Twisted

by Knight, Natasha

  Her breath is shallow, and her eyes dart from my eyes to my lap and back.

  I let go of her hair and she falls backward, massages her scalp. I slide to my knees on the floor and we’re so close that our thighs are touching.

  “You don’t want it?” I ask, undoing her jeans, watching her face as I tug them down.

  With one hand on the middle of her chest, I push her backward so she’s lying on her back.

  “Then fight me,” I say, kneeling over her, gripping her panties and taking them down too.

  She plants one foot on the floor, tries to push away, but I catch her.

  “Come on,” I say, letting my gaze fall to her shaved pussy, to the glistening seam of her sex. “You can do better than that.”

  I dip my head down, and when her hands fist my hair, I grip her wrists and draw them apart as I taste her, lick the wetness from her, listen to her gasp when I take her clit into my mouth and suck.

  “Stop!” she commands, her voice high and desperate.

  I don’t. I suck a little harder, hearing her breath hitch, hearing her whimper, her resistance weak. Only when she pushes her pussy into my face do I pull away, releasing her wrists, looking down at her as she lies wholly exposed to me.

  “Fight me,” I say, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. I grip her jeans and panties with one hand to drag them off her legs.

  That animates her, but when she sits up, she only manages to help my cause because I pull her jeans off so she’s naked from the waist down. Her sweater hangs off one shoulder and she looks fierce as she shoves it off the other and she’s up on her knees and lurching for me, hands like claws going for my face, my neck.

  I laugh, capture her wrists, drag them to her sides, then behind her, transferring them to one hand.

  When I lean in to kiss her, her teeth snap together to bite, making me laugh again.

  “That’s it,” I say, dragging my sweater over my head with my free hand. She’s instantly distracted by the ink, trying to make sense of the scene. “That’s the fight I’m looking for.”

  I get to my feet, draw her up to stand with me.

  She’s fighting, twisting and turning to free herself. She isn’t expecting me to release her so when I do, she stumbles backward, dangerously close to the fire.

  I catch her arm, steady her.

  She pulls away and I look down at her standing there naked but for her bra. I pull her to me, her skin warm against my bare chest, her hair soft under my chin. I reach behind her to unhook her bra, relieve her of it.

  “Stop!”

  With a handful of hair in my hand, I keep her steady and I kiss her, knowing she’ll bite, expecting the sting of skin breaking, tasting the metallic taste of my own blood.

  I pull her head into my neck, rub my jaw against the side of her face.

  “It makes me hard when you fight,” I whisper.

  I abruptly release her.

  Again, she stumbles backward, but this time, she catches herself.

  “You’re crazy!” she screams, wiping the back of her hand across her lip, looking at the smear of my blood on her skin.

  I step toward her and she backs into the stone wall of the fireplace.

  “Now run, Willow Girl. Run. And don’t let me catch you.”

  When I step back, she’s confused. It takes her a full minute and me fake lunging toward her for her to run, and she turns in the direction of the front door. I take my time stalking toward her because there’s nowhere she can go that I won’t catch her.

  When I reach her, she’s trying the door, but it’s locked tight.

  “Run, Willow Girl.”

  She does, running back into the house, pausing at the stairs, changing her mind and coming back through the living room and toward the dark corridor that leads to the library. She stops at the study door, tries it, but it, too, is locked.

  I follow and when she realizes the only escape is into the library, she hesitates, glances back over her shoulder at me, watches me coming for her.

  “It’s what you want, isn’t it?” I ask calmly as I near. “Me chasing you? Me making you?”

  She opens the library door and, again, stops. It’s dark inside, the moonlight filtered by the stained-glass windows that break letting in the purest silver light, just enough to see.

  When she’s inside, she turns to close the heavy door. I wonder if she knows there’s no lock. But I don’t give her a chance to find out. I set my foot between the door and the frame and she jumps back when I give her a wide smile, pushing it open.

  She’s walking backwards and trips over something on the floor.

  I catch her before she falls, taking her by the arms and pulling her soft, warm body to me, walking her back to the wall.

  “Stop! Let me go!”

  “You don’t want me to let you go.”

  She’s shoving at my chest, but I press mine against her and trap her to the wall as I reach to undo my jeans, push them down a little, just enough.

  She makes a panicked sound, a whine, and her face contorts.

  “Please.”

  “Still not scared of me?” I ask, lifting one leg, hoisting her up a little.

  Her hands close over my shoulders. She swallows, and I feel her heart drum against my chest and a tear slides down her cheek.

  “I’m scared,” she whispers, and I think she’s scared of a thousand things.

  My cock is at her entrance and she feels warm and wet and her nipples press like pebbles against my chest. And when another tear falls, I watch it and she’s not pushing me away and she’s not fighting or digging her nails into me or trying to get away from me.

  “I’m scared,” she repeats.

  “Strange Willow Girl.” I touch her cheek, trace a tear and I mean what I say. She is strange. Different. And in a way, I understand her. “To want this. Like this.”

  She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t say yes or no or anything. Just watches me as more tears slide down her cheeks.

  I move a little, feeling the tightness of her pussy against the head of my cock.

