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He never asks for anything in return, his hunger focused completely and greedily on me. When he’s between my legs, he groans like he’s just had a taste of the finest dessert in the world. It’s almost enough to make me come again.
Every time I expect him to fuck me, he doesn’t. It feels like he’s punishing me for saying it would never happen.
That this is his way of torturing me into begging for it. Embarrassingly, I’m getting close to that point. My physical reaction to him is uncontrollable, like an F5 tornado rolling through me everytime he touches me. Whether it’s his grip digging into my hip when he walks past me in the library, the way his lips trace my jaw, or how he plunges his fingers and tongue into me, I’m lost to it.
I sleep at his house every night and we see each other every day at school or sometimes when he forces me to hang out on the weekends, but he remains a closed book. He knows about my panic attacks, my mom, my favorite place to get tacos back home, hell he even knows where I get my nails done when I have an extremely bad day, because who doesn’t love having fresh nails when they’re feeling down? It’s a rare non-essential expense but one my mom and I love to do, so when he demands I tell him about something that makes me happy, I do.
He doesn’t divulge anything in return.
He’s lying on the bed, a tattooed arm bent behind his head as he watches me inspect the hickeys on my neck. Satisfaction gleams in his face as he looks at me. There’s three large marks this time, sprawled from my chest and up the column of my neck.
“I like seeing my marks on you.” He says softly, his voice raw with heat. The possessive look in his eye burns through me, leaving goosebumps behind in its wake.
“Leave them somewhere else.” I say, rubbing at them as if that could make them go away. “I can’t go to class looking like this.”
He shrugs. “You should’ve listened to me then.”
Last night, he’d asked – no, he’d commanded – that I strip for him. When I’d refused, he’d put me on the kitchen island and fingered me until I shattered around him, his mouth suctioned on my neck the entire time.
“You don’t always get what you want.”
“For the next four and a half weeks, I do.”
“What about what I want?”
He looks at me steadily, his face giving nothing away. Finally, he asks, “What do you want?”
“Tell me about your mom.”
I thought his face gave nothing away before, but something slams completely shut in his gaze as I speak. The muscles of his stomach ripple as he first sits, then stands up.
“No.”
He’s got the door of the room open, ready to stalk off before I can even blink. “Where are you going?”
He throws an uninterested glance at me over his shoulder. He’s not angry like last time, he’s almost apathetic. It’s so much worse. I’d prefer his anger than his eyes looking right through me like I’m not standing in front of him. This is the same way he looked at me when we first met. The same indifferent way he looks at everyone.
I hate it.
“Out. Be back here tonight, we’re having people over.” He commands. Without waiting for an answer, he leaves.
I look back at myself in the mirror, seeing the disappointed expression on my face. It’s two steps forward, fifteen back with him.
???
“I’m back!” I yell as I cross the threshold into our suite.
I hear a shriek to my left before Thayer tackles me to the floor. “I’ve simply been dying without you.”
“You saw me yesterday.”
“In Spanish. That hardly counts,flaca.”
It’s true I haven’t been back to the pen since Rogue came to get me last week.
“Oh my god.” I turn my head in the direction of the voice as Thayer helps me up. Six and Nera are standing in the kitchen, the former staring at my neck. “Are those hickeys? Did he do that to you?” She asks incredulously.
Thayer turns my head towards her so she can have a look. “Wow, he really is an animal with you.”
