by Skye Warren
I’m not looking at him anymore. I’m looking at a kaleidoscope of him, his face in a million shards, swirling sideways through my tears. I never liked it rough, and I never wanted to hurt him. Those things are true, but of course he wouldn’t believe me. Couldn’t believe me, after it all ended.
“I just didn’t give it to you hard enough,” he says, stroking my hair while he leaves his dick pressed deep. “So that’s probably why you decided to tell everyone that was me with you. That’s why you decided to tell everyone that I raped you. So that I’d be sent away without you even having to break up with me. Because you didn’t want to hurt me.”
The lights dim, at least in my mind. I’m a second from passing out when he pulls back. I cough and sputter spit and precum onto his abs. He presses my face against the wetness, against his heat, soothing me as I breathe again.
“Is that right?” he asks softly. “Did I explain it right? Is that why you did it? Is that why you got me sent away from the last fucking foster home I had? Is that why I ended up in a goddamn interrogation room, wondering if I was going to jail for the rest of my miserable fucking life, all because the only person I thought gave a shit about me was a liar? Is that why I spent the next four years in the army, always looking over my shoulder, wondering if your lies were going to finally catch up to me?”
I can’t tell him why I did it. He knows it doesn’t really make sense, but he can chalk it up to my being young and stupid and awful. “Close enough,” I say.
He nods. His voice sounds a little sad when he says, “I thought so.”
His hand clenches tight against my scalp. That’s the only warning I have before he lifts. I stagger to my fight, legs weak and wobbly. With a flick of his wrist, he sends me facedown on the bed.
Then he’s on top of me, body heavy and hot, cock pressed against the soft flesh of my ass.
“Then it’s lucky for you I can be harder now. Rougher now.” His cock pushes inside me, splitting me open. I gasp against the bedspread, and he laughs low. “I had a lot of time in a fucking war zone to think about how I’d fuck you when I got the chance.”
A whimper escapes me as his cock impales me and his weight crushes me. Even my face is pressed to the bed, smothering me, making it hard to breathe. “Blue.”
“I know,” he says, stroking my back. “I know it hurts. I’d tell you to hold on, but I think your hands are tied at the moment.”
The fabric by my face becomes hot, then cold as tears slide down my cheeks. “Blue,” I say on a choked gasp.
He pulls out and shoves back in, and it feels like tearing. It feels like coming apart. “Just hold on to me instead,” he says, and then his hands are holding mine. Even tied up by his belt, even fucked hard, he’s holding my hand, and maybe that’s what hurts worst of all.
I don’t know how long he fucks me. It feels like forever that he’s sawing in and out of me, his hands harsh on my hips, his breath hot on the back of my neck. Long enough that I should burn up from the friction of us, set alight by the strike of his cock, turned to ash where I stand. But I’m not dry, I’m not dust—I’m drenched. Wet from fear, from shame. Is that possible? Our juices trickle down the inside of my thigh. I feel the tickle of it despite the pounding he’s giving me, my skin oversensitized, my body attuned and alert.
He pulls out, and my body doesn’t know what to do. It clenches around nothing—and it hurts. It hurts to tighten like a fist, to hold on to something that isn’t there.
He rolls onto the bed, taking my body with him. Then he’s lying flat, and I’m above him. Being on top means control, except when your hands are tied behind your back. He has to be the one to line up his cock and push inside. He’s the one to slap my hip and tell me, “Ride.”
My eyes close, hiding me, shielding me, but I do what he says. I roll my hips in a movement I know too well, fucking him. I jerk him off with my pussy the same way I could with my hands or my mouth. I ride him to the peak until he’s grunting on every downward slide and following me with his hips when I lift up.
And then it does feel like control.
I’m still at his mercy, hands behind my back, breasts bouncing on every rocking movement, lips open on hungry breaths. But it’s him who’s looking up at me with fierceness, with longing. It’s him who’s groaning as if his world is breaking apart.
