Twisted Bitch (Sick and Twisted Book 2)

by Jaci J

  “Yes, you’re right, but it’s the truth and you know it. You know better than most,” he says, stepping closer to me, crowding me into the wall. “You know how goddamn irresistible you are. Just look at me. I’m chasing you around like some sad, desperate fucker.”

  “So you brought me here as what, bait?” Shaking his head, he runs an irritated hand through his hair.

  “No, London. I wanted to spend time with you, no matter what I had to do to get it. I wanted to spend one evening without fighting, to just see and be near you for a few hours. I miss getting to look at you without being called names or getting dirty looks.”

  “Yeah, and watch that asshole touch me.” A husky laugh tumbles from his lips when he nods slowly.

  “That is a perk.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Seriously, who lets other men touch their … well, whatever I am to him. I know he gets some sick kick out of it, but sometimes I wonder if it actually bothers him, somewhere under all that armor.

  “You are what is wrong with me,” he admits. I know the feeling.

  Pushing me against the wall, he reaches a cautious hand out to me, and as much as I want to slap it away, I want to melt into it even more. I ache for his hands on me, and with the fight leaving me, I sag against the wall, wanting to cry with anger and relief.

  “They want to touch your skin,” he says as he grabs onto my arms, letting his hands slide down to my wrists, setting my skin on fire. Holding onto my hands, he unfolds them from across my chest and places them by my sides. I need to stop this, I really do. “They want to look.” His finger trails up my arm to my neck. Dragging his greedy eyes over my skin, he smirks down at me with those knowing eyes. I feel beautiful in his gaze, and I also feel so lost. Looking up into his eyes, I can see myself reflected in the black pools and I want to wrap myself around him and never let go.

  I melt. I have no control when he gets his hands on me. His body crowds into mine and I give in. I let him have his way. I’m a pathetic, weak woman where Dante is concerned.

  “They just want a little taste,” he growls. Running a finger over my lips, he leans in and whispers, “They want what’s mine.”

  Dante

  I have been suffering, slowly and painfully. I’ve tried to practice constraint and control, I really have. I’ve done the counting to ten thing. I’ve done those fucking breathing exercises. I lasted for a while … a few hours, actually, but I just can’t fucking take it anymore.

  London’s easy prey right now, soft and pliable, and I have no issue with taking advantage of it. In fact, it’s what I was waiting for. I have no shame in calming her, showing her what we had is worth trying again. I kept her drinks flowing, watched her sip on her shots. I let her go so she would be a little nice for me. Liquor seems to make her a little easier to deal with and in her state right now, I’ll take all the help I can get.

  I’m a tough man. I have a whole lot of don’t give a fucks stored away. I’m not easily broken and my feeling are virtually nonexistent, except when it comes to her. When London opens that beautiful mouth and throws her mean words at me, that shit hurts, so yeah, I let her get a little tipsy. I know that she’ll stop me if she wants to, and I’ll accept that, but I have to try.

  “I hate you Dante. I do. I really fucking hate you.” And there it is, right to the heart. Each time she says it, the hurt doesn’t lessen, it only grows worse because I know she means it, but it’s not getting easier.

  “It’s okay, baby, because I love you.” I know I love her more than she could ever hate me.

  Looking down into those haunted green eyes, I think I might hate her a little too. I hate how weak she makes me. I hate how much I need her, how much I miss her. I hate how much I want her, but most of all, I hate how much I love her.

  “You don’t love me, Dante. You never did,” she whispers. God, how wrong she is. I couldn’t love her any more than I do. She owns me completely, body and soul, whether she wants me or not.

  I cage her in and she doesn’t push me away. The fight in her is gone, thank fucking God.

  “I hate you too, but I do love you more,” I whisper against her neck.

  Burying my face in her hair, I inhale deeply, breathing in all that sweet. “Just leave me alone.”

  “I can’t.” I wish I could. I really do because this shit is painful. I couldn’t leave her alone if I tried.

  The need to get inside her body is overwhelming, but I fight it. I won’t make this easy on her. I won’t show London just how fucking pathetic I am when it comes to her.

