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Hatred isn’t new for me. I’ve become an expert on hating myself as much as I hate the men I bring to justice. They actually go hand in hand. Someone with an ounce of self-preservation wouldn’t be able to do what I have in the past. It’s what makes me such a commodity for the agency.
“Looks uncomfortable,” I say, trying not to feel offended when he pulls his head back before I can plant my lips on his neck.
He doesn’t slow the truck or shove me away when I pull his zipper down. He also doesn’t help me at all to get his cock out of his jeans. There’s no lift to his hips as I struggle with the denim.
There’s no force, no begging, no threats or demands to please him.
It’s another power play. He knows I want it, that I need him to give that shit to me, and he remains in control by not doing it.
I grin, my eyes cast down as I pull him free. Words mean absolutely nothing. He can’t deny his own need. It’s already leaking from the tip of him, glossy and slick… desperate.
He still hasn’t said a word. There are no arguments for or against what I’m doing, but I know better than to assume I’m the one in the position of power right now. I know better. This man isn’t the type to relinquish any form of control.
Teasing the head with my finger, I look back up to him, but nothing has changed. He isn’t looking down at me. There’s no challenge in his eyes. It’s as if I’m not touching him at all.
My hatred for him grows once again.
He’ll take what I have to offer and remain stoic the entire time. I’m not foolish enough to believe he’d grunt with pleasure and beg for more if I take him to the edge before backing off, but if I get him close enough, he may take charge and dominate me the way I need. Who cares if he’s pissed when it happens? That’s when I get the most relief from this constant itch under my skin.
Unclipping my seatbelt, I lean forward, my lips mere inches from the tip of him. He grows more in my hand as I sweep my tongue over the head, telling myself that I hate the taste of him, but knowing that I’m lying to myself. I circle my tongue, tracing the plush head before mouthing it.
Jesus, I despise him for how slick I am right now, hating myself more than I hate him for not begging me to strip naked and ride his cock while he drives around town.
I don’t do shit like that. I don’t willingly do anything sexual. It isn’t what gets me off, and it doesn’t feed the demons inside of me that keep me in a constant state of hunger for pain and humiliation.
That’s what makes this man so fucking dangerous to me.
A smarter woman would’ve woken up and left town after what happened last night. My stupid ass sought him out, taunted him… wanted more from him.
Just as I open my mouth to take him deeper, his hand fists my hair.
I don’t have a second to prepare before he uses much more force than necessary to shove me down onto his cock.
If I could manage a smile with a cock in my throat, I’d have one spread from ear to ear on my face.
Chapter 11
Angel
This bitch.
This bitch with her perfect fucking mouth, her perfect fucking lips.
Goddamn her and the way her throat opens to take me.
I tangle my fingers deeper in her hair, unconcerned about the gasps and gurgles.
I don’t give a shit about the choking and coughing.
I don’t pay attention to the tears leaking from her eyes or the redness in her cheeks.
She put herself in this fucking situation.
I know her game.
And fuck her twice for making me give in to it.
She wants this, the abuse, the power and control I have over her.
