Chapter 27 #3
Wicked man. Devil man. But something tells me I would follow him into damnation as a willing participant.
My breath fogs the glass as I ebb back from the edge, my fingers curling inward.
His teeth graze the column of my throat, his stubble abrading my overly sensitive skin to the point I might scream and beg him to end this torture.
Just when I’m on the verge of giving in, I feel his cock press back into me slowly.
He rolls his hips, teasing me with this new unhurried rhythm that has my teeth biting down on my lip so hard I taste copper.
“Zeke!” I gasp, grappling with my control.
My muscles start to coil achingly slow, a steady pressure storm building in my stomach, gaining speed and power with every passing second and expert flex of his hips.
“Fuck baby, you feel so good. I can feel how tight you’re getting around me, trying to steal my cum from me.” I’m pleased to hear his voice is tight and gravelly, like his own restraint is hanging on by a thread.
“I can’t, Zeke!” I mewl, writhing, my breasts sliding against the glass as his thrusts get deeper, faster, so that I’m being catapulted to that maddening brink once more.
“Yes.” Thrust. “You.” Thrust. “Can.” Thrust. Each one is sharp enough to click my teeth together and bring tears of desperation to my eyes.
“I need…I need…” My brain has officially turned to sex-melted mush inside my skull, a slew of jumbled curse words flying out instead of what I actually need to say.
“I know what you need, baby,” he growls, his hips slapping against my ass, the obscene wet sounds of our bodies meeting filling the air.
Sweat beads at the nape of my neck and I cry out, my eyes screwing shut as I’m about to be tipped over into ecstasy. A perfect moment of clarity hits and I know what is about to happen. Twisting my torso, I snap my eyes to his as my fingers curl around his tie, yanking tight. “Now!” I demand.
“Say please,” he snarls, his decadent top lip curling back over his teeth.
“Please!” The word spills desperately from my lips without pause.
His smoldering chocolate eyes go wide, his nostrils flaring as he abandons his plan to torture me and surges forward, claiming my lips with his in a fiery kiss as his cock slams into me harder and faster than ever.
Pleasure swells, a wave of mindless bliss so visceral that all five of my senses are lost to it crashing over me.
Every filthy curse word under the sun is snarled against my lips as he stills deep inside of me, his cock swelling impossibly thicker and throbbing as the spasms of my body milk him for his release.
Long, hot bursts of his seed spill inside me, every jerk of his dick sending aftershocks of pleasure tremoring through my spent body.
His tongue against mine becomes lazy, worshipping, as we pant into each other's mouths. Pulling back an inch, he rests his sweat dampened forehead on mine. Smiling, I surrender to the limp, satiated feeling bleeding into my bones.
“Oh yeah, we’re definitely doing that again,” I breathe, a faint smile tugging up at my lips.
“You bet your fucking ass we are.”
***
“And have you had any urges to contact Anthony since we last spoke?” Dr. Pierce sits in a cream suede chair, low to the ground, her elbows resting on the shiny cherry wood arms. I tap my lips with one finger, casting my eyes around the barren room.
White on beige on cream. So fucking annoying.
Even the good doctor has excelled herself today, in a clinical white pantsuit.
“Well, I did consider breaking into his apartment on Tuesday to sniff his underwear, but I just about managed to resist.” My voice is laced with heavy sarcasm, but I keep my face neutral.
Dr. Pierce purses her nude painted lips, dropping brown eyes meticulously shadowed with autumnal colors to the notepad in front of her to scribble something down. “You know, this is our sixth session, and you still refuse to acknowledge what happened.”
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I stare at her blankly.
The deal negotiated by mine and Anthony’s attorneys is that I have to attend ten therapy sessions, nothing less and nothing more.
He knows me well enough to know my aversion to anything too neat and orderly, and I’m sure that him sticking me in a painfully clinical setting like this is nothing more than a sick joke to him.
I see no point in trying to explain to a total stranger that my ex is a manipulative mastermind who twisted the whole situation to make me look crazy, so I keep my jaw wired shut.
My mind flits back to the moment when I walked into Anthony’s bedroom to find a hooker bouncing on his balls.
He’d blustered and raged, and then turned to desperate promises of change.
I’d walked out of the two story skyrise apartment feeling numb and having no intention of ever seeing him again.
Until I remembered he owned the company I worked for.
Three weeks of cornering me at the office, turning up on my doorstep, leaving flowers and gifts for me in places I would find, and heartfelt apologies had me questioning if I was being hasty.
Rants about me being unforgiving, excuses that he wasn’t a perfect human and that his relationship with his abusive mother drove him to seek validation in unhealthy ways followed.
And before I knew it, I was thinking that perhaps throwing three years together away for one mistake was unreasonable of me.
It’s a strange thing, being manipulated.
Before you find yourself in a position with someone close to you skewing your perception of reality, you would swear no one had the power to do that to you.
Over time, everything you know to be right is chipped away, replaced with the seeds of doubt they plant.
Maybe it was just for our privacy that he kept me a secret from the world the entire time we were together.
Maybe it was just good for business appearances that he takes Manhattan socialites as dates to media events.
Maybe I was the problem. Maybe I wasn’t loving enough, wasn’t understanding or empathetic enough.
Maybe what I expected from a partner wasn’t realistic. Maybe I pushed him away.
A swarm of maybe clouds your vision and it isn’t until you wake up and smell the roses that you see it all for what it really is—a shitty person saying and doing anything they can to get their own way.
After tentatively agreeing to work on things, the late nights at the office started again, the evenings when he was mysteriously unavailable without explanation, the silenced phone calls that he hid as soon as they came in.
Sure enough, my suspicions grew that he wasn’t the person I thought he was. So, I did what any logical and rational human would do. Not. I followed him and gathered enough evidence of his whoring that he wouldn’t have any room to wriggle out of it.
Unfortunately for me, my final mistake was that I underestimated just how calculating and malicious he could be.
Say what I want about him, Anthony Sweeney is a smart fucker who outmaneuvered me game, set, and match.
I can only conclude now, that when I initially left him, his fragile little ego was so wounded that he set up an insurance policy to get his revenge if he couldn’t pull the wool back over my eyes.
He asked me to call him multiple times because he “couldn’t hear his phone ringer.
” He asked me to meet him at his house at times when he conveniently forgot to let me know something came up and he wasn’t there.
And all of these requests he kept astutely to phone calls, which were later framed as him pleading for me to stop stalking him.
It was a perfectly crafted plan, which all ended with me sitting here, staring at the perfectly shiny locks of Dr. Pierce so that I don’t get slapped with a restraining order and a criminal record.
Pure, unadulterated rage burns in my gut, turning it to leaden stone.
“Will I get a straight answer out of you if I ask more questions?” Dr. Pierce looks up at me, her lips pressed into a flat line.
“Nope. Want to play I spy instead?”