Chapter 8
Aidan
“Ethan,” she mumbles as I thrust my dick into her.
I slam my fist on the tile next to her head, cracking it.
Her eyes snap open, and she looks at the damage.
“Stop talking,” I grit out, my knuckles bleeding. “No words.”
Her eyes widen, but she clamps her lips shut.
Good girl. I don’t want to hear his name on her lips.
Not now. Her eyes are glassy with tears, but I don’t care.
I can’t. Not when I’m this deep inside her, feeling her pussy clench around me like a vice.
I pound into her harder. Her back scrapes against the tiles with each thrust, but she doesn’t make a sound.
She’s learning. Her body is slick and hot, her legs wrapped tightly around my waist. I can feel every inch of her, every tremble, every shiver.
She’s so fucking responsive, it’s intoxicating.
I want to consume her, possess her, own her on every level.
I grip her hips, digging my fingers into her soft flesh.
She winces, but I don’t ease up. I can’t.
The beast inside me is roaring, demanding more.
Her eyes are locked onto mine now, filled with fear and lust. I can see the battle raging inside her, the need to submit warring with the instinct to fight.
I lean in, pressing my forehead against hers, my breath ragged. “You’re mine,” I growl, the words ripped from somewhere I hadn’t meant to open. “Mine to fuck. Mine to possess. Mine to protect.”
She whimpers, a small sound that escapes her lips despite my earlier warning.
I want to devour her, to consume every part of her until there’s nothing left but me.
Not Ethan. Me. I shift my grip, moving my hands to her arse, lifting her higher against the tiles.
Her pussy on my cock feels fucking amazing.
I change the angle, driving deeper. She bites her lip, stifling another moan, and even if I want to hear her, I need her to learn.
There’s nothing more beautiful than watching her unravel, knowing I’m the one causing it.
Fuck, she’s perfect for us. Will be perfect for us when she finds out we all own her.
Soon.
It has to be soon. I can’t let this drag on for weeks with her thinking I’m Ethan.
“You love this, don’t you, Annabelle? You love being fucked by me. Fucked like a little doll on my cock.”
Sweet little sounds escape from her, each one sending a jolt of electricity through me. I want to hear more, want to draw out every whimper and cry.
My hands drop between us as I keep her pressed tightly to the wall, and I spread her cunt wide open for me with my thumbs.
I look down and see my cock sliding into her, covered in cum.
“Fuck,” I groan as it jerks inside her. “Your cunt looks perfect with my cock inside it,” I growl.
“Fuck, Annabelle.” My orgasm implodes from the depths of my soul.
I keep my eyes on my cock, buried tight inside her, and unload into her in hard, savage pulses.
For one filthy second, all I know is heat, her body, the drag of release tearing through me.
My hand slides up the wet tile to brace myself while I ride it out.
She shudders against me, breath broken, eyes dazed.
I stay inside her longer than I need to, because I’m not ready to let go. Not when she is clinging to me, not when her thighs are still locked around my hips, not when my name is nowhere on her lips and yet every inch of her is taking me like I belong here.
I force myself to pull back.
The second my cock leaves her, a low sound catches in her throat. I set her on her feet carefully, even though my blood is still boiling from this fucking.
Her knees nearly give way.
I catch her under the arse before she hits the floor and set her upright again.
Water beats down over both of us, washing pink from my split knuckles, watering down the evidence at our feet.
I glance at the cracked tile beside her head.
The damage pleases me less now that the edge of my temper is fading.
Annabelle blinks water out of her eyes and stares at my hand.
Blood slips over my skin and vanishes down the drain.
“Your hand,” she whispers.
I drag my gaze from the broken tile to her face. Fuck. Her lower lip is trembling.
I rinse my hand under the spray and curl it into a fist once, testing it. It stings. Good. Maybe it will remind me not to lose myself for five fucking minutes.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine again, uncertain. Searching, before she drops her gaze. I step forward and box her in with my body, one palm braced flat on the unbroken tile, the other catching her chin. Softer this time. “Look at me.”
She does.
“You’re fine,” I tell her, because I need her to hear it from me. “I’ve got you.”
She swallows. “You scared me.”
The words hit harder than the crack of bone against ceramic. For a second, I just stand there under the pounding water and let them sit in my chest where they don’t belong.
I brush wet hair off her cheek. “I know. You do this to me. Being inside you makes me lose my mind.”
I turn us both under the spray and reach for the body wash Ethan left on the shelf. I work it over her skin with my hand, slower now, forcing myself into control. Over her throat. Between her breasts. Down her stomach. When I slide lower, she tenses.
