His free hand automatically fists my hair as I take him deeper, a satisfied grunt coming from him.
“Jesus Christ,” he moans, low and rough, gravel and rocks. “You suck dick like a porn star.”
I flutter my lashes up at him, continuing to work my mouth and my hand over his hardness, letting my mind wander.
I feel him relax, little by little, his knees dropping a little wider, his tension softening, slouching against the back of the chair as his blinks grow longer and more pleasured.
“You better not be lying to me about last night,” he says, and I can’t believe he can still talk through this. I take that as a personal challenge and suck harder, squeeze harder, try harder, to bring him to the edge of release.
His fingers tug painfully at my hair and I fight the urge to swat his hand away as countless hairs snap painfully free from my scalp.
“You’re talking about a full-scale war, Sammi.”
I lift my head up to utter an answer but he wrenches at my hair.
“Did I say you could stop, bitch?” he demands angrily, pulling my face forward on his cock so deep it makes me gag. When I do that he releases his hands, letting me pull back slightly as I cough.
“I’ve killed people for less,” he continues to speak as I take the hint and keep working my mouth on him. “Much less.”
I get no warning that he’s about to come only seconds after uttering these words, other than a pulsing in the underside of his cock as it stiffens even further, his fingers digging into my scalp at the same time. Cum hits my tongue and the back of my throat, several pulses filling my mouth until he’s spent.
I think of Michael, the innocent young man who was gunned down by Dornan in a fit of jealousy and lust, as I swallow down the load of semen he’s just spurted into my mouth. “I know,” I reply, wiping the back of my hand against my mouth as I rest back on my heels.
He sighs heavily, pushing his palm against my face as he stands. I take the hint and scramble out of his way as he makes his way into the en-suite bathroom and shuts the door behind him, rage at his casual dismissal suddenly wild and pumping in my veins. Asshole.
I want to gargle with mouthwash so badly, but I can hear the shower running and I know Dornan wouldn’t be impressed with that. I scan the room, looking for something, anything, to remove the gag-inducing taste from my mouth. My gaze lands upon the closet, where I know Dornan keeps a stash of his favorite expensive spirits.
I open the closet quietly and rummage around, leather jackets and riding boots stacked neatly. The man is anal in more ways than one. I laugh at my own stupid joke as I push boots and a duffel bag out of the way, finally feeling cold glass underneath my fingers. I grasp the bottle and yank, unearthing an untouched quart of forty-year-old aged whiskey.
The sentimental bastard. I remember exactly when he got this bottle, a couple weeks before everything went to shit and I almost died. It was a birthday gift to him from my father. Why he kept it after my dad’s betrayal is a mystery to me, but either way, it’s got to hold some painful memories for him.
Yep. That should do it.
I unscrew the lid, breaking the forty-year-old seal, and toss the cap on the ground, closing the closet and taking up a spot in the middle of the bed. I take a long, burning drink of the whiskey, spluttering as it goes down.
When Dornan emerges from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, I don’t even bother to try and hide the precious liquor in my hand.
Maybe I’m tired.
Or maybe, right now, I just don’t give a fuck.
He’s naked save for a white towel around his waist, the white against his skin too innocent for the blood he has shed over the years. It should be black, or crimson red, maybe. His eyes flash with anger as he sees the bottle in my hand.
“What the fuck?” he rages, stalking over and snatching the bottle from me mid-mouthful. Cool liquid sloshes onto my chest, seeping between my breasts and down my belly button. I fight the urge to smile, partly because it wouldn’t be appropriate, but also because I’m scared, He’s got that look in his eye, that murderous look that spells disaster for anyone in his path.
Silly me. I just can’t help myself with this man sometimes.
He takes a swig of the bottle and places it on the nightstand, his arms crossed tightly across his bare chest. Droplets of water still cling to his tattooed chest, and his wet hair drips every few seconds.
“Did I say you could open that?” he asks steadily.
I shake my head.
“So why’d you open it?”
I shrug. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m so freaked about last night; I just wanted to take the edge off. ”
He takes another drink and this time slams the bottle back onto the nightstand so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t break.
“That bottle was special,” he says.
I don’t say anything.
“You think you’re something special?”
The thought that I’m just another whore to him hasn’t really occurred to me, especially not after he shot that poor kid just to impress me. I just assumed he saw Sammi as something unique, something that reminded him of past love and lust, something to mold and play with. It never occurred to me that he might not care at all.
“Well, you’re very special to me,” I say, scooting to the edge of the bed and running my fingers along his arm.
He looks down at my hand like it’s a dead cockroach and I withdraw it slowly, letting it fall at my side.
“Get on your knees,” he commands. “Face the fucking wall.”
I do as he says. He hitches my skirt up, gathering it around my hips. He pulls my panties to the side and slowly slides a finger inside me. I quiver underneath his rough, dominating touch.
“You know you’re just here for me to use you, right?” He continues to slide his finger in and out, adding two and then three fingers so that I am stretched and full with him.
When I don’t answer fast enough, he reaches around with his free hand and pinches my clit hard, sending threads of pain shooting through me.
“Right?”
