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Halting a sob in its tracks, I twist my head and bite down on the pillow next to me. “Fuck, you’re so wet, Romashka. I can feel your clit throbbing against my shaft. Will you come for me? Will you scream as I make you come?”
I shake my head violently even though the burning between my thighs melts into something else. Something harder to detach myself from. Friction crackles between his pelvic bone and my clit, and I can’t help the way I arch my back to increase the pressure. “Good girl.” He cackles against the shell of my ear. His hard body flattens against mine, deepening his strokes. When he lets go of my wrists to wind his hand into my hair, I don’t fight him. I don’t slap his face or lunge for his throat.
I sink my nails into his back and draw him closer.
He rips the pillow from my teeth and grabs my jaw, pressing his nose against mine. “Look at me when I break you,” he commands, quickening his long, hard strokes. Starbursts of pleasure fight their way around their body, my soul cracking under every unwanted firework. “I want to look into your eyes and feel your scream on my face when I shatter you.”
My body tightens, the muscles in my thighs clenching as I fight against the tsunami of pleasure rolling through me. “No,” I whimper before clamping back down on my bottom lip.
“Don’t fight it, sweetheart. You’re only delaying the inevitable.” The Devil’s eyes darken to match his tone. “Now, come.”
I do. Violently. Unwillingly. It rolls through my core like an avalanche, shaking all of the foundations that keep me strong and silent. It rips up through my chest and out through my mouth.
I scream until my throat burns. I scream until the Devil’s laughter sounds like it’s in a different dimension.
I scream until I wake myself up.
I bolt upright in bed, dripping in sweat and tangled within the sheets. The first sun of the season pours through the gaps in the blinds, flooding the room with a soft amber glow.
It was a dream.
My heart beats against my rib cage, threatening to escape. I sink back against the damp pillows for a moment, catching my breath. How can a dream feel so real? I know I’m awake this time because as soon as I shift my weight, my ass cheeks sting.
The memory adds to the wetness between my thighs. Biting my lip, I dip my hand down there and slide my fingers between my folds, stopping at my clit. It’s swollen and sensitive, and the realization dawns on me like a new day.
My dream about being raped by the Devil brought me to orgasm?
With a defiant groan, I haul myself out of bed and stagger to the en suite bathroom, which Aisling must have opened for me.
I made a vow to myself to keep busy today. I can’t sit around and do nothing because the demons in my brain talk too loud.
Under the strong jets of water, I attempt to wash all of my sick thoughts down the drain, along with my sweat and stickiness. I’m mindful of the sensitive skin on my ass as I pull on a pair of black sweats, then I drag a brush through my hair and pad down the hall.
After my failed assassination attempt last night, I’m nervous about what I’ll find. I’m half expecting padded walls, ten guards, and a straitjacket waiting for me, but to my surprise, everything looks the same. I pause in the entryway, eyes narrowing as they sweep over the space. It’s as silent as it always is. But the lack of noise feels even more unsettling today.
Walking into the kitchen area, I peek inside drawers and tug open cupboards. The same plastic cutlery and cups greet me. I rack my brain to understand what game the Devil is playing when it suddenly dawns on me.
He hasn’t taken anything else from me because he believes I won’t do it again.
He believes his punishment was enough.
I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to ignore the heat in my cheeks.
My eyes land on the half-finished coffee cup in the sink. That, and the ghost of his aftershave lingering in the air, tells me he’s come and gone already. Something that resembles disappointment prickles under my breastbone, and I flush it out of my system immediately.
Yeah, today, of all days, I need a distraction. I pour a cup of water and switch on the television mounted to the wall, then flick through the channels until I find a cooking show. It’s hosted by a plump blond woman, the type you wouldn’t dare ask her age. She’s baking. Blueberry muffins, by the looks of things. Great, because I feel like fewer sharp objects are involved in baking than in cooking, so I might actually be able to pull this off.
I busy myself by darting around the pantry, tugging out ingredients as the chirpy woman on the screen calls them out. I’m pouring out a gloopy, lumpy mixture the color of hangover sick, wondering what kind of drugs this woman is snorting to bake so quickly when I hear the elevator ding.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, and my heart stutters. I grip the rubber spatula as ideas of how to use it tumble around my head.
Footsteps. Lighter ones than I’d expected. Then—
“You should know that I take judo classes every Thursday, and if you consider attacking me, I’ll have no choice but to break your arm.”
I whip round to see a petite brunette standing behind the couch, arms crossed and eyes not matching the threat on her lips.
Aisling.
