by Robin Lovett
When she’s quaking and stiffening against me, her breath stuttering with her growing climax, I slow my hand.
“No,” she cries.
I still. “No?”
“I mean—” She shakes her head, mindless. “Don’t stop.”
I push her skirt and underwear down her hips, trapping her thighs together. She whines, trying to separate her confined legs. I dig fingers into her ass cheek at the same time I twist her nipple. “You’re for me, remember?”
“Bite me.”
I do as she says and sink my teeth into her shoulder.
She hisses but moans with pleasure. A little pain is okay, interesting. This sweet girl who’s spent her life behind glass, within an hour of having her precious childhood shattered, is trusting me to give her the dirty things I’ve craved. Please God, let her be able to take more.
I pinch her ass, strong enough to bruise. Her ecstatic cry makes me hard enough to nail her through my jeans.
My need to torture her mounting, I taunt her. “Oh, poor good girl, does it ache?”
She whimpers in my ear, “I want to—come.”
“I don’t care.” Or I do care. I care a lot—about how she’ll come, how often, how I’ll give it to her, how she’ll beg for it, how she’ll look and feel when mindless with ecstasy.
But she doesn’t need to know that. It’s part of the game. Her in misery, I get off on it. Me in control, she gets off on it. She’s going to be wasted with my refusal to give her what she wants. And my torture is only starting.
I need to bury myself inside her, to fuck the sweetness out of her until she is spoiled for anything but sex. “I’m going to strip you and bend you over that table.”
Her feet slip, her knees weakening. “Now.”
“Once I start, I won’t stop.”
Her voice drops, groveling like she will when she’s on her knees. “What are you waiting for?”
I give in to the desire storming all caution from my brain. I wrench off her clothes and knock the chairs away. They land with a crash on the floor.
I grab her neck and press her naked breasts onto the table.
* * *
My cheek flattens against the lacquer tabletop. My nipples pebble and ache against the cold surface. I hear him open his pants and rip a condom wrapper.
I wait with euphoric bated breath, a blissful panic, hungering for what he’ll do next.
I turn to look at him, but he presses my face into the table. “Don’t move.”
His voice, the tones sound so low I can feel them vibrate in my ears. Each time he speaks, his words grate harsher. He grows more animal, more forceful with each sound, each movement. And it makes me hotter, wetter, and so painfully desperate for him that I’m ashamed of myself.
I like being ashamed of myself.
If anyone I know saw me, spread out naked on my dining room table for a man, they would be appalled. I want them to be. I want to shock them, to rid myself of everything I’ve defined my life by. It’s all a lie. I want it gone. And I want him to take it from me.
His breath comes hot on my neck, and his nails scrape down my back. My spine arches like he commands it to. He grips my ribs, breathes against my skin, and it’s like he’s molding my lungs, my heart, my blood to how he wants them to be. I am nothing but what he wants me to be.
His cock is heavy sliding on my back, and I ache for him to do what he says. For him to fuck me into oblivion. He lifts off of me, and the loss of his weight makes me moan with emptiness. I need him to fill me. To chase away everything else in this cruel world.
He spreads me open and probes me with his fingers where I’m wet. “So sweet. So tight,” he growls, the words detached from himself, more animal than man. I shiver. He said he would destroy me. He said he would use me. But what does that mean?
What’s he going to do to me?
He said he’ll never let me come. I can’t fathom that. The tabletop rubs me in the spot I need. If I move my hips just right . . .
“Nuh-uh.” He pulls my hips backward, bringing the edge of the table to my waist.
The pressure gone from where I need it, I thrust my hips on open air and I moan for the loss, the ache, the insatiable yearning in me that I fear he will never satisfy. “Pleeease.”
“Poor sweet girl,” he says. “Is this what you want?” He reaches beneath me and massages my clit.
I respond on instinct, my body crying out for “More. I need—”
He takes his hand away. “This isn’t about what you need. This is about what I want.”