“Y-yes,” I whimper, gasping at the sudden change from pleasure to pain. I should be used to it by now—it’s Dornan’s signature move—but I’m still woefully unprepared for his level of depravity.
“And when I’m done with you, I’ll toss you aside like a piece of fucking garbage.” He resumes finger-fucking me, rougher now, his other hand twisting one of my nipples. I shiver in anticipation as he withdraws his fingers, only to moan loudly when he replaces them with his cock, slamming it into me as hard and as forceful as he can. He perches his wet hand, the one that was inside me, on my hip.
On my hip.
It’s like a switch is flipped inside me. I’ve been numb for so long, broken and resigned to what he will use me for, biding my time until he gets what’s coming. But now, with his hand firmly pressed against those seven scars, disguised with ink, a fresh rage is reborn within me.
“Maybe you should fuck me as hard as you can,” I say through gritted teeth, “Maybe it’ll get me out of your system.”
He laughs, grabbing a fistful of my loose hair, pulling me up forcefully and toward him. My back against his chest, he whispers in my ear, “You sure you can handle that, Sammi?”
I can feel a bitter smirk tug at my mouth. “You sure you can, Dornan?”
My question appears to spark something primal in him; his fingers dig into my flesh so hard, I feel his fingernails break my skin open like paper. He’s taking my words as a challenge. Who can fuck the other one more, figuratively.
And literally.
He slides his cock all the way out of me, hovering the tip of his shaft at my entrance, teasing. Taunting.
I stay perfectly still, waiting for him to make his move.
And he doesn’t disappoint. He rears back and slams himself forward, his impressive size felt in every inch of my core as he painfully bruises the entrance to my womb. I grip the stiff
bed sheets harder, focusing on my knuckles as they go white and turn numb.
He doesn’t hold back. With agonizing strength and speed, over and over, he pulls out, only to drive back in, as violent and cruel as ever. I want to tell him to stop, but at the same time, I don’t. I want him to fuck me and hurt me and make me bleed, make me feel something, because I’m stubborn and twisted as fuck, and I want to be able to say he tried his best to destroy me and failed.
I want him to make me suffer so that I may make him suffer in the end.
Raw pain rips at my lower abdomen and I can’t suppress the scream that exits my mouth.
Dornan pauses momentarily and laughs, a cruel and chilling laugh as low and gravelly as I’ve ever heard him.
I look down at the mattress to see droplets of blood on the sheets.
Dornan sees them too, and the sight makes him chuckle.
“See?” he says, as he continues to slam into me. “Told you I’d make you bleed.”
I nod my head. He pulls out of me, and my heart sinks as his cock nudges against my back passage.
He places his thumb against my ass. “What about now?” he taunts. “Still want me to fuck you as hard as I can?”
Oh god, no. Please. My stomach is cramping violently and I feel like I’m about to pass out. My knees buckle under me and I fall to the side, rolling into a ball and clutching my arms protectively around my stomach.
He looks over me with an expression of total arrogance and dominance plastered across his face.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters. He grips my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“Next time,” he breathes against my clammy face, “I won’t stop with your pussy, baby girl.” With that, he dips his head to my breast—the one not pressed into the mattress—and takes my nipple into his mouth, sucking greedily. At first it is kind of pleasant, a welcome relief from the pain inside me.
Until he bites down, hard, sending spasms of pain throughout my already pulsating body.
He pulls away and grins, blood smeared across his front teeth and lips. In this moment right now, he could be the Devil.
I bring a hand up to my injured nipple and cover it protectively, whimpering as this fresh pain joins the painful ache in my womb.
I’m on fire.
I want to throw up.
I feel like I’m going to die.
He shifts and is gone, the light from the bulb overhead harsh and unforgiving. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don’t cry. It’s only pain.
A few tears manage to make their way loose before I swallow the horror back down, berating myself silently for being so stupid. For going against him. Why the hell did I do that? What’s wrong with me?
And then he’s back, dressed this time, smirking as he studies me, his folded arms resting against the mattress.
To my absolute disgust, he snakes a hand out, catching one of the tears rolling down my cheek on the tip of his finger. He brings his finger to his lips and sucks, his finger making a wet popping noise as it exits his mouth.
“Salty,” he rasps, cocking his head so that his head is on the bed next to mine. “But sweet, too.” He reaches out again and swipes his finger across my cheek, bringing it to my lips this time.
“See?”
He forces his finger into my mouth, only withdrawing it after I lick my own tears from the tip. He’s wrong. It’s salty, but unlike his tears, there’s no sweetness here for me.
It’s bitter as hell.
He pats me on the head roughly, like I’m a dog or something, before he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
I can hear him whistling was he walks down the hallway.
Asshole.
I lay there for a long time, feeling a thin trickle of blood pool on the sheets beneath me, growing sticky and cold. How many times will he make me bleed before he gets what’s coming to him?
How much more can I take?
Why do I stay?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I groan, dragging myself out of bed and limping to the shower, still doubled over.
It hurts like I’ve just had a fucking abortion.
And I would know. I’ve had one of those before, thanks to him.
I turn the water on and step under, letting the warm liquid wash over my face. I brush my teeth three times and use half a bottle of body wash, lathering my legs repeatedly until blood stops creating a river of red down the insides of my thighs.