  Her fingernails dig into my shoulders.

  “If you want me to stop, then say it. Now.”

  She doesn’t.

  “Say it, Amelia.”

  Nothing. Nothing as her sad blue eyes search mine.

  “Say it.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Weak.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Weaker yet.”

  “I don’t want you!”

  Something dark takes hold of me.

  She studies me for a long moment but then she lowers her gaze, drops her head, pulls herself into me, clinging to me, her actions wholly opposite of her words. And I know what she’s saying, it isn’t true.

  But she is weak.

  She can’t own what she wants.

  I force her head up, her face small in my hand, her tears wet beneath my fingers pressing into her cheeks.

  “Then tell me to stop.”

  She looks away, just beyond me.

  “Tell me to stop.”

  Nothing.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” I ask, finally.

  She tries to break free, but I press the back of her head against the wall and make her look at me. Because she needs to look at me when I do this.

  She needs to see me for who I am. What I am.

  To know in spite of everything, that she still wants it. Wants me.

  “I’m right. You want this—me—like this, more than you’re willing to admit. And that’s what makes you weak. Not the wanting.”

  I push into her and I’m not gentle.

  And when I feel her barrier, I thrust hard.

  Her nails break the skin of my back as the warm gush of her virgin blood saturates my cock and fuck she’s tight and wet and so fucking warm and she’s clinging to me. Clinging, not fighting. Not pushing me away.

  I let go of her face and she dips her head into the crook of my neck, and I hear her short gasps of b
reath, feel the warmth of it, of her mouth on me.

  “Look at me.”

  I feel her shake her head.

  “Look at me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You will.”

  I take a handful of hair, forcing her head backward because I want to see her. I want to hear her breath catch. I want to hold her against the cold, dirty wall and watch her take it, take my cock inside her as I own her.

  She makes another sound, a small whimper. Her mouth opens and she’s clinging to me and I fuck her virgin pussy, and she feels so good. So fucking good.

  Her breathing changes and she’s watching me now and the sounds she makes, small and desperate, they make me want to get closer. Deeper.

  And when she gasps deeply and her pussy throbs around my cock, I thrust one last time, burying myself inside her, my cock throbbing, emptying, filling her up as she whimpers at my neck, her body going limp against mine, her full weight in my arms.

  I hold her like this for a long time. I feel her holding me, and when I set her down, her knees buckle and I catch her, look down at her, feel the come and the blood on my dick.

  She stares up at me, breath shallow, arms useless at her sides.

  I pull up my jeans, see the smear of blood on my dick, see it on her wet thighs. I meet her eyes.

  “You came, Amelia” I say.

  No words.

  “Know that I know what you want. I know who you are.”

  I can’t read her eyes. It’s too dark in here. But I know if I pull away, she’ll fall. I think she’s only standing because of the wall at her back and me at her front.

  So when I do draw back, I scoop her up and she doesn’t fight me and when we get upstairs, I sit her on the edge of the tub and fill it with warm water before setting her inside it.

  She closes her eyes, hangs her head, then pulls her knees up and makes fists of her hands and presses the heels against her eyes.

  I watch her for a long minute before stripping off my jeans and climbing into the large tub, facing her. I pull her hands from her eyes because I want to watch her cry.

  And when she looks up at me, accusations make her eyes burn.

  “You don’t know me, Gregory Scafoni. You don’t know anything about me. You have no idea who I am.”

  10

  Amelia

  The sun is just beginning to rise and I’m still awake. I don’t sleep at all that night, apart from those hours in the living room. Maybe it’s jet lag. I’m not used to the time difference yet. Maybe it’s that I don’t want to have that dream again.

  But if I’m honest with myself, I know those aren’t the reasons.

  My body aches. I feel raw inside and out. My back is scratched up from the wall. My insides, from him.

  I should have made him stop.

  Could I have?

  I should have fought.

  Told him to go to hell, but instead, I clung to him. I pulled him closer.

  What he said, at least part of it, it’s true. I wanted him last night.

  I want this.

  But he’s wrong if he thinks he knows me, and I have found his weakness. He gave it away last night.

  Helena.

  She’s his weakness.

  And I hate him a little for that.

  Maybe I hate her a little too and this, this knowledge shames me.

  Whatever happened on that island, it broke him.

  He thinks this is his revenge, but I don’t think it’s revenge he wants. It’s more than that.

  Her?

  No. I can’t think about that.

  He’s holding me. His arm is heavy around my waist and my back is to his front and he’s breathing evenly. I think he’s asleep.

  The deep orange light of the sunrise streams through the split in the curtains and I look down at his hand on my belly. At the glove on it.

  He never took it off, not even when we were in the bath. I touch it lightly, so lightly I don’t think he’ll feel it.

  It’s made of the softest, finest leather. I wonder if he’s so used to it, he doesn’t even notice it anymore. I want to know what’s underneath. What is so horrible that he won’t let anyone see it.

  I don’t know why I asked him if he was in love with Helena. Hearing the words out loud, it was jarring. Knowing they came from me, strange. How they made me feel, wrong.

  What do I want? What have I wanted all along?

