by S. E. Hall
Doesn't finally fucking like banshees end the scheme?
Wait…maybe finally fucking like banshees does end the scheme. As in he got what he wanted and now he's done.
The possibility infuriates, humiliates, and disappoints me simultaneously. I spent more time fearing him than enjoying him! I'd just started to play, let my guard down, and he moved his Bishop to Queen Five, ending it before my panties had time to dry!
In an embarrassed daze, I remove the blindfold, tossing it to the ground, and gather myself, donning a brave face before opening the door. Sure enough, my "driver" awaits and I glumly trudge behind him, once again sliding into the back seat.
The ice in the bucket is now nothing more than a tub of water, the champagne open and no doubt stale. The ambiance has vanished, nothing remaining but a chauffeured journey of shame.
Beats the walk of shame, I suppose.
My door's opened for me when we arrive at my building and I ignore his offered hand to help me out, stomping my way to the sanctity of my apartment. Locking up and feeding Lucy, I speed down the hall, ripping the suffocating dress from my used body and throwing it in the trash, stepping under the showerhead with no test of temperature first.
Once the water provides a cloak, I let the tears fall.
"Goodbye, Amelia." I replay his words, the sobs flowing harder. That "Thank you" held such finality, making it clear exactly what this was, a one night stand, nothing more.
He was done.
My legs buckle and I slide down the shower wall to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest and dropping my head. The spray of the water is a distant distraction, one my mind decides to ignore.
I'd known better, fought it, ran myself through a tumultuous gamut of emotions for a painful, degrading ending. Numb, I reach up for the bar of soap and scrub my skin until it's raw.
Unable to feel even remotely clean, I climb out, pull on the most modest sleepwear I own and fall into bed, restless yet exhausted.
Every move, roll, shift I make is a painful reminder, the twinges in my muscles recalling the battering they'd just endured.
I can't help but check my phone, unsure if it's from a habit I've acquired recently or a glimmer of hope I've yet time to shed. One look kills that optimism, the screen blank. Not even a "did you made it home safely" text.
It's official, I know nothing about men.
The next day I awake like a machine, re-programmed and solely focused on doing anything to keep my mind from racing back to him. Between preparing a five-star breakfast which included squeezing my own juice by hand, then happily chatting while enjoying it with Mr. Abbott, who I actually invited over, I knew I was in a bad way.
No matter how many war stories he told, my thoughts traveled to Elliott. The moment the final bite of toast entered Mr. Abbott's mouth I was ushering him out, throwing around a pitiful excuse about being late to meet a friend.
Total lie, but I did leave the building to make it look convincing enough. Not for a lunch date with girlfriends, but to hit the gym. Something I never do, despite my membership.
After an hour of sweating my ass off battling the elliptical, attention trained on each of the hot guys lifting across the room, I feel nothing.
Gorgeous bodies, charming smiles, and most importantly, seemingly normal, yet not even a flicker of interest sparks. They weren't him.
Shit! I hop off the machine in mid-motion, ignoring the stares now cast my way as I bustle to the locker room, ready for a shower, not even needing a cold one after all the testosterone in that room. What's wrong with me?
Why am I so affected by a guy who clearly used me? I need help. Serious therapy, which if I remember correctly, is conveniently covered by my insurance plan. Maybe I'll give it a try if this irrational mood continues.
After my shower, it's barely past lunchtime and I'm far from ready to return home, so I do the unthinkable, driving straight to the bookstore I've been avoiding. It's disturbing, but I'm almost hoping to run into Reid. He'll get my thoughts off Elliott.
I'd rather be terrified of a man standing in front of me than moping over an asshole living in the shadows.
Unfortunately, luck once again proves not on my side. The clerk's a perky coed who's as pretty as she is sweet. Oh, and did I mention she's one of those enthusiastic people who likes to flaunt giant rings on their fingers, gushing about finding the perfect man?
Yeah, where's creepy ass Reid when I need him?
