I’m not holding onto the stairs anymore, but to his back, my nails dragging against his flesh, a trace of blood marking his inked skin, his tattoos shifting beneath my fingertips. “Now show me how much you want me, how much wetter this little cunt can get for me.” His hand slips between us, and he pinches my clit. The sensation spreads like wild fire inside my body, and I instantly hear the wet sound his cock makes as he drives inside of me, slammingmy sensitive nub against his pelvis and turning that shock into an echo.
An echo that leaves from my lips in a hum for long seconds, maybe even minutes. I can’t breathe. I can’t function. I can only feel, and it’s too fucking much.
“Tell me,” he presses with more anger. “How could you possibly dare to come after me when you’re such a slut for my cock?”
I can tell he’s growing angrier, but I just can’t speak. I can only hum like a fucking helpless bee as his fingers start rubbing my clit.
Fucking hell.
“Answer me!!!” he demands with a kind of madness I’ve never heard before. He’s hurt, but that’s only because he doesn’t know the whole story.
Maybe he deserves to be hurt. And I deserve to be hurt by him.
I don’t answer him. Answering him would mean I’d put a stop to all of this, and my damn slut of a cunt won’t let me.
“Answer,” he demands again, his hand wrapping around my throat. The pressure too much, almost enough to knock me unconscious. Then again, his hand on my clit never stops. Neither do his thrusts.
Still no answer, but if I’m going to die here tonight, I want to come on his cock before that happens, and I have only seconds to do so.
I can’t breathe, and that intensifies pretty much everything else. I want to moan, but I’m afraid I’d be so loud I’d shake down the walls, so I bite my lip. I don’t even focus on searching for air. I just bite down hard, until I know they’re bruised, as something violent, perfect rips through my body.
I clamp around his cock so tightly that it erases every single one of my thoughts. I come begging and praying and calling out his name until I can’t breathe—or even talk. Until I can only murmur “Ares… Ares” over and over again.
I know he’s shaken by it, because the grip on my throat loosens, but not the movement on my sensitive skin. The feeling so strong it should be forbidden, turning everything else into a haze. It’s just pleasure—defined and undefined, raw, dirty pleasure. I want him to stop and go on, I don’t want his hand to leave me ever again, but I can’t have it there a second longer. If he keeps this up, I might go mental.
His groans mingle with my pulse, the violent contractions of my pussy growing infernal as he drives me to orgasm after orgasm, until my breath becomes still,then turns erratic. So does my mind. I can’t bring myself to ask him to stop, but I can’t take any more either. My damn cunt purrs for him like a V8, while I’m breathless, knowing he won’t stop and there’s not much longer before I break. That’s when another orgasm hits me, and my ears ring like a bomb just went off, my eyes heavy, my limbs heavier. It’s then that I want to calm his anger, not because I can’t handle him anymore, but because he’s poisoning himself with it, and against everything I ever stood for, I bring my hands around his neck, gently lifting his head from my chest, and kiss him. It’s not slow, like in the movies. It’s violent like him, like me, like everything around us. But it’s pure. Pure love. Pure hate. Pure desire. Fucking pure.
His rhythm doesn’t subside, but his anger does. I can feel it. I can feel him closer than ever before, and yet farther away.
As badly as I wish to shut out the pain that’s sneaking into my heart right now, the only thing I can do is embrace it, along with everything else. I can feel his nostrils flare with rage as he drives deeper, my back hitting the stairs more than a couple of times, until he lifts me completely and presses me against the wall, our lips still together. I can’t tell if it’s been a few minutes or inexplicably longer, but I come again, and by now I’m fully leaning against him just to exist.
Just when I know I can’t take another spasm, I feel his hot release shooting deep inside me.
I don’t know what to do now. Hell, I don’t even know how to walk anymore. I definitely have no idea how I’m gonna get down from between the wall and him, especially since my leg hurts like fucking hell. I just wanna curl up on the floor and sleep, then wake up and start all over again. Yeah, I’m that fucked up, eventhough I know the fantasy has to end somewhere, and real life has to replace it.
Still holding me against the wall with one hand, Ares zips up, then, as if everything that happened earlier cost him no effort, he scoops a hand beneath my legs and lifts me in his arms.
I’m not gonna thank him, but I probably should, because I was pretty embarrassed at the thought of having to crawl wherever the hell I was going.
He starts walking, and I immediately realize it’s not in the direction I would’ve liked. He starts walking back to the room where I spent the last two weeks. The room with one fucking bed, where he obviously doesn’t have room to spend the night.
Even if I might be resigned to the idea that we won’t share a bed—it’s not something I’d allow myself to want anyway—I’m not resigned to having to spend another two weeks in here before seeing him or another person except that damn nurse.
I’m too tired to fight him on it now, though. But not too tired to say something that will sting just as much as me being locked up in here. “This won’t ever happen again,” I mutter, and for some fucking dumb reason, my lips are trembling as I say it. I don’t want him to sense weakness, but at this point, I’m having a pretty hard time hiding it.
“Funny—you didn’t think that a few minutes ago,” he murmurs, voice rough, “when I was deep inside you. But you’re right. It won’t happen again. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve my mercy, my touch, or my—” He stops himself abruptly, a quiet hiss slipping through his teeth.
The fire in my veins is rising fast, and I can’t accept this coming from him. “I…. I don’t deserve… but what does a killer deserve, Ares? What does the monster who killed the only man I ever loved deserve?” My words are bitter, filled with anger, and meant to strike where it hurts. It’s not in his feelings for me—because I suspect he has none. It’s in pride. And by the shift on his face, my words hit their target.
For some reason, I expect him to recover the next second, brush it off like nothing happened, then regain his composure. Instead I see something different rising on his face. It’s not anger—it’s disappointment. “Is this what it's all about? Me killing your boyfriend? Is that why you came after me? Why you jumped into my bed? Why you let me into the darkest part of your life?”
My breath stalls for a second. I know that letting him in on what happened at the asylum had nothing to do with Elias and everything to do with some dormant need to belong to someone, maybe even my feelings for him. I didn’t tell him about my past to gain his trust. I did it because he unwillingly gained mine.
That makes everything else so much more painful.
Too bad my brain still can’t fully process the message: I need to get him out of my mind, not deeper into it.
“Justice for Elias is the only thing that makes sense to me anymore.” I snarl, unwilling to enter any kind of debate where I’d have to explain myself. In reality, I don’t have any explanation for what the fuck brought us here. He’s right, I was supposed to kill him, not jump into his bed, into his life, and worse, allow him into mine.
