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“Oh…God,” she moans.
She arches her back, trying to deepen our connection as I pick up speed, feeling the way she responds to me as she begins to come undone.
What I’m about to do might kill me, but I need her to beg. I need her to submit to me. I need her to break. That’s when I’ll own this pussy, her body, and a part of her mind.
I stop, pulling out of her completely.
“No…don’t stop.”
“Beg me for it like the good little slut I know you are.”
Silence and no movement.
Nudging my cock to her entrance, I circle the tip against her clit, and she nearly loses her mind.
Zoe squeals. “Okay, okay…please, sir.”
“Please sir, what?”
“Fuck me,” she whispers.
I start to slowly thrust inside her once more, but not in the way she needs me. Her soft whimpers tickle my ears as I wait for her to open up more.
“Please,” she repeats.
Reaching over, I pinch her nipple tightly as the deep, primal need in me takes over. I begin thrusting inside her, hard and fast, as my balls slap against her clit. Palming the side of her head, I press her cheek to the floor as we fuck with a type of hunger I’ve only ever dreamt about. A new desire takes hold of me, seeing Zoe like this, submitting to me and loving every second of it.
Taking exactly what I want, in the way I want it. In the way I know she’s loving.
Over and over again.
Marking her.
Making her mine forever.
PART THREE: NEW YORK CITY
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 17
ZOE
The elevator doors ding open, and I plaster on a fake smile while my anxiety has me wanting to press the ground button and turn back around.
What must they think of me? Have the rumors spread here too? What if the assholes in Boston told everyone I’m the new whore…discarded and sent here out of pity?
What am I doing here?
I don’t know. You should just go back to bed. This is going to end terribly for you. You’re going to be humiliated. Your new boss will know you’re a scumbag; she’ll think you’re only here because you opened your legs. No one will like you.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
I shut my eyes tightly, squeezing out any remaining space for tears. Today, I refuse to cry. There's no way in hell. It's just my anxiety, always whispering the worst possible outcomes and painting dreadful pictures in my mind, urging me to flee. But I won't succumb to its tricks. The scenarios that haunt me are never as terrible as they seem, and often, I come out of them feeling alright. Yet, without fail, the anxious thoughts persist, sometimes louder than others. At least my mental illness is consistent, always there for me.
What a joke.
Taking a deep breath through my mouth, I muster the forced smile back onto my face.
