I Know What Love Is

by Bianca, Whitney

  “Don't!” I hissed. “You'll start bleeding again.”

  “Shhh,” he breathed, pressing his lips to the valley of my breasts as he dipped his fingers between my legs. He strummed my clit, his tongue working the soft skin stretched over my breastbone. “Joan, I'm sorry,” he breathed into me. “But I wouldn't take it back, even if I could. Because now I have you.”

  “You don't have me,” I moaned, the pleasure building low in my belly. I arched my back into his mouth, and he dragged his tongue across the swell of my breast to my nipple. He ran his rough tongue over the sensitive bud, torturously slow. “You think you love me, but you don't,” I gritted out, my teeth clenched.

  “I do,” he whispered, then sucked me into his hot mouth. As his mouth worked my breast, he slid a finger inside of me. A low cry escaped my lips, and I rolled my hips to meet the thrust of his finger. “My body knows yours,” he replied, and then showed me that his words were true. He slid his finger in and out of me slowly, every inch of me reacting to every inch of him. Then he pulled out, releasing me. “Sit on my face,” he demanded, rolling onto his back.

  “I can't,” I hissed, pissed at him for making me want him.

  “I want to taste you,” he said, his eyes, like two deep pools, on me. “I want to show you.” His tone sent a pang of longing through me. I wanted him to lick me and taste me. I wanted the distraction he offered. So I sat up, lifting my leg gingerly, careful to not move my ankle. I hoisted myself up on one knee, sliding the injured leg over his chest. It was ridiculous almost, like we were two geriatrics trying to get it on in a nursing home. I giggled, the sound bubbling out of me before I could stop it. Then we were both laughing softly as we moved at a glacial pace, adjusting our injured selves against each other, until I was positioned over him, his nose nudging my clit. He blew a cool breath against me and I shivered. When he slid his tongue deep into me, feasting like he was dying of hunger, I curled my fingers around the cheap wooden headboard and held on. My body was stiff and tight, my mouth open and panting as he worked his evil tongue against me.

  Our connected hands intertwined on my thigh, the chain of the cuffs brushing against my skin. He showed me how much he loved me with every lick and suck, every moan. A man couldn't lick a pussy like that without having some feelings for the woman attached to it. He worshipped me, leaving me dripping and ready for release. When he nipped at my thigh I knew he wanted to fuck me. I glanced back over my shoulder, and sure enough, his cock was hard. How he had enough blood left in him to get an erection, I didn't know.

  He rolled us over slowly, giving me time to adjust my leg. “On your stomach,” he rasped, out of breath. I didn't argue, just moved myself the way he wanted me. My body was crying out for him. It hurt, too, but I was used to the pain. He crawled over me, hiking my knee up as he slid between my legs. He was inside of me a second later, his hard cock sliding in to my wetness with no resistance. I sighed deeply as my body melded around his, because it felt so damn perfect. He jerked his hips, then hissed out a breath and I knew the movement had caused him pain.

  Good.

  Every thrust caused me pleasure and him pain, but he didn't stop. He fisted his hand in my hair as hips pumped against my ass, all of his thick length embedded in me. We moved together, slow but desperate, just like that Saturday morning so long ago.

  “Your body was made for me,” he whispered. “It's mine.” He thrust deep, letting out a pained, ragged cry. “It's all mine,” he gritted out. I could hear the strain in his voice. I wondered how much he hurt. I hoped it was a lot. I hope it felt like I was stabbing him all over again with each thrust. The thought of how much I was hurting him sent a thrill of arousal though me.

  “I fucked him,” I said, then grunted hard when he bucked against me. He cried out again, and another thrill went through me.

  “How?” he hissed. “How could you let him touch you?” He dropped his head to run his teeth across my shoulder and I bowed my back, letting my body press against his chest. The feel of his skin against mine was electric. All the nerve endings in my body reacted, the pleasure sizzling through me. “How could you let him touch you when I can give you everything?” With a sharp intake of breath, he reared his hips back, pulling out of me. I gasped, not expecting it. My body clenched, wanting him back. Then he repositioned himself against my ass. My eyes widened and I squirmed against him. “Don't fight me,” he whispered.

