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My lip trembles and more tears fall, and I don’t fucking understand them.
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
“Why do you care?”
“Because you belong to me. I am your master now. You no longer have the right. Am I clear?”
I nod, but I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s that I’m not alone, and I don’t have to carry the weight of it all myself. Or maybe I just want this over, want him to go—because no one knows this about me. No one, not even Odin.
“That’s a good kitty.”
“Don’t call me that,” I manage in barely a whisper.
He bends his knees and hoists me up, surprising me, holding me up against the wall and forcing me to wrap my legs around him.
“You don’t like it? I think it fits.” I realize what he’s about to do when I hear the buckle of his belt, the zipper of his slacks.
It’s the second thing that needs to happen.
He nods once as if to acknowledge my thoughts. “You understand. There’s no way around this. You know that, don’t you?” I feel him at my entrance and brace myself, my hands gripping his shoulders, eyes locked on eyes. “Use your nails, Little Kitty. Use your nails and let me feel how much you hate me,” he says finally and pushes inside me.
It hurts. I cry out, burying my face in his shoulder to try to muffle the sound because it fucking hurts.
“Use your nails,” he commands hoarsely, moving faster, driving deeper. “Hurt me.”
I do. And as I bury my nails into his back and feel that breaking of skin, I feel a release. It’s a strange, heavy letting go.
“Good. Good.” He looks at me, eyes nearly black, and he shifts his grip to hold me closer, all the while burying himself inside me. The whole time, I can feel him trying to keep control of himself.
He thickens inside me, his moan anguished. He’s trying to hold back. That’s the sound of the effort it’s taking. He’s trying, and he’s failing.
“Madelena.”
The way he says my name, voice ragged, I don’t know. It’s like right now we’re so close and everything is different with him. This secret he knows about me, it’s more intimate than anything else. Some part of me is relieved that he knows it. It wants him to know.
He cups the back of my head pulling me close, kisses the corner of my mouth, then he drops his forehead into the curve of my neck and mutters a curse as his rhythm changes, growing more frantic.
I wrap my legs tight around him, pressing myself against him as he takes me and the sensation of pain is edged by something else. I press my mouth to his shoulder and cling tight to him.
“Come with me,” he tells me, his hands on either side of my face lifting it, his body pressing mine to the wall. “Come, Madelena.” His face is so close, his eyes dark and burning, and all I can think of is the tension building inside me. It’s all I can feel, and I hear myself begin to moan.
His thrusts come harder, and in moments, I’m coming. My nails dug deep into his back, my face in his hands, our eyes locked, I am coming. The sounds I’m making are desperate gasps as he thrusts once more, twice, until, with a groan he buries his face in my neck and comes inside me, shuddering, saying my name, sinking his teeth into me. Literally.
When it’s over and we’re left panting, he draws backward, holding onto me as my legs slip from around his waist. Without once looking away, and without a word, he lifts me in his arms and carries me to the bed. He lays me down, looks me over, and I follow his gaze to the stain of blood and come on my thighs. When I look back up at him, he’s watching me. Then, a moment later, he walks away into the bathroom.
I touch the place on the curve of my neck. Feel the imprint of his teeth.
He returns, his slacks buttoned up. He’s holding a warm washcloth and when he touches my thigh, I draw away.
“Be still. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I’m not going to hurt you. Why do I believe him? Why do I so desperately want to believe him?
I remain still, and he places the warm cloth between my legs. He presses gently and I wince, sore. If I concentrate, I can still feel him inside me—feel his thickness, his hardness. I watch him as he gently cleans me then disappears into the bathroom.
Chilled, I draw the blanket over myself, trembling a little. What just happened between us? What did I think it would be like? A taking. Only that.
But it wasn’t only that.
Santos returns and looks at me. He has washed his face, pushed wet hands through his hair. He comes to the bed and draws the blanket higher.
“Okay?” he asks.
I shrug because I can’t really speak. I’m not sure what to say.
He nods once. Maybe he’s not sure either, and I don’t know what I want when he turns and walks toward the door. I don’t know why I feel an ache in the very center of myself as I watch his back.
Because I think some part of me wanted to be held, wanted to press my face to his chest and listen to his heart beat and feel his arms around, strong and warm and safe.
I don’t know. All I know is when that door closes behind him, I am alone. Again. Always.