It occurs to me that in the past ten days I’ve been stabbed in the leg, overdosed on bad coke, and now fucked within an inch of my sanity.
I’m so goddamn tired.
When I finally shut the shower off, I wrap my hair in a towel, using another to wrap around my body. I wipe the steam from the mirror and study myself properly for the first time in weeks. I grab my makeup bag that now lives in the mirrored bathroom cupboard and fish out my eye drops. My eyes are bloodshot and bleary, and it’s a miracle my colored contact lenses haven’t fallen out in the time since I passed out just after Maxi died. I squeeze a few drops into each eye and blink rapidly, my eyes immediately feeling less sandpapery.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I haven’t seen sun much lately, and my painstakingly obtained golden tan, deep thanks to endless hours laying in a tanning bed in Nebraska and then by the pool in Thailand, is significantly faded. There are black circles under my eyes that shovels full of concealer won’t cover up, and my face is gaunt and pinched, my cheekbones jutting out painfully. I drop my towel to the ground, studying myself farther. My left breast looks awful, angry red teeth marks puncturing the pallid skin above and below my nipple. My ribs stick out more than they used to, my collarbone, too.
It’s almost like I’m dying…little by little; piece by piece.
Burnt out, shattered, breaking apart under the weight of my lies—and I still have five to go.
I hang my head, exhaling a ragged breath as I grip the bathroom counter in front of me. At least one thing on my body looks good—Elliot’s magnificent tattoo that snakes its way across my hip and midsection is still bright with reds, blacks and splashes of turquoise. I let my gaze linger on the garish colors a few moments longer before I collect my towel from the ground, pick it up, and wrap it back around me, leaving the steamy bathroom for the bedroom.
I’m about to drop my towel and reach for a fresh pair of underwear when I see him standing in the doorway, looking bored and mildly annoyed. I jump, almost losing my grip on the towel.
“Jesus. Don’t you knock?” I ask, sounding a little harsher than I meant to.
Jase smirks, folding his arms across his chest as he kicks the door shut with his boot. “We’re going on a little trip tomorrow. Pop insists on you coming for some reason.”
I fish a pair of black panties and a matching bra from my open suitcase. “Do you mind?” I ask, making a twirling motion with my finger. He obliges me, turning to face the wall so I can get dressed in privacy. I throw the towel on the bed, over the new bloodstains that dot the middle of the mattress, and drag on panties, sliding my bra over my breasts. I leave it open at the back and tiptoe over to where Jase is standing, studying the wall.
I brush my arm against his to get his attention and stand with my back to him. “You mind hooking me up?” I ask over my shoulder.
He wants to be pissed with me? He can be pissed. I’ll be pissed with him right back. Two can play this game, and being the damsel in distress seems to have worn off on him. I’ll be the bitch in black lace instead. See how he likes that.
He makes a “Humph,” sound, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to oblige. But then I feel warm fingers brush along my back, causing goose bumps to break out all over my body. I bite my lip, standing as still as a rock while he takes time to pop the hooks into the clasp ever-so-slowly. When he’s done, he places his fingers on my shoulders, pulling me around to face him. His intense gaze rakes up and down my body before settling back on my face.
He brushes a thumb a
gainst the tender skin below my left eye. “Jesus, girl. When was the last time you slept?” He moves his grip to my skinny wrist, holding it up in front of my face. “When was the last time you ate something?”
He steps back and surveys me farther, this time without an ounce of lust or desire in his features. This time, it’s concern.
“You look like hell, Sammi,” he says seriously.
I shrug. “I’m okay.” But I’m not. Being in this clubhouse is stealing every ounce of joy—and body fat—that I possess.
“No wonder you can’t fight him off,” he mutters.
Embarrassment prickles along my spine and I stand straighter. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “I can hear him beating you up from three rooms down. Or whatever it is you two do in here.” He shudders as he says it, before something seems to occur to him. “Oh god, you’re not one of those girls who likes being beaten up, are you? Please tell me you’re not one of those fucking submissives.”
I laugh dryly, stepping away to fish a fresh outfit from my suitcase. “No, I’m not one of those girls. But thank you for your concern.”
“Are you sure?” he says, scratching his head. “Because he did tie you up—”
“How do you know about that?” I cut him off, plucking a black ruffled sundress out of my suitcase and stretching it over my head. He might have helped me after Dornan stabbed me, but he came in after I’d managed to cut myself free from Dornan’s bindings. “Been spying on us?”
“Yeah,” he says sarcastically, his gaze cutting right through me. “I’ve been spying on my father and his little slave. Come on.”
I shimmy into the dress, smoothing it down over my stomach, pretending that the word slave doesn’t sting me to my absolute core. “You do always seem to find me at the most opportune times,” I shrug. I take my hairbrush from the suitcase and start pulling it through my tangled dark hair when he grabs my arm, forcing me to look at him.
“I never said I wasn’t looking out for you,” he says quietly.
I give him a long look. “I can look out for myself,” I say quietly, but the phrase is devoid of conviction.
Five Miles (Gypsy Brothers, #3) Page 4
