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“Your fault,” I remind her when she struggles enough that I have to re-tighten my grip on her hair.
If she doesn’t have a headache already, she will by the time I’m done.
“You make me hurt you,” I hiss. “Make me abuse you. Fuck, your cunt is so goddamned wet. Sick bitch.”
“Angel, no.” She whimpers her rejection, punctuated with a moan that threatens to make my balls seize in orgasm.
I fucking hate her for that, too.
“Stop!” She screams the word so loud, my hips falter, but then the rhythmic grip of her pussy tells me everything.
She’s punishing herself as much as I am. She didn’t want to come. That’s part of the way she abuses herself.
I fuck her harder, drawing out her release as long as I can before I’m on the edge of losing myself.
With a grunt, I pull free from her, cum spurting on her ass, painting the handprint I left there before entering her.
She’s literally making me insane, I realize as I release her and take a step back. My still-hard cock fights against me as I attempt to shove it back into my jeans.
I’m winded, my breath ragged as I look at her.
Her breaths are just as uneven, punctuated by sobs, but she doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t swipe at the tears staining her face as she tries to straighten her clothing.
I’m sick to my stomach as I walk around to climb back in the truck, breakfast threatening to make a reappearance. I hate myself for what I just did, and I hate her more than ever because I fucking loved it.
As she steps around to get back in with me, I hit the door lock. I can’t bear another fucking second with this woman. I’m going to take things too fucking far, finally get the revenge I spent a very long time thinking of and even longer getting out of my head where she’s concerned. I blame her for so many things, and that power makes me murderous. It’s clear I haven’t learned my lesson about Lauren Vos, but that’s on me.
She glares at me from outside the passenger window, her eyes insisting I let her climb back inside.
I turn my eyes back to the road, put the truck in drive, and leave her standing on the side of the fucking road.
I tell myself not to look back, to simply drive away and finally have this woman out of my life for good, but I can’t even manage that.
When I glance in my rearview mirror, I know I’m in serious fucking trouble.
Lauren is no longer glaring, and I realize just how fucking dangerous she is. The woman is smiling as if she anticipated my response and is—what, happy? Impressed?—that I left her there?
My truck carries me several miles down the road, but despite knowing how resourceful the woman is, I start to slow down. First, my foot comes off the gas, allowing me to coast awhile before I press the brake. I sit idle on the side of the road for long minutes before pounding my hand on the fucking dash.
I fucking hate her, despise everything that she is, but I also don’t want someone else to get to her. I feel like I own her pain. I’m the only one who should be able to hurt her. Revenge on her is mine, and it would be a complete fucking waste if someone got to her for their own sick fucking fantasies.
I turn the truck around, heading back in her direction, and the miles stretch on and on. Lauren is nowhere to be seen.
My brows scrunch as I make it back to the spot in town when she first ran her hand up my thigh. I head back out of town, my truck inching along the road as my eyes scan the desert. No cars passed me when I started heading back to her, so this doesn’t make any sense. I guess it’s possible that someone picked her up and turned around to carry her back into town.
I should be relieved with the thought, but it sits heavy inside of me.
Cresting a small hill in the road, there she fucking is, her hair whipping around her, making her look like some fucking ghost that just appeared out of nowhere. As I slow down, the urge to drive right past her again hits me hard.
I don’t understand it any more than I understand the effort she’s been putting in to be near me. Maybe we’re more alike than I want to admit because she seems very keen on being in my path despite what I’ve done to her so far.
I slow to a stop beside her, but she doesn’t immediately reach for the passenger side door handle.
The woman glares at me from the side of the road, her eyes searching my face as if she can determine what will happen if she climbs inside.
I don’t know what she sees, but eventually she pulls open the door and climbs inside.
This time she doesn’t reach for the power button for the radio. She doesn’t taunt me with words or try to touch me.