  As slowly and as carefully as possible, I peel her pants off her body. I prefer the dress, but I’m not going to say anything for fear she’ll reduce her wardrobe to nothing but pantsuits.

  I’m down on my knee below her when I look up into her hateful eyes. She doesn’t like me, but she loves me. She’s fighting herself over it, fighting the instinct to push me away.

  Dragging my fingers up the soft skin of her legs, I soak her in; the feel of her body under my hands. This may be the last time she ever lets me touch her.

  “Baby?” I ask when I’m standing again.

  With her eyes squeezed closed, she says, “Stop, no talking.” She hates me, and part of me loves the fact that I have that much power over her. London leans into me and all cognitive thought goes out the goddamn window when her tits press into my chest.

  My hands are everywhere … her hair, her face, her ass. I grip her hips to pull her closer and attack her soft, plump lips. Her mouth, her lips―they are what drugs are like to a junky―fucking heaven.

  Tearing the only thing between us off her, she complains incoherently about how wrong this is, how much she loathes me. How she’s going to kill me. It’s all mumbled in a sexy slur of lust. “Shut up, baby. You know you want this.” Digging her fingernails into my biceps shuts me up.

  Crumpling up the pretty piece of lace in my hand that was keeping me on the outside of her body, I rub myself against her. “Just fuck me before I change my mind,” she demands, digging her fingers even deeper into my skin. She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  With one hand holding her ass and her underwear, I make quick work of undoing my pants and pulling my dick out, and before I know it, London has her legs around my waist and I slam into her tight, wet pussy. Fuck, this feels like home. Her pussy is like … well, nothing has ever felt as good as when I’m inside her. She’s soft, warm, and wet. Pressing her into the wall, I fuck her stupid―fast and hard, until she’s squirming and thrusting against me to get some relief.

  Puller on her hips, I slow down, savoring the feeling of her legs wrapped around my waist and her arms wrapped around my neck. This could very well be the last time I have her like this.

  “I hate … I hate how good this feels,” she whimpers against my neck, tugging me closer to her.

  Grinding my hips into her, I work her over, hard and slow. “Fuck, Dante,” moans as she grinds down on me, begging for her orgasm.

  “Not yet.” I need more time with her body.

  “Please, Dante.”

  “No!” She groans, throwing her head back against the wall.

  “Let me come, then let me go,” she pleads. Riding her hard, I commit every noise, every sensation to memory. I let my hands roam as I suck on her tits with my dick in her body.

  “How does it feel? Does it feel like love, baby?” I ask because this sure the fuck feels like love to me. Nothing has hurt more than me about to let her walk away after she gets that orgasm she’s fighting for.

  Squeezing my dick, she works us both, demanding I let her come. “I love you,” she whispers her words of war. It’s a goddamn act of terrorism against me. She wins, while I lose the battle of wills.

  I come so fucking hard my legs almost go out from under me. Fuck, she’s so good. Immediately, she slides off my dick, grabs her pants, throws them on and turns to leave.

  “That last part, Dante,” she throws over her shoulder, “was a fucking lie.” Smirking meanly, she
saunters off while I’m left leaning against the wall for support with my dick hanging out of my pants and her ruined panties in my hand.