My protests are silenced by his cock edging inside me. The rounded head stretches me. I want to see him, but it’s too dark. I have no idea how big he is.
He probes deeper, and it’s like being carved open. Like he’s reshaping me to fit him, like I’m a vessel made only for him.
Fear shakes me. I can’t do it. I can’t give myself over to him. I’ll lose myself. I’ll lose everything I am.
“No” is on my tongue. I inhale the shape of the word. I don’t want him to re-make me. What will happen to me when he’s done and I’m no longer me? Who will I be? I’ll be nothing and no one except who he tells me to be.
I’m afraid of being nothing. The nothing I have been since I heard those recordings . . . with his sister’s voice . . .
The nothing I will become if he keeps taking me like a god reshaping me to his will.
He starts to move, and I am as full of him as I am with fear, but it feels so fucking good the fear only makes it better.
He thrusts into me, his hips slapping my ass, his hands gripping my waist like a vise. He drains me. I’m slipping away. Each time he pulls out, he takes more of me with him. Each time he pushes back in, he replaces more of me with himself.
I’m disappearing. Me and everything that is me. I’m a gaping hole of ecstatic fear. I shake. I dig fingers into the table, desperate to hold onto a piece of myself.
He groans louder with every pump of himself into me, pounding me harder, compelling me to take more. My skin slides against the table, my whole body rocking and quaking in time with his movements. I cannot fight him. I am overtaken with sensation.
He rakes every pleasure point in me over and over again, until I’m screaming with the need to come. The orgasm claws at my insides but cannot get out. One touch of my clit, and I’ll come. One touch is all.
But he doesn’t help me. My hands can’t reach me.
My cries morph to words. “Please—please—please.”
If I orgasm, I’ll have something of mine. I won’t be nothing. I’ll be ecstasy. But I can’t come. So I am only his. His to wreck, his to destroy, his to use—his.
A shout explodes from his throat, and he spasms into me, ramming me full of himself, spilling everything he has into me.
I am full of him, and a vacant well of agony. My skin throbs.
He falls onto me, his chest holding me down, keeping me from bucking in protest. It enflames my explosive need to come—and the fear he’ll never let me.
My skin, my body screams for more. But words aren’t forming, only sounds—desperate, pathetic whimpers I thought could never escape me.
“Do you think—you deserve—to come?” His growl in my ear rumbles low like that of a beast asking if I’ll consent to being his prey.
I can only make one-syllable cries. Words won’t form, only the echoes of every synapse in my body pleading for him to give me what he says. I try to nod.
“Ask me,” he orders and licks me like the ravenous animal who’s only just begun his meal.
My lips and tongue—they try to work, but can’t.
“Say it,” he growls and bites my ear.
I stammer, “I . . . need . . . please . . .”
He moves in me, reminding me he’s still hard, then reaches beneath me. His fingers connect with my clit, and I shudder, the sensations he rubs into me firing through my nerves like biting flames.
He murmurs things in my ear, descriptions of how hard he’s g
oing to make me come and how it will never satisfy me, how it will never be enough—not with him. With him, I won’t be sated until he’s through with me.
I shatter, detonating around him. The explosion of bliss numbs my mind from the emotional turmoil he’s brought to my life, and as I come down, I know he’s right.
My gyrations against him fade, and in its place comes a hurt, a vacant sadness that craves the climactic numbness he knows I’ll need forever.
To torment me more in the worst possible way, he pulls out of me—lets go of me.
Without his support, I slide off the table. My knees hit the floor, and I start to shake, a quaking from my heart into my bones.
More. I need more.
My breath huffs in ragged drops, like hiccups. I open my eyes to see his toes lit in the moonlight.
“Look at me.” His gruff order is like something from the bottom of an abyss, an invitation to fall inside, to lose myself in the darkness of him.
