to cling to that lie.” His mouth grazes my neck. “But feel how wet you are. How you’re gripping my fingers. This cunt wants me, even if you won’t admit it.”
His fingers curl inside me, hitting something that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
I’m close.
Can feel the orgasm building. Inevitable. A wave I can’t outrun.
I clench around his fingers, trying to stay still, trying to fight.
“Come for me, Violet.” His voice is a command and a plea. “Show me the truth.”
His fingers are relentless. Circling, thrusting, curling. His other hand braces my hip, holds me in place when my knees threaten to buckle. His mouth lands on my neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me like nothing I’ve ever felt. Devastating. Undeniable. I come on his hand with a cry I can’t suppress, my body clenching around his fingers, pulsing with pleasure that whites out my vision.
Wetness floods his hand. So much wetness. More than I knew was possible. I’ve never—this has never happened—
“Fuck.” His voice is wrecked. “That’s it. That’s it, tesoro. Give it to me.”
He doesn’t stop. Works me through the waves until I’m shaking, oversensitive, unable to do anything but grip his shoulders and hold on.
When it finally ends, my body goes limp against the wall.
His fingers still inside me. Intimate. Possessive.
I’m breathing hard. Trembling. Can’t look at him, can’t process what just happened.
He withdraws slowly.
The loss makes me whimper. I hate myself for the sound.
He brings his hand to his mouth. Licks his fingers clean while watching me with those dark, endless eyes. A groan rumbles through his chest.
“Your hate tastes like heaven.”
The shame crashes down. I shove him. Hard. He lets me this time, stepping back as I slide down the wall, knees finally giving out.
The sobs come from somewhere deep and broken.
Not from pain. From shame and confusion and rage.
At him. At myself. At this sick, twisted thing between us that I can’t control.
I’m still throbbing, oversensitive, wetness cooling on my thighs.
The physical evidence of what just happened impossible to ignore.
What did you do? What did you let him do?
“I hate you.” My voice is wrecked. Raw.
“I hate you.” Repeated like it’s the one thing I have to hold on to..
“I hate you.” But I came on his hand. Can’t unsay that. Can’t unfeel it.
He doesn’t move away.
Just kneels in front of me. Patient. Waiting.
“I know you think that’s true.” So gentle it hurts worse than cruelty.
I try to hit him. Fists against his chest, no real strength behind it, just rage that needs somewhere to go. Cursing him through tears. Every obscenity I know, and I know a lot. Boston Irish upbringing, good for exactly two things. Catholic guilt and creative profanity.
He takes it. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop me.
When I’m spent, he pulls me against his chest.
I should fight. Should shove him away and crawl back to my room and never look at him again.
Instead, I cling.
His hand strokes through my hair. Soothing. Wrong. Right. I lean into it before I can stop myself.
“I know,” he murmurs against my hair. “I know. Let it out.”
I sob into his shirt while he holds me. The monster who just proved my body is a traitor. And I find comfort in his arms because I’m broken too, because understanding him doesn’t make me hate him less, but it makes me hate myself more.
“You can hate me and want me, tesoro.” His voice is quiet. Certain. “They’re not mutually exclusive. Your body knows what it needs, even if your mind won’t accept it yet.”
The worst part is, he’s right.
I hate him. Want him. Need him.
Came on his hand while saying no.
And some sick part of me wants him to do it again.
He carries me inside. I don’t fight. Can’t. Boneless and wrecked, and something fundamental shattered inside me.
He sets me on my bed. Pulls the blanket over me. Brushes hair from my face.
“Sleep, my Violet.” His voice is soft. Almost tender. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
Just curl on my side, his scent on my skin, his touch still echoing through my body.
Everything I thought I knew about myself is gone.
My body is the enemy.
And it just won.