  What the fuck just happened?

  ~~~~~

  “You redecorating, cousin?” Cam asks, nodding at the flowers sitting on the floor just inside my office door.

  “They’re pretty,” Josh says sarcastically. I’m going to kill him, and them I’m going to kill her.

  I tried, in my fucked up sort of way. In my head, I used her for sex, when really the little monster used me. She left me standing there like a fucking lovesick idiot after she milked me for all I was worth and walked out. I felt bad so I sent her flowers, but for the life of me, I don’t know why.

  “Something like that,” I mutter back. Three-dozen roses, in vases, sit on the floor of my office. They’re a sad reminder that I’m fucking up miserably. I sent them and the little monster sent them right back.

  Sometimes I forget what this fight is for. For me it’s been fun, intense, but most times, it’s been so fucking frustrating. I tend to get caught up in the fight, forgetting that there is an endgame here, and it’s not just to drive London insane. I had to do something. I had to remind her that I’m sorry and I want to be with her, even if she’s going to make me work for it.

  However, this isn’t a fight I can possibly win. I’ve tried to win my way back into the little monsters black heart by fighting and pleading with her. I do whatever stupid fucking thing I can think of to get back into her good graces and not a goddamn thing works. I’ve tried sweet. I’ve tried sex. I’ve tried nice. I’ve tried flowers. Nothing.

  She’s unbreakable. London’s goddamn Fort Knox, and I have to accept she is now who she is because of me. Nevertheless, I’m an ambitious man. Something has to work, and I will find what it is. I don’t give up on something I want, no matter how discouraged or frustrated I am with the outcomes. I had her once, and I will have her again, come hell or high water. She’s always going to be mine. She just needs to wake up and accept it.

  Five

  Miss Sick

  London

  He is nuts. His crazy is bordering on unhealthy. These issues he’s harboring are starting to show even more now, and I’m not sure if it’s amusing or scary.

  “Oh hell,” Matt mutters, staring wide-eyed at my office when he leans in, hanging onto the door. Wearing a pink cardi, cutoff khaki shorts, and a sassy pout, he’s the picture of fashion. Yeah, “oh hell” is right. “How many are there?” he asks, waving a manicured hand around the room. Shoving a pile out of my way with my foot, I take a few careful steps towards the door for my great escape.

  “Like, nineteen dozen or something just as asinine.” This is so something the crazy bastard would do; buy out the whole damn store and have it delivered.

  “He’s like, super duper sorry, London. Don’t you see?”

  “No, he’s just super duper crazy.”

  I let him fuck me in the hall. I relapsed. He sucked me in and swallowed me whole. He’s satisfying, but sickening. He’s fun, but trouble. He’s familiar, but unhealthy.

  He fucked me and sent flowers … roses. He fucking knows I don’t like roses. I politely and quietly gave them back. He sent them back and I gave them back again.

  He got the hint. He sent me dozens of Lilies instead … dozens. He has lost his goddamn mind. From desk to door, my office is overflowing with Lilies of every color and kind, in vases of every variety. They’re beautiful, but annoying. They’re sweet, but misguided. They’re heartbreaking, but heartwarming. He’s fucking killing me.

  “How the hell are you going to work around them?” Oh, I’m not. I’m not even going to try. I’m going to pretend they’re not here, just like I’m going to pretend Dante isn’t slowly chipping away at my icy cold heart. The moment I start working around them, he wins, and Dante winning is the last thing I want. If he likes flowers so goddamn much, he can work around them.

  “I’m not. You and I are going to lunch and they are getting returned.” He wants to play, then I’m game.

  ~~~~~

  The restaurant is crowded this afternoon as Matt and I weave our way around boisterous patrons on our way to our table in the back. Sitting down, we order drinks and lunch as soon as our asses hit our seats.

  “You’re awfully mean to the asshole,” Matt scolds me around his fluted glass. Leaning back in his seat, he gives me his special look, the one that says I’m clearly being a moron. It’s a look reserved only for me.

  “You think?”

  “Yes. He’s sweet in his own way and he loves you. Haven’t you punished him enough yet?” No, not nearly enough. I want him to suffer. I want him to hate me as much as I hate him.

  Wait, did he just say Dante was sweet? Well there goes my appetite. Pushing my Caesar salad away, I wait for Matt to come to his senses. For the past few months, Matt’s been on my side, but I see him slowly bailing on me. He’s trying to jump ship, and it’s all because of Dante and his crazy ability to sway the most sound minded people.

  “He sent you flowers,” he argues. “He wants to spend time with you, and he wants to take care of you.” What he wants is to be the boss and step all over me to take what is still part mine.

  “He lied to me constantly. He lied about his last fucking name.” See, I win. Who the fuck lies about their name?

