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Oh my God, it got worse.
I can't breathe. I can't even think.
"Meet me in the dining hall," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "I need to run an errand. I'm getting a surprise ready for you, Firefly."
He releases me, turning his back to me, and walking out of the room. I'm sweaty and out of breath. I can't believe I let him do that.
Why did I let him do that?
But then again when was the last time I felt desired by anyone?
A year ago? Maybe more?
And back then, it was just sex. My partner had made that very clear before we ever fucked. He never cared enough to try to force me to eat. He never cared at all because I was just a means to an end, a way for him to get his rocks off, and nothing more. I don't remember feeling desired when he pulled out of me, pumped his dick, and came all over my chest. We were convenient, and we both knew it.
Yet the King of the Asylum makes me feel wanted. He took care of me, and that is a first. No guy has ever done that. Fuck, most of my prior partners were content to screw me dry as long as they could get their dick inside of me.
This was new but nice. It can't happen again, though.
I didn't even know my parts down below still worked. They definitely do, though, because I can still feel the lingering aftershocks rumbling in my core and the slickness smearing my thighs.
My periods have always been erratic, probably thanks to having an eating disorder before I even got my first monthly cycle. I don't think I've had my period in four months, though, maybe more. I don't ever count the days. I'd figured all of my parts down there had withered and dried to nothing by now, just like they say the rest of me is doing too.
Salted bones and caramel, huh? It could be worse. He could have said I tasted like death.
He told me to meet him in the dining hall, but how do I face him after that?
How do I see him and his friends and pretend it didn't happen?
I could've run. He was right. I could've run.
He gave me a choice, and I chose to stay.
I messed up because this will go nowhere fast. I'm leaving. My father is no doubt already losing his patience with my lack of progress. The longest I've ever been enrolled anywhere was eight months, and that was because I spent the majority of it in-patient and not at the school. I've been here for almost a few weeks now, and that's when my father always starts asking the difficult questions. The higher the price tag, the more he demands, and no one ever meets his demands, except my mother.
Not me.
Not the places he hires to save me.
No one.
Right now I regret not running from the fire freak. It would've been easier. But it happened so fast, and before I knew it, his hands were on me, and it felt like tiny bolts of lightning shot through his fingertips, electrifying my skin and making me feel something I don't remember ever feeling, not for a long time. His touch made me feel alive.
Then he gave me that look—hooded, soulless eyes and a touch of hedonism—one that he's given probably countless girls before, and I was a goner. He didn't even have to say the words to let me know what he was thinking.
He wantedme.
Desiredme.
And that made me feel something I didn't know I could feel anymore.
I felt coveted, craved even, and I knew my worth.
My mother would say he only likes me because I'm skinny. She'd congratulate me and take credit for the win.
I don't want to think about him, but I do. His smell, campfires and charcoal. His taste, cigarettes with a kiss of peppermint. His eyes, those two black pools that drag me close and hold me captive in their gravity.
I have no hope of escape, not now when I know the feeling of him on me,inme. I don't know if I ever did. Maybe before, when he went into isolation, the place the people around here call the hole, and I'm guessing it's because it's such a literal cesspit. I should have seen this coming, but I didn't expect him back so soon or with such an appetite . . . for me.