  “It's going to hurt,” I grit out. “Both of us.”

  “It'll hurt more if you fight,” he murmured, his lips grazing my shoulder. “Did you let him touch you here?” he murmured, sliding the thick head of his cock between my cheeks.

  “Yes,” I admitted, because I wanted to hurt him.

  “Did you like it when he did it?” His voice was low and dangerous and I bit my lip, remembering how merciless he could be.

  “No,” I whispered and I felt his fingers gripping into my ass, his thumb dipping into my tightness.

  “You like it when I do it,” he growled out, and I opened my mouth to protest, but then closed it again. Maybe I deserved the pain. Maybe I deserved everything that had happened to me. A man was dead because of me. Other girls may have been hurt because of me.

  Elliot deserved the pain, too.

  Ain't we a pair. His words echoed in my ears.

  “Go slow,” I breathed, dropping flat to the mattress, my cheek against the rough striped sheet. He placed his hand over mine, the handcuffs clinking metallic close to my ear. I heard him spit, lubricating me as he pushed against me. I'd let Trace have anal sex with me once, out of spite. I didn't want Elliot to be the only one who'd touched me there. I'd suffered through it, although Trace had been gentle. Too gentle. Elliot obliged me and went slow, but he wasn't gentle. There wasn't a gentle bone in his body.

  The head of him pushed deeper and deeper and I lay there and took it, my fingers clenching the sheet. He gripped my hand as he slowly rolled and swerved his hips against my ass, burying himself in me. I could hear his breathing labor as his lust got ahold of him. I closed my eyes, focusing on the friction between us. I felt full to the brim, but I forced myself to breathe and relax into him. He moaned, his lips close to my ear, as I let my muscles loosen, and he slid deeper inside of me. He wrapped his free hand around my throat, bending me back against him.

  I felt my skin stretch tight over my stomach and my breasts jutted out as my spine arched. My nerves tingled and a shiver went through me. I liked the feel of his big hand around his throat, although I knew I shouldn't. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't care. Everything was wrong about me and him, but I couldn't deny the way he was making me feel. The pain had ebbed away, and all of my focus was on the way his big cock thrust in and out of me, filling and stretching me. I was completely under his control.

  He drew his other hand up to cup my breast and I hissed out moan, curling my fingers around his wrist, the hard metal still binding us together. He kneaded me and pinched my nipple as his thrusts grew more insistent. I zeroed in on the way he toyed with me, his fingers doing magical things to my nipple. I dropped my head back onto his shoulder, my mouth open at the sheer pleasure of it all.

  He was a murderer and a rapist. He was crazy and unstable and wanted to possess me, body and soul, but when he made love to me, I couldn't stop myself from wanting it. He'd taken everything from me and I was messed up enough to keep giving him more.

  I was drowning in him.

  When he dropped our hands to my clit, I ground against him, working myself into a lust-blind frenzy. His deft fingers knew just how to touch me. He remembered how to get me off, and I didn't fight it. In the dark motel room, so far from home, I moved with him, pumping my hips into his as he fucked me.

  “Don't fight me, Joan,” he rasped, his fingers flexing around my throat. “You're mine.” I swallowed hard, the words finally sinking in. They repeated in my mind as he dug his knees into the mattress and plunged into me, harder and harder. A cry was forced from my throat as the pain and the pleasu
re mingled low in my belly. His thumb strummed my clit as his middle finger slipped between my folds, and I fell into an abyss of climax. My eyesight blacked out as I came. The intensity tightened my muscles and locked my jaw and I screamed as my inner muscles spasmed and rippled around his girth. Feeling how big he was inside of me brought on another wave of torturous pleasure. It hit me out of nowhere and my eyes jolted open, although my vision was blurry. He'd fucked me too good. I officially lost all control.

