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A gasp catches in my throat. I go on tiptoes to escape. Too late. I took this game too far. He parts my folds with the barrel, pulling them open to expose my clit. His smile is pure evil as he circles that button with the barrel.
My mind is thrown back to a different day not so long ago—only yesterday, in fact—when he pressed his ring on that spot. It already feels like years ago, as if what happened between yesterday and today left me old.
A smirk curves his lips when he rubs the barrel over my clit. The look on his face is smug because the stimulation makes me wet. I grab his forearm in both hands, but the pressure only increases, the pleasure igniting. Arousal turns me slicker. He massages me with that gun, harder but slower, keeping me on the edge.
I don’t want to come, not like this. Not when I hate him and when he’s lost control. I never want to come for him again, but my muscles are already tightening inside.
His pupils dilate as he watches me. He can see I’m fighting, willing this not to happen, and he’s going to make sure I lose again.
I hiss when he palms my sore ass and curls his fingers around my globe, using the leverage to drag me closer.
“Is this where you want it?” he asks, his tone seductive as he pushes the barrel over my clit.
I’m not sure if he means the touch or a bullet. In any event, I want neither. Unable to conjure words, I shake my head.
He abandons my clit and pulls the gun lower. “Watch.”
I shake my head again.
He lets go of my ass and fists a handful of my hair, using the strands like a rope around his hand to force my head down. He parts me slowly with the muzzle, gathering my arousal. My heartbeat spikes. I struggle in his hold, fighting a losing battle as that fog that defines his darkness travels over me again. The metal sight on the muzzle scrapes against my flesh as he pushes the barrel deeper, using my own slickness to fuck me with his gun.
He twists his wrist from side to side, lodging it deeper. His words are soft, cajoling. “Is this where you want it,cara? Do you still want to play that game?” Crueler now. “I can take out a bullet and play Russian roulette.”
I whimper as he moves the barrel, imitating the act we did twice. Twice too many.
He walks me backward until my thighs hit the bed and my legs fold. It only takes a push, and I fall on the mattress. Towering over me, he teases me with the barrel inside. He’s careful, not hurting me with me the sight tip on the front of the muzzle. It’s more of a mild irritation like the scratch his cock left in my throat.
“Watch,” he orders again, pressing the pad of his thumb on my clit.
My pulse skyrockets. It feels as if my heart is going to burst out of my chest. It’s not only the warped, perverse, and foolishly dangerous situation. It’s the look in his eyes, a look that reminds me I don’t really know him at all. That I don’t know what he’s capable of.
“Do you want to finish this game?” he asks, rubbing harder and stroking deeper.
That, I feel. That isn’t just uncomfortable. It’s not just a scratch. It’s fucking terrifying.
The way he rubs me is wrong. It’s right too. He knows it. He knows this is the only way I can come. And as it starts, I see the shift in his eyes. I see the evil streak that makes him look like a demon. This isn’t the man I met, the one I fell in love with.
This is the man I married.
Our gazes lock. He sees it on my face, I’m sure, the confirmation that he’s won. That I’ve taken this too far. That’s it’s over, and that I come.
I don’t close my eyes. I see it as well. I see it as I unravel naked in front of the fully clothed man who calls himself my husband.
Grabbing his hand, the one that’s between my legs, I feel it. I feel his finger tightening on the trigger. I try to stop him, but it’s only my heart that stops. My pleasure explodes, the fear somehow heightening everything. I see it even through the haze of my orgasm. The end. I don’t have to look. I feel the movement of his finger when he prepares to pull the trigger.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Angelo
The naked woman on the bed has black rivulets of mascara running over her cheeks. The red lipstick bleeds over the lines of her lips and smears her face. Her dark hair is tangled, sticking to the damp skin of her forehead. A layer of sheen covers her golden skin. Her breasts heave with the effort of dragging air into her lungs, and her flat stomach quivers from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her legs are spread, and my fist is buried between her thighs, the barrel of my gun lodged in her pussy.
It’s a messy, crude, somewhat shocking picture. And fuck me if it’s not the hottest sight I’ve seen, if she’s not the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on.
Violent emotions twist her features. The ecstasy of climaxing. The uncertainty of an outcome. The fear of dying. Shame, perhaps. The most vivid is her anger. It’s more an aftereffect of the shock than a result of my actions. I saw it in her pretty, wide eyes. She wasn’t sure if I’d pull the trigger. She still isn’t. That’s why she’s watching me, frozen in this spectacular display of a well-ruined woman.
Waiting.
She learned her lesson.