His eyes are half-glazed with pleasure now, and I know his orgasm is minutes away—seconds. He reaches for my neck, and for a moment, with his large palm against my throat, his fingers wrapped around, it’s like he’s choking me. He is choking me, using my neck to hold me still while he fucks up into me.
But then he reaches around to the back of my neck and pulls me down. It’s a kiss, unexpected and tragic, that makes the tears finally fall. It’s the sweetness that makes me come. It’s the rough groan against my mouth, vibrating through my lips, over my skin, running all the way down to my clit, that tells me he’s finally let go.
Chapter Eleven
His breathing evens out. Mine too. He’s quiet long enough that I think he’s sleeping. My hands are untied now, but I haven’t run away. I’m still here. His hand is heavy just below my breasts, a possessive claim, a junkyard dog with a bone he’s keeping.
“When did you leave?” he asks. “After me?”
I tense, because anything to do with him leaving is an extremely sore subject. It’s just another opportunity to attack me. He got sent back to group and then shipped off to the military. Meanwhile I got to stay in the foster home, one with enough food and clothes to go around. He thinks I screwed him over—because I did. He’ll never let me forget. He’ll ruin me, remembering.
His hand strokes my hair gently, almost absently. Maybe he’s just curious.
“Just a few months after,” I manage to say, wondering how much I’ll reveal. Wondering how much he’ll make me reveal.
He stiffens beside me. His eyes snap open, intent and questioning. “Why’d they move you?”
“They didn’t. I left.”
Silence for a beat. “You didn’t turn eighteen for another year.”
I shrug, wishing I felt as nonchalant as I sound. “I didn’t feel like sticking around.”
“So where did you go?”
“Here and there. Nowhere.”
I give him enough to figure it out. Where did I live? The street. What did I do to survive? Everything. I don’t really want to talk about it, least of all with him.
His voice is low when he speaks again. “Did you get your diploma?”
No. My cheeks burn. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s a big deal from where I’m sitting. You were all about school when I was there. You knew it was your ticket out.”
I laugh darkly. “I think we both know how that turned out.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Lola. Why did you run away? You had a good thing going there. I thought…I figured you sent me away because I was too much in your business. More into you than you were into me.”
My breath catches. It’s like a stab wound, hearing him talk about my deception so casually. But what twists the knife is that he’d somehow rationalized it, like I might have had a quasi-self-protective reason for doing it.
“It wasn’t like that,” is all I can say. I don’t need the excuses he’s giving me. I don’t want them.
His voice is musing. “But if you left right after…”
My heart pounds. I can’t let him figure the rest out. I can’t let him know the truth. He may not have hurt me, but someone did. That’s the only reason I’d have chosen the cold regard of the streets over a warm bed. That’s the only reason I’d have danced on a pole for food instead of grabbing an apple from a kitchen counter. He lived that life with me. He knows what can happen to a girl unprotected. He just never knew it happened to me, that it happened while he was there, all along.
No, it would break me for him to find out. It would ruin me more than rough sex ever could.
I distract him the best way I know
how. The only way I know how. With my hand on his cock and my breasts pressed against his side. He responds instantly, growing hard and still.
“We aren’t here to talk,” I whisper.
“We can do both,” he says, but I already hear the lust in his voice. I already feel it creeping over his curiosity like thick, choking vines.
“This isn’t about catching up,” I say. “It’s about saying goodbye.”
His breath catches, and then he’s turning me over, spreading me wide, agreeing without words that this will be over soon. That the truth would only hurt us both. That some secrets are better left unspoken.
It should be impossible, but he’s rougher with me than before, fucking me harder and faster and deeper. He pushes moans out of me. I’m caught in a whirlwind, his whirlwind. It feels like a punishment, as if he’s angry at me for telling him that much. As if he’s angry at himself for asking.
He slows suddenly, pupils large and dark, almost alien, as he stares down at me. “How much will you do for me, Lola? How far will you go?”
