Chapter 30
Hot breath fans over my neck. My brain knows this is wrong, but somewhere along the way, wires pinched or short-circuited.
No other logical reason would have me on the cusp of orgasm with just his presence.
He invades my mind, taking up space I don’t want him to inhabit.
Further and further I fall prey to his vicious ways.
His hand leaves my thigh, and I feel a sense of melancholy.
Cigarettes and musk fill my senses even in the darkest reaches of my mind.
This is unhealthy. Heck, I may even need therapy.
I stare into his piercing dead, gray eyes.
His dark black curls hang loosely over his face.
His body is positioned above me, blanketing me, and no matter how hard I struggle, it’s futile against his large frame.
“You smell fucking delicious,” he rattles against my cheek as he licks my salty tears.
I stay utterly still as he reaches between our bodies. Something shiny reflects against the firelight as he twists it. His switchblade.
“You bleed so beautifully.” His voice is unnerving. A cold attachment is laced in his tone.
He brings it along my hip, dragging the sharpest point, making my skin pinch. Without warning, he drives it in enough to cut, but not maim. I arch forward into him from the dull pain.
“Stop!” I cry out, desperate for him to halt his sick games. He knows my voice lacks conviction. He toys with me the same way a wolf toys with its prey. My tears only fuel his twisted desires.
He slams his free hand over my mouth again. I can taste his salty skin. “Now my little songbird, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Either way I get what I want.” His voice coats me in desire, and I hate it. I hate how much I love his sick, twisted ways.
He tosses the knife to the floor, making it clatter against the old wooden floor.
I can feel the warm blood seep along my skin and onto the silk sheets.
His hand slides under the small of my back.
He pulls me flush against his abs and pelvis so I can feel his massive bulge.
My pussy throbs remembering how he worked me last time.
He slithers his hands out from under my back and unzips his jeans, freeing his heavy cock.
With a groan of relief once he wrestles it free from his boxers, he yanks me by the hips, sliding me down under him so he can position himself better.
I lay frozen. He’s such a big guy, and I’m so tiny. How we fit, I don’t know. His cock had me unable to walk straight for days after he fucked me last time. Still though, my pussy throbs in anticipation.
He gives a few lazy strokes up his pierced shaft and spits into his hand. As if he needed to, I’m already embarrassingly wet.
“No, Zain,” I say in a feeble attempt to stop this. He wouldn’t rape me, would he? Is it rape if I want it?
“Yes,” he growls, his voice vacant of emotion.
He pulls my panties to the side and drills into me with one painful thrust. His hand glides back under me, and a silent cry leaves my lips.
It hurts. God, it hurts so good. His barbells rub against my inner walls.
My hands shove against his chest. It’s too much.
My body can’t take it. He’s going to break me in two.
“Zain, stop! It hurts!” I beg through wet lashes. He pins my wrist against the sheets. A silent warning that he won’t hesitate to hurt me.His eyes are hazy and maniacal. All I can do is lie here and take it.
“Mine to ruin.”
Thrust.
“Mine to fuck.”
Thrust.
“Mine to use.”
Thrust.
“Mine to fuckin’ own.”
Thrust.
Each painful collision he makes into my cervix, I see stars. Tears stream down my cheeks and into my hair, causing the strands to stick to the red silk pillowcase. My back slides along the silk. Every time my body gets too far for his liking, he yanks me back with brute force.
His hands release my arms, then he grabs my hips in a bruising hold.
His fingers dig into my freshly cut skin.
He pulls me down onto his cock like I’m here for his pleasure alone; what I want is irrelevant.
I wince at his rough handling. His hands make no move to be gentle.
He has no understanding of the word. He’s driven by a madness I don’t understand.
My brain is screaming at me to fight, but my body has other plans.
My orgasm builds within my center, and he hasn’t even laid a finger on my clit.
The way he’s positioned, his pelvis is doing all the work.
My pussy is on fire from his size, and I thrash.
He stretches me to my limits. He gets to his knees once he sees I’m close, the mattress dipping from his weight.
His hand is covered in my blood from cutting me.
“Zain.” His name leaves my lips in a silent prayer. I’m not sure if I’m begging him to stop or to let me come.
His fingers grip my neck, and I gasp for air.
He doesn’t linger, instead he paints crimson down my neck, collarbone, and stomach until he reaches my clit.
He pinches it, mixing his cum against my swollen pussy.
Daringly, I look down to where we are connected.
He’s frenzied, untamed, and utterly huge.
I get so lost in the frisson of pleasure; I grab at his shirt and try to free it from his body. He slaps my cheek. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he growls, pistoning into me with a punishing pace. His hands bruise my delicate skin.
My climax is at its pinnacle—on the verge of explosion from being slapped?
It makes no sense in my logical mind. Before I can careen over the edge, his thrusts become erratic.
His hand shoves my face into the silk pillow.
He grunts, and then I feel it. The hot liquid filling my insides, seeping into my soul to ruin me for any other man.
Not because I want him to, but because I know no one else will ever compare to this sick pleasure only he can dole out.
And somehow, I’m addicted to the sickness…
I whimper.
“You don’t come unless I tell you to. You are mine to control,” he says in an authoritative tone.
He came…and denied me…