I’m too weak to lift my head. I’m a throbbing mess of bliss and soreness. I can’t think or feel anything except the pain of emptiness and the yearning for him to fill me again.
He cups my chin and lifts my face. My gaze sweeps up his body. A pattern of moonlight and shadow plays across his skin. I cross over his bare cock, hanging thick and long between his thighs. He took off the condom. I can’t help licking my lips.
He raises my gaze to his face. His mouth I can’t see, but his eyes are striped with white light. His irises glow green like a wolf’s in the night, ferocious and heated.
I swallow. He’s far from finished with me, and I can’t hide my hope he’ll give me what I need, but if I ask, he might say no.
“You think I’ll let you come again.” It’s a warning, not a question.
My tongue stutters. I’m afraid to speak, afraid he could leave me here on my knees begging him for more.
He lowers my face to his cock and turns my head so my lips brush the length of him. “Say no.”
I should.
I shouldn’t want this. I should make him stop.
But I don’t.
Instead, I open my mouth.
Chapter Twenty
The inside of her mouth is as soft as the rest of her. The light from the window hits her face and shows me her pink lips. They pucker and wrap my cock.
The worst of my fury sated, I let her go slow. Every part of her shakes. I want her quaking and wasted from what I’ve done to her. I want her every thought taken over by her need to make me come.
Her mouth is as supple as she is between her legs.
I don’t expect to get hard again. I expect to let her starve longer without touching her. But my expectations are flawed.
She sucks—her tongue drawing me to the back of her throat and teasing me to the tip. I curse and pull her down farther onto me. Her mouth is greedy. She wants to please me. Every draw of her mouth is a plea for me to give her more.
I want her sense of self so distorted she can’t remember who she is. But I can’t bring myself to stop her. I grip her head and urge her faster. Control—she wants me to have it, though by instinct she’ll fight me for it.
She resists, tries to stiffen her neck to her pace. I refuse, moving her head and mouth to my rhythm. Or at least, I think I do.
When I’m fully hard again, distended and stabbing into her mouth with each bob of her head, I nearly forget who’s in charge. But only for a moment.
I pull her mouth away and, leaving her on her knees, force her shoulders to the floor.
I lean over her back, brushing my cock against the seam of her ass. “Do you want me to stop?”
She moans a “No” that echoes through the room.
“No?” I press her cheek to the floor.
She cries in frustration. “Moooore.” It’s a plea born of a depthless need—for me. She arches into me, a wanton shimmy of her ass against my cock.
I press her flat to the floor, trapping her, stilling her. “You will get what I want to give you and no more. Understand?”
She doesn’t speak, only nods, but her breathing is desperate enough. Her fear that I won’t let her come turns her on as much as her need for it.
I rise off her and jerk her hips into the air. I scramble for a condom and put it on. My fingers seek between her legs and find her swollen and dripping.
I position myself and drive into her. A yes rips from her throat on my entry, and I can’t help a sadistic smile. I pound into her, giving her what I need and what she wants.
It’s contrary to everything I wanted before, but I want her orgasm as fiercely as I want my own. To give her the mindlessness she craves—because of me and the things I’ve been forced to tell her.
But making us both wait for it makes it better—as much for me as for her. Though I’ll never tell her that.
* * *
I wake naked in my bed. Alone.
Not remembering how I got there.
I turn my face to the morning sunlight. The heat of its rays doesn’t erase my chill. I lie there and breathe, for minutes, enamored with the feeling of my lungs expanding.
I am not the same.
It’s strange. I feel strange. I am strange. A foreign fullness. A deeper well. A stronger force. Yet, freer, lighter. Too light. My skin feels like a paper dress I could peel off and step out of. If I wanted, I could take it off and float away.
I jump from my bed and shake the thought away. Losing myself like a balloon ascending into the atmosphere is not on my to-do list today.
The beach is. I have the day off.
A trickle, an inkling of memory, a flash of last night, before he turned off the lights. The real misery, the real tortures. The truly evil things . . .
