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If it doesn’t change, we’ll always be stuck in the middle of nowhere.
I lick him one more time and relish his low groan. The sound is so masculine and rough, it tightens my stomach.
With one last lick, I take him in my mouth, all the way inside.
“Fuuuck.” His fingers thread into my hair, and my eyes close, enjoying the feel of him in my mouth.
Even though I don’t remember doing this, apparently I have a knack for it. I
don’t have to think before I lick the side of his cock. Then I suck on the crown, lapping my tongue over the tip until I taste his pre-cum.
His hips thrust forward and his dick hits the back of my throat. My gag reflex kicks in and I choke on him. Instead of pulling out, Asher keeps it right there. My eyes snap open and I place both hands on his thighs, trying to push him away.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t freaking breathe.
The look on Asher’s face is one of pure contempt. It’s like he’s planning to choke me to death.
“Did you think you could manipulate me with this?”
I shake my head frantically. The lack of air and the pressure cause tears to blur my vision.
But he’s not letting me go.
“That’s what you do best, don’t you, Reina? You think you can drag me into your web and finish me?”
I shake my head, feeling dizzy and on the verge of fainting.
He pulls back. I cough and sputter, clutching the floor for balance. Drool forms on the side of my face and my chin.
I wheeze for breath like a dying woman with one last wish, like someone who doesn’t have anything left.
He wraps my hair around his fist, yanking me up, and I stumble to my feet. I expect him to leave, but he carries me in his strong arms and lays me on the bed on my side.
“W-what?” I ask, confused. My mouth feels dry and empty without his cock.
He kicks his shorts off, tears his T-shirt over his head, and removes his shoes so he’s naked.
Fully, absolutely naked.
I stare at his defined abs and a little scar below his ribs. Such a small imperfection makes him even more perfect. The tendrils of his tattoos ripple over his right shoulder and bicep. In the middle of tendrils, there seems to be a sentence in a foreign font. Is that Arabic?
My fingers twitch, yearning to touch those tattoos and ask him what they mean, but before I can think about that, he’s on top of me.
His fingers dig into my hips as he pulls my shorts and panties down in one brutal go.
I gasp, the sensation lighting my skin on fire.
No, it’s not fire. It’s like the air is only filled with him and his presence.
After I woke up in the hospital that day, I struggled with the feeling of belonging and having something—or someone—completely belong to me.
Now, I admit to wanting Asher to be that someone. I want him to belong to me. Talk to me. Touch me.
Maybe that’s why his rejection hurts the most.
It hurts to have him hate me so much.