  This?

  Have I truly wanted this all along?

  Did I really want a Scafoni bastard to come and take me, to make me a Willow Girl?

  I don’t want to think about this. Not now. But when I try to scoot out from under his arm, he pulls me closer.

  Was I wrong? Has he been awake all this time?

  “We’re not finished yet.” His deep voice rumbles against my neck, making every hair stand on end. He rubs his chin against me, the scruff on his jaw rough.

  I feel him behind me. Feel him hardening.

  With a small sound of protest, I try to break free because I should break free.

  But he holds tight, rolling me onto my stomach, laying his full weight on me, spreading my legs with his, dragging my arms over my head and gripping my wrists in his hands.

  “Tell me who you are, Amelia Willow,” he says at my ear. “I am so damn curious.”

  I tense up when he begins to slide into me. I’m still sore from last night and fighting my own want.

  He moans, licks the curve of my shoulder, closes his mouth over it and bites.

  I gasp at the sensation of his teeth on me, sinking into me. I wonder if he’ll draw blood but he’s careful not to break skin.

  He moves inside me, and I’m stretching for him, my body accommodating him. Wanting him.

  “Tell me again how you don’t want me.”

  He shifts my hands into one of his and slides the other to my hip and it’s suddenly cold when he lifts his weight off my back.

  Moving the hand that was holding my wrists to the back of my head, he draws me up so I’m on my knees. When he grips my hips, I turn my cheek into the pillow and watch him behind me, between my legs, hands on my ass, spreading me open, looking at me there, looking at me take him.

  When he meets my gaze, his eyes almost glow, black and shiny, and his mouth moves into a grin and he thrusts hard and it hurts but it feels good, so good.

  “Tell me because all I see is a Willow Girl dying to be fucked.”

  It’s his words that jar me, that feel like a fist to my belly.

  “I hate you,” I say, and when I try to pull away, he tightens his grip on me.

  “No, you don’t. You only wish you hated me.”

  He shifts his gaze back to my ass, and when I feel his finger at my asshole, I bolt upright. But I can’t get away because his grip on my hips is too tight and he’s still inside me.

  He chuckles, and I’m leaning forward, hands flat against the headboard. The sensation of him inside me at this angle, it’s different.

  He shifts his grip, one hand spanning my belly, the other around my throat. He pulls me backward into him, my back to his front, and his thrusts are deliberate and deep.

  I turn my face a little and he licks my cheek, kisses my ear.

  “I’ll fuck your tight little virgin ass too,” he whispers.

  “Fuck you.”

  “You’ll come with my dick in your ass, Amelia. You’ll beg for it.”

  I do hate him. I do.

  But that hate, it’s part of this wanting. It’s what makes this burn so hot.

  He slides the hand that’s on my belly down to cup my pussy, to rub my clit and the scruff of his jaw scratches my neck and my breath hitches and as hard as I try not to, I’m going to come.

  He tightens his hand around my throat.

  I grip the headboard, my knuckles white, and let out a whimper. A moan.

  “I like how you sound when you come,” he whispers. “How you tense up and throb around my cock.”

  And it’s like my body wa
nts to do it, to give him what he wants, to be obedient, and I come and when I do, he pushes me forward on my hands and knees and his thrusts are hard and he thickens inside me and with one final thrust, he stills, coming, and when I turn my head to look at him, I see ecstasy on his face, I see perfect bliss.

  Beautiful bliss.

  And it’s impossible to look away.

  Moments later, when his eyes focus once again, he lies down on top of me, flattening me to the bed. He’s still inside me and he kisses my cheek.

  “Just a girl wanting to be fucked,” he whispers, sliding out of me.

  I pull my arms underneath myself and close my legs when I feel him spill out of me. I don’t know what I expect, what I want but then he gets off the bed and he’s gone, and the bathroom door closes, and the shower goes on and I just lie there in his bed and I feel so small. So very small.

  His smell clings to me. It’s all around me.

  Our smell.

  His stuff is inside me, sticky between my legs, and all I can do is stare at the light desperate to penetrate the heavy drapes.

  But it can’t and I’m trapped here in this half-light. We both are. Frozen in this winter-time.

  What am I doing?

  What do I want?

  No, not what.

  How?

  How do I want this?

  This.

  Him.

  How in hell do I want him?

  Something swells inside me, something sad. A weight in my belly. A tangible, palpable thing. And all at once, my eyes fill up with tears and I just look at the windows as I let them fall. Feel them slide over the bridge of my nose and onto the pillow.

  The shower switches off and a moment later, the bathroom door opens, and I don’t want him to see me like this. But he walks around the bed, and he’s wearing a towel low over his hips and those tattoos, they’re a blur of dark ink on his chest, his arms, and we’re still not finished.

  He sits down on the edge of the bed.

  I close my eyes.

  He touches my cheek, tucks my hair behind my ear, and he’s gentle. Opposite last night. Opposite this morning. It’s easier when he’s rough.

  With the tip of his thumb, he smears a tear across my face.

  “I think Willow Girls were made to cry,” he says.

  I don’t look up at him.

  More tears don’t come.