Page 72 of Beautiful Scars

She just moans and gives a pathetic little struggle with her tiny little hands. She doesn’t even try to close her legs. Because she knows it’s already mine. Has been since the day she wandered into my nightclub.

I run my finger along her opening, stopping when I reach her clit. She’s already wet. Of course she is. I think she has been since yesterday afternoon when I pulled this daft shirt up and cracked my hand down across her bare backside.

When she lifts her head and tries to kiss me, I lean back, my finger still tracing circles around her. She lets out a frustrated sigh and then flops her head down. Her second attempt is more determined, so I let her get just close enough that our lips are brushing before I pull back again.

Her hips buck.

“I hate you,” she says, eyes fierce but still needy.

I laugh at her again. Adorable. My finger switches to a thumb while that one makes a dive for her entrance. She lets out a gasp as I push myself inside her, but she doesn’t close her legs.

My hands do nothing. Still as fucking statues.

Her stare only intensifies.

“Make yourself come, brat,” I tell her.

Her mouth drops open before recovering into a pout. I love it. Fucking love that look on her face.

“You’re joking.”

I shake my head slowly. “I can stay here all day, princess. And all night.”

Her lips are still pouty but her eyes are smiling. “So can I.”

I pull the shirt to the side with my teeth and latch onto her nipple. Her hips try to buck but I keep my hand locked in place. Both hands. She’s strung out under me like the string of a bow, and I want to see how far I can pull her before she snaps.

Because when she does, I’ll do exactly what I told her I would do. I’ll break her apart, again and again. And I’ll fit all the little pieces of her back together exactly as I want them.

My tongue swirls around her nipple, then bites. Swirls, bites. She goes from arching her back and giving me more of her, to bucking her hips and trying to scramble away. It’s a game I could play all night long, but she’s burning up. Moaning. Crying out.

“Just tell me what you need,” I tease her, my mouth buried between her tits.

She mutters something indecipherable and I chuckle. Cruelly. Then I slide another finger inside her, curving my knuckles and making her buck again. “Say it,” I demand, “And I’ll give it to you.”

She bites down on her lip, her head rolling on the mattress. “I want you to take what you want.” It’s so quiet it’s barely a whisper.

“Excuse me? You’ll have to repeat that. And remember your manners.”

She shoots me a look that’s supposed to be icy, but it’s not. Not at all. “Take what you want. Please.”

My hand slides from her pussy. I lean back, releasing her arms. I want her to fight me. I think she wants to fight me, so I’ll at least give her the opportunity. My fingers grip around the shirt she’s wearing and I rip it open.

The buttons pop off one by one.

Five of them.

One, two, three, four, five.

I’m on the last fucking button when she peaches me, but it’s already too late.

Peaches? Why is she peaching me?

Then it all becomes clear as my eyes move down her body. Her perfect little tits. Dark pink nipples. Flat, smooth stomach… but only until just below her belly button.

At the lowest part of her belly sits a long, horizontal scar. It’s not raw. It’s not angry looking, like someone attempted to disembowel her last month. I know how scars age all too well. It’s been there a while.

Is she? Was she?

I blink a few times. Come on, Kill, it doesn’t take a surgeon to work out what that is.

There are a thousand thoughts running through my mind in that second. All of them questions, none of them answers. How? When? Fuckinghow?

Where?

Is there a child in her house wondering where the fuck their mum is? My throat tightens at the thought. At the familiarity. At how much that hurts. Did I cause that?

That feeling returns. The one that feels like I have a grenade in my arms and someone just pulled out the pin.

Except this time, the person who pulled the pin out is quite clearly me.