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I blink several times, wondering why the hell he cares, and especially why he’s still on top of me.
“What? Why does that matter?”
“Apparently, a lot, if it’s making you hit me.”
“You hit me first.”
That was childish, but I’m regretting mentioning the dream. I refuse to admit that it was about him, and I am absolutely adamant he never finds out that he was about to fuck me in it.
“What was the dream,bella?” he asks again, his tone dropping wickedly. And just like a goddamn wizard, I’m opening my mouth to tell him exactly that.
“You know what? Whatever. When a man and a woman are attracted to each other, they have coitus. That wasaboutto take place in my dream, and you fucking ruined it. Happy? Get off me now.”
It was my intention to make it sound as unsexy as possible—a fantastic distraction technique—yet his weight seems to have only grown heavier as he leans in more.
“It was about me,” he states plainly. I open my mouth to deny it, but it feels like my lungs have been incinerated. The air between us is smoldering, and even if I did have lungs to speak of, I wouldn’t be able to breathe through the tension.
Arousal is rebuilding between my thighs, and I’m transported back to that place of needing something that I should never have had to begin with. I never should’ve touched Enzo Vitale.
“What was I doing to you?”
“N-nothing,” I stutter. “You woke me up, remember?”
“That’s another lie, Sawyer. I can smell your pussy from here. That’s not nothing.”
A whimper whittles out of my throat, despite my desperate attempts to swallow it down.
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s much easier to just spread my legs and let him have his way.
The sound of the chains begins, starting from the metal steps, up to the hallway, and down toward Sylvester’s room.
I hold my breath, waiting for Enzo to roll off me and let the sounds of a lost prisoner take over.
Except he doesn’t. Instead, he draws my wrists together, holding them in place in one hand while his other slowly trails down my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. I shiver as his fingers catch the collar of my t-shirt, brushing across my skin, then moving down again.
“What was I doing?” he asks again, quieter this time.
I have a mouth full of sand, unable to formulate a coherent thought beyond his touch.
Hours ago, he spat in my face about how much he hates me. He also swore that he wouldn’t fuck me even if I begged him to.
What good is that promise now while he plays with the edges of my shirt, as if my body is a composition where his fingers engrave each note of intention within?
He’s no better than me—throwing away his integrity for selfish needs.
“You were going to fuck me,” I tell him. “You were going to do exactly what you said you would never do again.”
He’s quiet for a beat, and part of me wishes I just kept my mouth shut and let him fuck me. Wait to remind him how much of a liar he is after he’s come inside me.
“What’s one more nightmare to live with?” he whispers.
It’s a punch to the chest, enough to bring tears to my eyes.
Normally, I’d thrash to get him off me and refuse him, but a different type of anger courses through me. If he thinks I’m a nightmare, I’ll be the worst one he’s ever had. I’ll be the one keeping him up at night for the rest of his life, waking without me there but always yearning for me.
I’ll let him have me one more time, only because he’ll regret losing me after.
“What’s one more,” I echo forlornly.