I bypass the romance section and the mystery rows with a sarcastic laugh—I have enough of that in my life—detouring straight for biographies. I snatch Elizabeth Taylor's and Natalie Wood's then scurry to the register.
What can I say, misery loves company.
Monday at work, I'm on edge throughout the entire day, avoiding my mail cubby like the plague. Elliott hasn't bothered to message, so I assume he won't feel compelled to leave a note either and by the end of the day when I'm forced to gather my mail, I'm proven correct. There's nothing but usual office work.
My hand clutches my chest, tears welling from the stab. Head down, I hurry back to my desk, drop the mail, and rush to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
It's over.
He never promised me anything, never hinted we were forming a relationship. Hell, if I really thought about it, all the signs were loud and clear about what he wanted, I was just too foolish to see them. So why does it hurt?
I shake my head, staring at myself in the mirror. I'm a scalding hot mess. He'd dangled exactly what I wanted, no, needed, right in front of me and the moment I latched on, he stole it away.
Is it fake, the connection I felt? I could've sworn he felt it too, but then again, I don't even know the man. Dabbing at the ridiculous tears, I bury the humiliated disappointment over the entire fiasco deep in my soul and walk out with my head held high, determined to resurrect a pre-Elliott version of myself immediately.
The week carries on like normal, normal meaning before stalker messages. By Wednesday I've convinced myself I'm completely over it, smiling at my coworkers and even happy to listen to Mabry gush over lunch at how incredible FedEx is in and out of bed.
Good for her.
At the end of the day, I lock up and ride an empty elevator down to the parking garage, eager to get home to Lucy and finish The Walking Dead marathon I recorded the previous night. Blood and guts had a way of cheering me up lately. I'm thinking it's the whole "life could be a whole lot worse" theory.
The lot is dark, dim flood lights strategically placed, but of course my car is parked way across the garage in the farthest, darkest corner. That's what happens when you're running late, crap parking.
I click the lock button on my keychain and watch my headlights flash before something strong grabs me from behind, wrapping around my waist. I open my mouth to scream but it's too late, a punishing hand covers it.
My purse drops along with my keys as my hands flail about, unable to land a shot at my assailant, who now has me restrained. I scream into his hand, biting and thrashing, tears brimming in my eyes while I'm pushed forward, about to smack against the cement wall.
I close my eyes, bracing myself for the impact, but I'm stopped short. The weight of my attacker doesn't move, but his grip loosens.
"Shhhh, you're safe."
Oh God, I know that voice. I know that scent.
My body slackens under him, although still feeling far from safe.
"I just needed to see you," Elliott confesses, voice disturbingly low yet sincere. "Stop fighting me, I won't hurt you. I swear it."
Those words, for some unfathomable reason, I believe.
The need for a therapy appointment is abundantly reaffirmed.
His hand slides from my mouth, down my jaw, around my nape. I don't scream, nearly breathless. He gathers my loose hair, releasing it over the front of my shoulder to expose my bare neck to him.
"Forgive me, Beauty." His voice is near unrecognizable now, almost vulnerable.
I feel his erection bu
lging against my ass and I do nothing but stand motionless, attempting to process what's happening.
"Open for me." His knee nudges my legs apart and every internal alarm my body possesses rings loud, Fight Back! Yet I don't.
His mouth grazes the back of my neck, sensual and almost tender, nothing but a lie. This man isn't capable of tenderness. He just wants to fuck me.
And with one thrust of his hips, circling them against my backside, I want the same thing. All my anger over his erratic, purely carnal behavior and motives dissolves into a pool of realization. I'm mimicking it.
"Tell me to stop," he nearly demands. His hands trail down the sides of my stomach, both halting at the waistband of my skirt. His thumbs dip lower, teasing and cruel. "Tell me!"
I moan, arching back, offering myself. The movement affords him better access to slide a hand down into my panties, his fingers brushing my throbbing center.
"You deserve better." His tongue swirls along the shell of my ear. "Make me walk away. Say the word. Say it."