I stumble to the bathroom, wishing I could make the thoughts float away on denial. But Logan is here—somewhere—and he’ll make it better, make it easier. Just like he did last night. His form of torture is my best medicine for coping.
I put on my bikini, not the sunbathing kind with teeny ties and triangles, but the playing on the beach kind with wide elastic and firm support. Maybe I’ll run in the sand today.
When I get out of my room, my eye catches on the spare bedroom door, which has been closed every morning since Logan moved in.
It’s open, his bed empty, unmade with tousled sheets. The scent of him hits me like a wall, and I’m bathed in him. I step into his room, and it’s like walking into him. I want to wrap myself in his arms.
Spots cover my vision; I get lightheaded and have to sit on his bed. I force myself to breathe, but that makes it worse, taking the smell of him into my lungs. Like I’m inhaling him. I should get out, even if I have to crawl into the hallway.
But I can’t.
I don’t want to.
Instead, I roll to my side and bury my face in his sheets. I breathe him in deeper until my body gets used to him and relaxes onto the bed.
Wow.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
My skin doesn’t feel like paper anymore. It feels like him. Like his hands holding me together and keeping me earthbound. As if the scent of him filling my lungs is the gravity keeping me from flying away.
I’m frightened for myself. Why am I so desperate that the smell of him makes me faint?
How do I look him in the face today? Mindblowing sex with my blackmailer. Except he’s more than that now.
It floods me—the recordings, the files, the truth. The despicable unforgivable truth of everything my father was—it excavates a crater in my chest so deep it feels like I’ve been stabbed.
The urge to sob bubbles in my throat, but I reject it. I force myself to sit up. I resist the need to curl up in Logan’s bed and cuddle into his sheets.
I pick one of his T-shirts off the floor, the one he wore yesterday, and pull it on over my bathing suit. Covered and wrapped in his scent, I won’t have to worry about floating away.
I trot into the kitchen and expect to see him out on the terrace. He’s not there.
I have no idea what he does all day.
I sit for half an hour drinking coffee on the deck and get my answer.
Shirtless, shoeless, he runs past me on the beach. It’s hard to see his face, but I recognize his back, the muscles rippling with his pumping arms.
The need to go after him sends a terrifying jolt through my limbs.
But terror and I are becoming friends. I’m as afraid of him now as I was when I met him, but for a different reason. Before I was afraid of what I didn’t know. Now it’s because of what I do know. What will he do to me today? Whatever it is, I’m dying to find out.
I go down to the beach to wait for him.
* * *
I don’t recognize her at first. But I recognize my T-shirt.
A broad-brimmed hat shades her face, and she sits with her toes buried in the sand. She looks up and has difficulty meeting my eyes. She stares at my chest.
I wish I could return the favor, but her chest is covered in the navy blue of my shirt. “What are you doing here?” This is my running time. She shouldn’t be here. I don’t want her here.
I’m not recovered from last night. I can still feel her over every inch of me. Around me. Swallowing me. Killing me. I can’t go through that again.
And yet I have to. I need to. More than I need to breathe.
The need is hotter than the sun on my back, stronger than the tide at my feet. I will move earth and mountains to make her mine again.
She lifts her chin, her hat falls off, and I’m . . . confused.
I don’t know what’s different, but she’s not the same as last night.
Her eyes glow—it seems impossible—but they’re bluer than the water. Bluer than the sky. I want to dive in, to freeze and boil inside her. I get closer. It’s not a choice. It’s a compulsion.
She licks her lips.
I’m overcome with the need to taste them. The taste of her lingers on my tongue. Once will not be enough. I will eat her until I consume her.
She puts up her hand to stop me. “Logan.”
I look down. I’m on my hands and knees in the sand, stalking toward her. I don’t remember kneeling. “I’m going to kiss you.”
She crawls backward. “Why?”