I thought it couldn’t get worse than before—the humiliation of him inspecting me, fully clothed. Fucking my mouth with my hands behind my back. I thought that was the most he could degrade me, the worst he could do.
Apparently not.
I whimper on a powerful thrust. “How much do you need?”
I don’t mean it as an offer. It’s a plea. I can’t believe he wants more from me. And I know it will never be enough.
His smile sends a sliver of fear to my gut. God, it shouldn’t be handsome when he looks at me that way. He should have two horns on his head and a tail. His skin should be red. Instead he’s every dream I’ve ever had, my own perverted guardian angel.
“Open your mouth, Lola,” he says softly.
I’m already open to him in every way possible. My legs are spread as he fucks my pussy. He’s already kissed and licked and fucked my mouth. What else is there to do?
The light in his eyes tells me I’m about to find out.
Hesitantly, tremulously, I open my mouth. It’s awkward like that, mouth open with nothing inside. I’m meant to be filled with him, but he lets me sit that way, his gaze dark with anticipation. It’s terrifying to think what might excite him like that. What might humiliate me enough to please him.
One large hand gathers my wrists above my head before I can think to protest. His other hand cups my jaw, opening it wider.
He bends his head—for a kiss?
A rough sound comes from his throat, and then he slowly, methodically spits into my mouth.
It lands wetly on my tongue, surprising and foreign and tasteless. I swallow reflexively, and then it’s gone—but the aftereffects linger, the shame in my belly and the heat in my cheeks. A shudder racks my body, and his eyes flicker.
“Fuck,” he says. “Everything I do to you makes me want you more.”
I close my eyes. I don’t know how much more I can take.
My hands are still above my head when he reaches between our bodies, where we’re joined. His other hand rubs my clit, and I’m way too tender. I let out a shriek because it hurts.
“Shhh,” he says, rubbing harder.
I struggle to get away, to get relief, but I’m well contained, completely under his control.
It takes me a minute to realize what he’s doing, that he’s wringing spasms out of my body, that he’s clenching my inner muscles around his cock with every harsh stroke of his thumb on my clit.
He finally releases my hands so he can cup my breast, and that too is for him. Not me. He’s not trying to make me feel good, he’s just using me—my pussy, my breasts, my mouth. Every part of me a soft place to wrap around himself, to rub off on.
His face twists in ecstasy, and he finishes himself off in three fast, hard thrusts. Hot seed bathes me inside, stinging all the skin he’s rubbed raw.
Even then he doesn’t let up rubbing my clit.
There’s a wet sound as he pulls out. He dips two fingers inside my pussy and scoops his come out. With a cold glint in his eyes, he pushes those fingers inside my mouth. Salt and arousal spill onto my tongue, made rough by the calluses of his hands. I know for sure it’s a punishment now, and it’s working. I want to repent, but all I can do is lick his fingers clean and come against his other hand, choking and gasping his name, too garbled to understand.
I collapse back on the bed, spent from my tears and my orgasm, boneless.
Time passes, and I drift on the waves of pleasure and degradation. They’re more alike than I would have thought possible. He must think I’m sleeping, because he moves a lock of hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear.
“How much more?” he mutters as if to himself.
And maybe that’s the scariest part, that even he doesn’t know where the hard edge is. He’ll just keep pushing and pushing until I fall. And I’ll let him, because all my life, I’ve craved that wind on my face.
* * *
I wake up feeling warm and safe. It’s strange, like something out of a dream—only I don’t feel safe in my dreams. My eyes blink, adjusting to the darkness, focusing on the unfamiliar shadows.
This isn’t my room in Mrs. Owens’s house. It’s not a room I’ve ever had. I’ve had twenty-four bedrooms that I can remember. Some of them shared with foster siblings, some of them no bigger than a closet. This isn’t any of them.
I grow very still. There’s an arm slung over my hip. My heart begins to race. Where am I? Who the fuck is this? And since I know I’d never agree to sex with one of the creeps at the club, how did I get here?