  “Elliot!” I heard myself moan, and he bucked and swerved, his own climax within reach. My insides hummed with the force of my double orgasm, and finally, he came with a pained moan. My body was so sensitive, I could feel him spilling and spurting inside of me, and I arched into him, wanting it all. His fingers continued to work against me as he jerked inside of me until we collapsed together, the heat between us our bodies seeping under my skin, into my bones.

  Something shimmered between us, an electricity that was impossible to deny. I shivered beneath him, despite his warmth. He pressed his face to my back, his breathing sharp and heavy. He pulled out of me and I moaned at the release. My ass throbbed, my pussy throbbed, my whole damn body throbbed, but all of my anger and shame and fear had been fucked right out of me. Elliot was all that remained.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered.

  “You're mine,” he repeated, as he shuddered against me. “Say it.”

  “I'm yours,” I breathed, knowing it was true as soon as the words left my mouth. I was Elliot's, whether I wanted to be or not. He had forced himself into my brain, my molecules, and had changed me irrevocably. The girl that I had been before he'd come into my life was officially dead.

  “Forever and ever,” he whispered.

  “Forever and ever,” I repeated, drawing his hand out from beneath us. I slipped my fingers between his calloused ones, the handcuffs reminding me that I was his prisoner as much as he was mine.

  I hated him, but I craved him. I wanted him dead, but I also wanted him to fill me up and fuck me and hold me tight against his unyielding body. Even now, years later, I can't stop myself from wanting him. We're stuck in a fucked-up web of our own making and there's no way out.

  For either of us.

  Chapter Twelve

  I lay beneath him, my breasts smashed against the mattress and his chest against my back. His breath skimmed the sensitive skin of my back and I could feel his heartbeat through my skin. The curve of my ass fit in the curve of his pelvis, and we didn't bother moving. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but we still didn't move. Our bodies were too exhausted. Time passed and we slept and slept, the warmth of the room lulling us into deep unconsciousness.

  An explosive crash jolted me out of sleep and I opened my eyes to a blindingly bright light, almost otherworldly in the dark room. I could hear a lot of screaming and I furrowed my brow because I couldn't make out the words. Everything sounded muffled. Elliot stirred on top of me, and then his weight was pulled off of me, roughly. The handcuffs that connected us yanked my arm upward.

  “Wait! Wait!” I screamed, not even knowing what was happening. Reality seemed hyperactive, moving too fast to comprehend. A face came into my field of vision, a woman with dark skin and compassionate eyes.

  “Joan Vasquez? Is that your name?” she asked, her voice authoritative but gentle. I nodded, and she leaned over and I felt her drape the cool sheet over me. I saw blood on my arm and I lifted it to get a better look. I realized I was laying in a pool of blood, still damp beneath me.

  I heard a loud 'click' and my hand dropped, the metal cuff still attached to my wrist. They'd cut the chain that bound me and Elliot. I stared down at my hand, not believing what I was seeing, my blood-stained fingers brushing the dingy brown carpet.

  “Joan, we're going to get you to a hospital, okay? Your parents will be there. They'll be so happy to see you,” the woman said in her calm tone. She was a police officer, I'd realized as my dazed mind slowly began to focus. “You're going to be just fine.”

  “Where is he?” I mumbled, glancing around. More police officers stood silhouetted in the door, but the woman and I were alone in the room. He was gone.

  There was slick wet blood on the floor, as well as a long-handled set of bolt cutters.

  I couldn't help it. I burst into tears, the grief like an unstoppable wave.

  I had lost Elliot.

  I had lost myself.

  I had lost everything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Later, when I read the police report, I found out that the officers had been hunting us for a day and a half. My neighbor Mr. Evans had given them the license plate number, having written it down when he saw the suspicious car in the cul-de-sac that fateful night. They finally tracked us down at noon at the motel in the middle of nowhere, specifically Hudson, Texas. Elliot and I were rushed to a nearby hospital, where they did a rape kit on me and cast my ankle.

  Elliot ended up in the ICU.

  The irony was that if the police hadn't busted in on us, he would have bled to death. He'd ripped his stitches out in the midst of our frenzied lovemaking. Without medical attention, he would have been dead before the day was out and I would have been free of him for good.

