Page 158 of Trailer Trash

“Don’t stop, Killy,” he taunts, mimicking me once more, cruel and sinister.

I sit back into the seat, too shook for words.

My house — no my life — is in flames.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

I sob.

43

Harlow

The condo is quiet. Killian empties his pockets onto the dresser, then takes off his shirt, revealing the sculpted body that lingers in my fantasies despite my efforts to hate him.

“I don’t usually stay here, but I want you to be comfortable,” he says.

I stare from across the room, holding myself.

“What do you need, baby?” he asks.

“For what?”

“For bed. I set out a new toothbrush. I’ll buy you new clothes tomorrow.”

“I’m not getting into bed with you.”

His eyes narrow, dark and menacing. “Yes, you are.”

“Killian, you burned down my house.”

“Tin box.”

“No! My life.”

He bites down, making his jaw muscles flex.

I sprint for the door, but he moves faster, and his arm hooks around my waist, stopping me. I fight him, thrashing to escape.

“You called me a rapist. How can you say that?”

“Because you raped me!” My chest heaves. I curl forward, but I can’t break free from his arms. “At the mansion, and while I slept. Did you drug me? How many times did you do that? I never felt it.”

“Once. Brax hooked me up with ketamine. I slipped it into your water bottle. I was gentle. I didn’t finish inside you. I cleaned your pussy after.”

“Oh my God!” I balk. “You are a rapist.”

He jerks me upright and his lips press against the back of my neck. He murmurs against my skin. “Don’t say that. It kills me when you do.”

Silence.

Long and insufferable.

The tension thickens.

“Harlow, I, I want more.”