  “But he loves you.” In his own sick way, I’m sure he does. Some serial killers love their victims, but still kill them. Some mommy animals love their babies, but still eat them. Just because it’s love, doesn’t mean it’s healthy.

  “But is his crazy kind of love going to fix everything else?” I ask Matt in all seriousness. Is love going to fix all the lies? Is love going to change his ways?

  “It’s a start.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  I’m not sure what everyone wants from me. Dante wants me to give in. Matt wants me to forget and forgive Dante because he’s trying. My grandfather wants me to work with Dante, but what do I want? As stupid as it sounds, I want to go back to believing that Grandfather was giving me the shipping business, that Dante was still Dante Marx, and that he didn’t lie and use me. I want the man who left that morning, not the man who tore my world apart later that day. That’s what I want.

  ~~~~~

  My mood is glum when I leave my building. It’s bad when I get out of my car. It’s shit when I walk into the building, and it’s hell while I ride the elevator up to the top, but my mood is instantly better the moment I pass Dante’s office door. All those dozens of Lilies are scattered around his office, with twenty or so Daisies I had added on principal. It’s a florist shop in there.

  I can’t help the laugh that tumbles from my lips and what comes after. Doubled over at the waist, I laugh until delirious tears stream down my cheeks. They’re all over his desk, his bar, windowsills―they’re everywhere. I would have paid to see his face when he found them in his office. Irritated wouldn’t even begin to cover the moods I’m sure he went through.

  “Is this funny, you fucking monster?” A voice growls at me from down the hall. My wish has come true.

  Dante doesn’t look happy. He doesn’t look like he thinks I’m funny, and he doesn’t look like he likes me much right now. Standing at the end of the hall, he scowls. A handful of crumpled flowers are clutched in his giant fist and a mess of broken flowers litter the floor at his feet. This is just too good.

  “Come here, London.” Dropping the flowers to the floor, he crooks one of those long, elegant fingers, summoning me.

  “No thanks.” I step back. He stares me down, willing me to listen with his eyes.

  “I wasn’t asking you.” I know.

  I back up, heading towards my office taking swift, but subtle steps. If I run, he’ll chase. He’s fast. Stalking towards me, his long legs eat up the distance between us in an instant. With one large step back, I’m safe inside my office.

  “London …”

  “Your flowers need water,” I shout, slamming the d
oor in his face. The window rattles and I hear my nameplate slide down the wall next to the door.

  “You slam that door again and I’ll―”

  “You’ll what? The door’s locked, asshole.” Twisting the lock, I die with laughter.

  “I’m going to fucking strangle you,” he shouts through the door. He’s so mad. It’s so fucking awesome.

  “Good luck!”

  ~~~~~

  The level of crazy has gone from moderately abnormal to full-blown, unstable insanity. It’s his own goddamn fault. He’s always right there in my face, pushing and pushing. I’m an inch from snapping and doing something stupid, throwing caution to the wind and losing my shit on him. If that happens, then I’ll be doing a lot more than removing his balls.

  He wants me back. Yeah, right back under his thumb is where he needs me. He wants me where he can keep me close enough to control my every move. My conformity, my obedience, and my compliance are the only things that will calm his sickness.

  All this crazy, what is it all for, love? He wants me to love him, then fine. I’ll love him. I’m going to love him until it fucking hurts. I’m going to love him to death. I’m going to love him until he fucking hates me.

  ~~~~~

  It was just another Wednesday, a Wednesday I was just minding my own business. My day was going good. Dante had been out of the office most of the morning and Matt took me to lunch. We gossiped and laughed as we usually do, then I made my way back to work.

  “Where the fuck is my door?” I yell, pointing over my shoulder at the now empty space that once held a solid wooden door. Sitting at his desk, typing on his computer, he stops and we stare at each other. He looks like the cat who ate the canary and I look like an idiot with my mouth hanging open in complete and utter shock.

  I’m not sure what kind of sick game this is or what kind of crazy lie Dante’s about to spin, but I want my fucking door back. He leans back in his chair with his hands crossed over his chest.

  “Good afternoon, London.” He murmurs deeply, his voice rough and harsh.