  As it was, he ended up living, for better or for worse.

  I truly didn't know how I felt about any of it. For the most part, I was numb. I went in and out of consciousness for a full day in the hospital and when I wasn't asleep, I pretended to be. A revolving door of my parents and my brothers stayed by my bedside, sometimes holding my blood-stained hand. I could always hear my mother's sniffles and light sobs, whether she was by my side or not. She was mourning her perfect daughter's future and the her perfect grandchildren that would never be born. She was mourning me, even though I'd lived. My worst nightmare had come true. My whole family knew what had happened to me.

  They knew about Elliot, and everything he'd done. All the physical damage was in the police report for anyone to read. The tears, the cuts, the bruises, the broken bones. Now, I was just another rape victim, a broken, abused woman who deserved pity and concern. Elliot would be put on trial and I would be the star witness. Our story would be public knowledge, as much as it pained me.

  The handcuff still encircled my wrist, like an afterthought. No one had noticed it, or collected it for evidence. My body had been scraped down for DNA samples, but the cuff still remained. It was tangible proof of my ordeal. There was no more denying, or pretending. I had been stripped bare.

  I had nothing left.

  Elliot had ruined my life, and yet... it felt like a piece of me was missing, knowing that he was gone. The moment I'd been dreading for years had happened. He'd hunted me down and found me. Strangely enough, now I was no longer scared of him. I was no longer scared of what he would do to me because I knew. I knew he loved me and wanted me and would do anything to have me. I also knew what I was capable of and the power I held. I was his blind spot. He'd made mistake after mistake when he came for me. He was literally crazy over me, and I could use it to my advantage.

  He wasn't done with me, but I wasn't done with him, either. Not by a long shot.

  I knew that he was in the same hospital, after I heard my father arguing with my brother Robert about where he was. Robert wanted to go upstairs to ICU and my father told him not to. Then they exchanged a few more heated whispers, but that's all I could make out. The need to see him snaked through me and took root in my brain. It made me antsy and it was hard to keep still. Finally, when I couldn't pretend anymore, I opened my eyes.

  “Oh my goodness,” my mother whispered, grabbing my father's arm. “Joan?” She stood, leaning over me, her cool hand caressing my forehead. “Jo-baby, momma and daddy are here.”

  “Hi,” I murmured, tears blurring my vision. I hated to see my parents crying, especially over me. Especially since I didn't deserve it.

  “How do you feel, baby?” she asked, her perfume wrapping around me like a cloak. I swiped at my eyes, my throat threatening to close up.

/>   “I don't know,” I forced out, avoiding their eyes.

  “Do you... do you know what happened?” my mother said, her voice hesitant.

  “Yes, momma,” I said, getting it over with. The time for pretending was over. “I remember.” I hear her breath catch in her throat, and I sigh. “But I'm okay,” I say, robotically.

  “Yes, you're going to be fine, mija,” my father piped up, his deep voice rumbling in my ears.

  “I know, daddy,” I sighed, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. The thought of my staunch and traditional father knowing that Elliot had fucked me six ways to Sunday was almost too much. Old-fashioned justice was probably on his mind, despite him telling Robert to let the cops handle it.

  “The police want to talk to you,” my mother said. “When you're able.”

  “How's Trace?” I asked, finally forcing myself to look her in the face. My eyes flicked back and forth between them, waiting for the hard truth. I knew he was dead, but I just wanted to hear it. I needed to hear it.

  “He's alive, baby,” my mother whispered, her eyes glassy with tears. “He's been in and out of surgery, but he's alive.” I felt my eyes drop closed and I just let the words sink in for a minute. Good, kind, loving Trace was alive. Neither Elliot, nor I, was a murderer. I felt my shoulders sag with relief and some of my crushing guilt ebbed away. “Were you there? When he was stabbed?” My mother's voice was low and horrified. I nodded and I heard her muffle a sob behind her hand.

  “I'm sorry, momma,” I said, opening my eyes and staring down at my hands, at the cuff around my wrist, glinting in the fluorescent light.

  “There is nothing to be sorry about,” my father murmured.