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“Of course not. I wouldn’t want her to be in this position.”
I laughed. “Nicely phrased.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Leaning forward, I grabbed her chin and forced her to look at me. “It’s supposed to mean that you can fight this all you fucking want, but deep down, you’re glad you’re here. Your little cunt is probably sopping wet, and it’s dying for a taste of my dick. So, simmer down. We’re almost at my apartment.”
And with that, I dipped my chin, and opening my mouth, raked my teeth down her bottom lip before I bit her. Hard enough to make her moan.
***
Aoife
The stingof pain should have had me rearing back.
It didn’t.
It felt. . . .
I almost shuddered.
Good.
It had felt good.
The way he’d done it. So fucking cocky, so fucking sure of himself, and who could blame him? He’d taken what he wanted, and I hadn’t pulled away because he was right. My pussywaswet, and even though this was all kinds of wrong, I did want to feel him there. To have his cock push inside me.
Jesus, this was way too early for Stockholm syndrome, right?
I mean, this was . . . what was it?
It couldn’t be that I was so horny and desperate for male attention that I was willingly allowing this to happen, was it?
Fuck. How pathetic was I if that was true? And yet, I didn’t feel desperate for anything other than more of that small taste Finn had given me.
As a little girl, I’d watched Finn. It had been back in the day when his old man had been around and Fiona had lived with her husband and son. He’d beaten her up something rotten. Barely a week went by when Fiona, my mom’s friend, didn’t appear with some badly made-up bruise on her face.
I was young, only two, but old enough to know something wasn’t right. I’d even asked my mom about it, wanting to understand why someone would do that to another person.
I couldn’t remember what my mother had said, but I could remember how sad she’d been.
For all his faults, my dipshit stepfather had never beaten her, he’d just taken all her tips for himself and spent every night getting drunk.
Well, Finn’s dad had been the same, except where mine passed out on the decrepit La-Z-Boy in front of the TV, Gerry had taken out his drunk out on Fiona.
And eventually, Finn.
Even as a boy, in the photos Fiona kept of him, Finn had been beautiful.
I could see him now, deep in my mind’s eye. His hair had been as coal dark then as it was now, and not even a hint of silver or gray marred the noir perfection. His jaw and nose had grown, obviously, but they were just as obstinate as I remembered. Fiona had always said Finn was hardheaded.
When I was little, I hadn’t had a crush on him—I’d been a toddler, for God’s sake—but I’d been in awe of him. In awe of the big boy who’d been all arms and legs, just waiting for his growth spurt. Sadly, when that had happened, he’d disappeared.
As had his father.
Overnight, Fiona had gone from having a full house to an empty nest, and my mom had comforted her over the loss of her boy.
To my young self, I’d thought he’d died.