The safety of "stop" grates up my throat, lingering on my tongue, tasting foul and terribly wrong.
I can't say it. I don't want to.
"Make me stop, Amelia. Tell me I'm a heartless bastard that sickens you!" The coarseness of his desperation only fuels my arousal. "Say it! Now, Amelia!"
"No!" God help me, I want him like a drug that I'm positive will kill me but is too sweet to kick.
His hand dives back into my panties, thumb insistent and beautiful, lavishing my clit.
"More," I plead, bucking back against his hand.
His finger slips inside me, stretching the drenched but tightly grasping space as he slides in another. I keep my head forward, resting against the roughness of the cold wall. I don't want to see him. I want his body, fast and hard, and then I want him to disappear, exactly what I know he wants as well.
Sex.
His fingers rip away as my skirt is hiked up over my hips and my panties are torn at the side, falling down my legs. I hear his belt opening, the rush of his zipper, and then I feel it, the hard cock that fills my dreams.
He tugs my hips back, places a steady hand on the small of my back, and presses down, shooting my ass out in submission. My lips tremble with anticipation.
It's a shameless whimper of want that I release when he kicks my feet further apart.
"Tell me you need this as much as I do," he seethes.
I can't lie to him, not with his cock stroking between the crack of my ass. I may regret it tomorrow, but right now I want nothing else but this, him, us… I'll get over him after this final round, I tell myself. Just one more time.
I feel the tip of his cock poke at my entrance.
"Amelia." He needn't say anything more.
"Yes," I whisper and he's driving into me, rough and severe, precisely what I need, how I need it. A reminder this isn't romance, it's fucking and it's incredible.
He pulls out, fingers digging into my hips, then thrusts back in over and over. My palms dig into the wall, bracing me from being shoved through it with his overpowering strength.
I move my body in sync with the force of his, fucking him back, giving as hard as I get. He reaches up to capture my wrist and guides it down the front of my body, taking my fingers and placing them over my clit.
"Touch yourself. Let everything go but the pleasure." His fingers weave through mine as we caress my clit as one. I cry out from the dual sensations, my touches tiny and feminine, his callous and menacing-opposing perfection.
It's overwhelming, the responsiveness of my body, more than I can handle or possibly control. I buck back, head spinning and pussy fisting around his cock as I climax over him.
He doesn't stop the pounding he gives me, his breath tickling my ear as he thrusts harder.
"I need more. Give me another, Beauty."
I'm still spiraling from the first orgasm when his hand wraps around my front, sneaking under my blouse and the thin lace of my bra, between my breasts. With a snap of his wrist, it's ripped apart, my breasts free now, willing victims that he relentlessly tortures with his skillful fingers until I'm quivering around him, ready to explode yet again.
"Not yet," he husks, slamming into me. His free hand digs further into my hip, claiming a stronghold.
My palms are flat against the wall again and I stiffen my arms out straight, as prepared to bear his brunt as they can be, more than ready for my body to shatter into pieces at the impact he continues to enforce. He pulls out shouting my name, his hot cum sputtering across my quivering back, covering the blouse I'd nearly forgot I still wore.
My arms give out, body falling forward as that impending orgasm cuts through me at the sound of him so wholly satisfied by what my body so willingly gave.
"Thank you," I hear him say, this time with a hint of sorrow.
I slam my eyes shut. I knew what this was, so I feel nothing but anger at myself for the hurt that rips through me when I sense him move away, his steps growing fainter the further he retreats into the distance.
Chapter 17
I'm emotionally numb, disoriented into a completely frozen state.
Thoroughly fucked, deliciously sore and eventually becoming cognizant of the fact that I'm still just standing around, in my employers parking garage, with semen sprayed all over my blouse; I regress from taboo euphoria back into myself.
Processing the scene, the image it paints hijacks my brain enough to power it back up and set me moving. I frantically shove my skirt back in place, ignoring my mangled bra hanging by a thread for dear life. With my panicked breathing spiraling out of control, I snatch my tattered panties from the ground and rush toward my car.
