Page 113 of No Greater Oblivion

I can’t. If I do, what if the light hits us? What if people are watching?

What if I like it?

I clench my jaw and give a frantic shake of the head.

“Why not? I’m watching.” He adds a second finger and picks up the pace. This time he moves with purpose, fingers curving inside me each time he thrusts upward and my back arches against him, desperate for more. “I want them to see what you look like when you come for me. The hazy, far-off look in your eyes, the way your lips part just slightly as a little gasp leaves your lips.”

Maybe it’s the drink I had earlier, leftover anxiety from this evening, or a combination of the two but I find myself searching for—and hoping to find—someone looking up at us. Using just his fingers, Alejandro brings me to the cusp of climax and presses the palm of his hand against my aching clit, ensuring enough pressure to heighten the pleasure. His hand pumps in and out, in and out, picking up speed and intensity and the sharp change in pace and tempo sends me barreling toward release with a scream on my lips.

And someone does look up.

A stranger, undoubtedly, who won’t recognize us from this far up but knows what we’re doing because one of the strobe lights flashes through the glass at that exact moment, illuminating us from the collarbone down. They can see his hand between my legs, one arm around my waist, while I brace myself against the glass. Although fleeting, the moment is enough to unleash an unspoken desire within me. I don’t have much time to ruminate on it as Alejandro picks me up and throws me over the couch armrest.

“Brace yourself.” It’s the only warning I receive before he sheathes himself inside me.

Alejandro thrusts down to the hilt, sliding home without resistance. Fuck, he feels so good. In this position, with him behind and me with my face plastered against the couch cushions, he’s able to hit the place inside me that sends me to another dimension. There’s nothing romantic or tender about the way he ruts into me and each vicious plunge forces a strangled cry from my throat. I try to brace myself against something because aside from being deep, his movements are forceful, and I keep sliding further away from him on the couch. The armrest isn’t useful for much except lifting my hips at a desirable angle so I grab the back of the couch with one hand and grip the bottom with the other in order to stay in place.

He pulls out to the tip, rams into me, and just as quickly pulls out again. It stings when he thrusts and reaches too deep but instead of pulling away, I lift my hips, begging for more.

Alejandro leans forward and covers my back with his body. I feel his lips move against my ear as he whispers, harsh and rugged, “Does he touch you the way I do?”

I shake my head. “No,” I answer. “No one ever has.”

“If another man touches you after this, he’s dead. Do you understand?” His hand moves over my shoulder and wraps around my neck from behind. He pushes my head back and forces me to meet his gaze as he pistons into me from behind. “No one, Dahlia. Because I’ll kill him and then us.”

Unlike before where his threats were made in fits of jealousy and rage, I know he means it this time. The look he gives me, one of fierce devotion and possession, is warning enough but even if it wasn’t, I had done as he asked me to anyway.

Because after him, there isn’t anyone else.

“Kiss me,” I beg. “Please⁠—”

I barely get the word out before his lips are crushing mine. It’s wet and hot and messy and our tongues tangle together as we fight for dominance. Pressure builds inside me and he tightens his grip around my throat as he fucks me from behind while I lower a hand to touch myself. With the hand not around my throat, he touches the sensitive place between my thighs and covers my fingers with his own. Instead of following my own strokes he guides me up and down the length of my sex as if to teach me how to do it. He shows me how to touch the way he does, guiding his fingers in the same motions he’d used to make me come against the glass window while someone on the dancefloor below watched.

It all becomes too much.

I orgasm long and hard and he follows soon after, spilling inside me with a harsh grunt. He buries his face in the crook of my neck and smothers the sound, almost as if he doesn’t want me to hear. Seconds bleed into minutes and it takes longer than usual for us to catch our breath.

It was different this time. I think we both feel it.

I hate how guilty I feel every time I give myself over to him. I’ve betrayed Rian when he’s been nothing but good to me, given in to this toxic dynamic, and blown up the world around me in the process. What am I even doing anymore? What’s the point in trying to push him away when I let him do this to me? And why am I still pushing him away?

Alejandro stands and puts himself to rights. I sit up on the couch and do my best to make myself presentable, but his silence irks me. It reminds me of all the times he’d come home late, reach for me in the night, and after doing what he wanted with my body, returned to the fortress of his thoughts while I remained out in the cold.

“What?” I can’t help the bitterness that leaks into my voice. “No sweet nothings and gentle kisses?”

His eyes are surprisingly empty when they meet mine. “If you wanted gentle, you should’ve fucked Rian.”

“Rian doesn’t⁠—”

Alejandro sighs. Deeply. “Shut up.”

He says it without malice or bite, only an acute exhaustion that seeps into the air around us. No use in lying to ourselves or each other because the truth continues to prevail.

I hate him. I love him. I can’t escape him.

The house is dark and quiet when I arrive. Doña Ana is usually asleep at this time but I’m surprised Lyss isn’t around as she usually stays up later than the rest of us.

I hang up my coat and kick off my shoes. Exhaustion weighs heavily on me and I barely make it upstairs to my bedroom before collapsing. I cry myself to sleep and watch the hours tick by on the clock across the room. Around four, I manage to drag myself out of bed and sit under the shower for another hour. By the time I pull a comb through my knotted hair and get dressed, it’s almost six and a knock on my bedroom door almost sends me out of my skin.