Then I remember.
Sleep is a cold bastard, holding me underwater only to laugh when I sputter. How could I have ever forgotten, even for a second? I’m the enemy, someone to be hated and pitied. Someone to be used and fucked. Never loved. Never again.
It’s Blue’s arm slung over me in a cruel parody of protection. It’s Blue’s chest rising and falling at my back. Blue’s cock hard and hot against my thigh. He’s sleeping now, but I don’t know how long that will last.
Carefully, slowly, I slip his arm off me. I immediately feel cold without its presence, especially when I leave the shelter of his body and stand up.
He doesn’t stir.
His face is painted with shadows, darker where scruff covers his jaw, lighter where his eyes are closed. He looks peaceful this way, no longer angry. How will he feel when he wakes up to find me gone? He can’t expect me to stay. Or maybe he can. Maybe that is part of my punishment, to be near a man I’ll never have.
I put on my clothes quickly. Undressing is my job, both ritual and art form.
Dressing is simply the aftermath. It’s rolling up the mat or cleaning the brushes. Putting things away.
I give myself one last look at him, his strong body still curved around an empty space. He’s beautiful and terrifying. He’s everything I loved and everything I’ve come to hate—a man who takes what he wants. Even if what he wants is me.
In his kitchen I find a notepad with some groceries scribbled down. Milk. Peanut butter.
My heart clenches. It’s ordinary and somehow sweet.
I use a blank sheet to start a note to him. Same time next week.
I’m all the way to the door of his swanky apartment, one hand on a brushed-nickel doorknob, before I stop. One night of fucking can hardly make up for the lie I told, for what it put him through. Nothing can ever make up for it. It’s a sick penance—as sick as sending him away had been back then. Two wrongs don’t make a right.
I walk back to the counter. I tear off the note, crinkle it up, and toss it in the trash can.
Which means I need a new note. I pick up the pen and write, I’m sorry.
This time I only make it two feet away before I stop. And turn around. And throw the note away.
One last note. This one will stick.
The pen feels heavier this time as I write, We’re done here.
Chapter Twelve
I’m back to m
y old self again—sexy, sultry, men eating out of the palm of my hands. I’m everything Blue accused me of, but I’m not ashamed. This is my job, and I’m damn good at it.
“So hot,” the man slurs, staring at my breasts.
I give him a secretive smile. “Want to see what else I’ve got? We can go to the VIP rooms.”
He’s already reaching for his wallet. Hook, line, and sinker.
Suddenly I see the whites of his eyes and a shadow darkens him. I whirl to see what’s spooked him. There’s Blue, looking like he’s ready to pound someone into the ground.
Me, probably.
“She’s on break,” he snaps before dragging me away by my wrist. I’m too shocked to even protest at first. It’s one thing to fuck around in private. Entirely another to interrupt work. Everyone here knows what we do. Everyone knows time is money.
“What the fuck was that?” I yank my arm away and rub my wrist.
“What the fuck was that note?” he counters.
I flush. “You got plenty out of me in one night. That ought to cover you.”
“Well, it doesn’t,” he says between gritted teeth. “You’re coming back next week.”
Anger rises up, swift and righteous. “Why?”
His voice goes soft. “Why what?”
Even the sound of the club seems to dim, like a forest quiets when a predatory is near.
We’re tucked into a corner. There’s no way everyone is seeing this, but they feel it. Unease makes my throat dry, but I force past it. There’s too much at stake. “I know what I did was…” Wrong. Terrible. “Inconvenient. But come on, you went into the military. You became a fucking war hero. And your job here is obviously lucrative, judging by your apartment. No matter what I did, your life didn’t turn out so bad.”
“Not so bad,” he says, his eyes glinting dangerously. “You threw me in a fucking ditch, gorgeous. The only reason I’m not still in it is because I clawed my way out. Want to know what I did in the six months between getting accused and enlisting?”
I don’t want to know. “Where?”