Security cameras! Oh God, only now realizing what a peep show they'd recorded, the sting of bile threatening in my chest sends me propelling faster. My bare ass in all its glory had been in full view after Elliott walked away, and unquantifiable times before that.
I can't get to my car fast enough, scooping up my purse and keys from the ground on the way, then throw myself inside. I stomp on the gas the second the engine purrs to life, flooring it out of there at high speed and the entire way home.
Once in the safety of my apartment I tear off the blouse, or more so peel it from my skin, then shove it deep to the bottom of the trash can. My bra and panties, totally ruined in the most deviant yet erotic way possible, follow it.
On trembling legs I amble to the bathroom, tossing my skirt on the floor, and jump into the shower- the one sanctuary I have after each time he discards me.
I emerge a little while later, body expunged of the encounter, mind anything but. The longer I replay the events in my head, going over each movement and every touch again and again, the more it confirms what I already knew, I did this to myself.
My temples pound, gut aches and self-esteem all but disappears as I take full responsibility for what happened tonight.
Am I really so desperate for a man's affection that I've allowed this fiasco to continue? I should have stopped him. Told him to leave. Anything other than nearly demanding him to fuck me. Which he did and I loved every second of it!
Unable to process how erratic, scandalous and often demeaning everything is, I throw myself onto the sofa and bury my head in the tiny pillow. I'm lost, painfully confused and with each ticking minute passing by, I grow angrier.
If I could bitch slap myself I would, but it's not just me I'm suddenly furious with; I can't completely squash some of the rage directed at him.
I never told him to stop, but I also never asked to be basically attacked by a man my body can't seem to resist. He knew he'd win. Knew I'd cave the instant his fingers brushed across my bare skin. His double-talk "tell me to stop' had a false bottom, reverse psychology at its lascivious finest.
He got me to beg, fueling his raw, male pursuit of power.
Kicking my feet, Lucy flies off the couch as I scream into the pillow, needing to release whatever demon has crawled inside my body and turned me into this spine
less woman.
It's so unfair. Why does the first guy I genuinely like have to be so fucked up?
Sitting upright now, the pillow strewn across the room much like poor Lucy, hissing venom at me as her back bows, refusing to return anywhere near my vicinity. My call out to her only confirms I'm a mess. She turns her ass around and flees the room.
Stewing in a pit of grief, unable to focus on the TV long enough to lose myself in an episode of anything, the ceiling rumbles with my neighbor's death metal.
A few muttered curses is all I throw out to the punishing universe as I flip to my trusty DVR, ready for some destructive zombie attacks to ease the twitch starting in my eye.
I crank the sound, almost feeling smug at the onslaught of gunfire and screams that match the volume of Pantera, but somehow my neighbor adjusts and easily overpowers it.
He has a serious sound system.
The eye twitch grows worse, as does the now hammering in my head.
Screw this!
I shoot up off the couch, storming out my apartment and up to his door dressed in nothing but a white fluffy robe and grimace, not giving two shits about it. This ends tonight. I may not have control of what Elliott does, but I can damn sure handle a rowdy, inconsiderate neighbor.
Fuck you very much 4C…woman scorned has come for a piece of your ass! And not in the good way.
My fist connects with the door and as every time before, it goes unanswered.
"Too loud!" I shout, beating louder. Nothing, not a response and definitely no volume adjustments. It's all too much and something inside me snaps.
My entire body quakes. "I hate you!" I scream, mouth inches from the door. "Go jump out the fucking window!"
Instantly the music is gone, complete silence soothing my thrumming eardrums.
I'm breathless and attempting to reel in every emotion my soon-to-be-hired therapist has in her text books and is no doubt going to want to talk about. Backing away, flabbergasted that this is what I've become- an angry, spiteful woman suggesting suicide to neighbors.
I cower, completely exhausted and unable to form a coherent positive thought.