“Easy,” I murmur.
My knuckles are still split. The sting keeps me sharp while I wash my cum from the inside of her thighs. It irritates me to see it disappear. It irritates me more that she watches my face like she is trying to map a stranger she invited into her life and cannot quite make sense of.
I snap off the water and reach out for a towel. I dry her off and help her out of the shower before I reach for another towel for myself. “Get dressed in something comfortable,” I say, cupping her face. “You need to eat.”
She nods once, still looking shaken, and steps out into the bedroom.
I watch her for a second too long as she discards the towel.
Water clings to her skin. Pink marks bloom where I held her. A bite darkens at the side of her throat. My bite. My marks. My damage. My fucking problem.
She reaches for an oversized black T-shirt and a pair of soft sleep shorts from the bedroom drawer. Practical. Small. Easy to remove.
My dick stirs just thinking about it.
I move into the bedroom and pull on my pants. The split across my knuckles is ugly.
She doesn’t mention it.
I pull on my shirt and button it up. “Downstairs,” I say to her.
She nods and waits for me to take her hand. She is allowing this control. It doesn’t cost her anything. Ethan is right. She is so far gone that she is looking for a lifeline.
Her fingers are cold in mine as I lead her downstairs. She follows without resistance, quiet as a shadow, and something savage in me eases at that. I move her to a chair at the kitchen table.
“Sit.”
She does.
I turn my back to plate up the casserole, but I keep her in my awareness. Every tiny sound. The scrape of chair legs when she shifts. The uneven rhythm of her breathing. She is still rattled.
I plate the casserole and set the bowl down in front of her. “Eat.”
Her eyes flick to my hand again. Blood has dried in a dark line over my knuckles.
I pull out the chair opposite her and sit.
“Aren’t you eating?”
“It’s a bit early for me.”
She nods, just accepting it because arguing about it is above her energy levels. She lowers her eyes and eats mechanically, probably only because I’m watching her.
Ethan is going to fucking kill me. How he and Callan are supposed to recreate my split knuckles is a conversation he is going to get really wound up about.
When she gets halfway through the bowl, her hand slows.
“More,” I say.
Her eyes lift to me. “I’m trying.”
I hold her gaze until she drops it again and takes another bite. It is not cruelty for the sake of it. She needs food in her. She needs routine. She needs someone to make the decision and hold the line when her own mind slides sideways.
Her spoon clatters to the table, and she jumps at the noise. I stand up and drag my chair to sit next to her. I pick up the spoon and scoop some casserole onto it, holding it up to her mouth.
She blinks.
“If you aren’t going to feed yourself, then I will do it for you,” I say roughly.
She hesitates and then parts her lips.
I slide the spoon in and watch her swallow.
“Again.”
I feed her the next bite, then the next, until some of the tension drains from her face. Seeing her like this arouses me. Just like when I was fucking her, and she shut down. She is quiet. Obedient. Relieved someone is taking the burden of existing off her.
When the bowl is almost empty, I lower the spoon. “Drink.”
I get up, fill a glass with water, and place it in her hand. She takes it with both of hers. Her fingers shake against the glass.
“Slowly,” I say.
She obeys that as well.
I take the bowl to the sink and rinse it, giving myself a second to get my head straight. My reflection catches in the kitchen window. Same face as Ethan. Same eyes. Same fucking problem.
“Bed,” I clip out. “You need rest before your shift tomorrow. Last night is taking its toll.”
She nods in reference to her night at the club, but she doesn’t move.
It takes me a couple of seconds to realise she is waiting for me to take her.
In three strides, I’m at her side, bending to scoop her up in my arms. She wraps her arms around my neck, and I feel like a fucking king.
Her body fits against mine too easily. Too right. Too fucking natural.
I carry her upstairs without a word. She weighs nothing. That pisses me off more than the blood drying over my hand. She doesn’t argue or let out an awkward laugh. She doesn’t protest that she can walk on her own. She just rests against me and lets me take over.
I take her into the bedroom and lower her onto the mattress. She sits where I put her, looking up at me with that emptied-out expression that does twisted things to my head. Pulling back the duvet, I say, “In.”
She climbs under it without a word.
I stand over her for a second, taking in the bite at her throat, the damp ends of her blonde hair against the black cotton of her shirt, the way her lashes look too dark against skin that has gone pale from exhaustion. I did that. I pushed too hard and fucked her too much.
“Sleep,” I murmur.
“Stay with me?”
“Always.” I climb onto the bed, fully clothed, resting my back against the headboard.
Annabelle yawns and curls up. Within seconds, she is asleep.