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After I dry my hands, I lift my shirt and stare at the dark-purple hickeys near my collarbone, shoulder, chest, but mostly surrounding my nipples.
A shiver goes through me and I run my fingers over them, hissing at the shadow of pain. I honestly never thought men could have sensitive nipples or, worse, in my case, that it would turn me on when Nikolai played with them.
He didn’t just leave hickeys. He brutalized my skin and created angry teeth marks on it.
Everywhere I touch, he’s there. Like a constant reminder of my fucked-up mental state.
Of how far I fell and how deeply I lost control.
My teammates didn’t see this because I made sure to shower after they left the changing room, pretending I had to do something first. They gave me grief about the hickey on my neck, saying that I had a wild one on my hands.
They meant Clara, of course, but she’s nowhere near wild.
The one who’s driving me fucking insane is none other than a man.
A rowdy, always shirtless, mountain of a man who looks at me like he wants to rip me apart.
I wonder how I look at him.
My gaze lands on my eyes in the mirror and I groan when I accidentally touch my nipple. It’s still sore and aching from his attention earlier, and no matter how much I try to erase that memory, it won’t go away.
I ghost my finger on the tight pebble and pinch it again, imagining it’s his teeth.
My dick twitches, straining against my trousers, and I bite down on my lower lip.
I’m wasted—or getting there. This doesn’t mean anything…
He looked displeased when I ran away earlier. But why? He couldn’t have possibly expected me to stay there for everyone to find us.
My phone vibrates and I freeze, then let my shirt down as I pull it out.
My heart gets stuck in the back of my throat when I see his name on my lock screen.
I should ignore it.
Nothing good comes from it when we interact.
I’m totally going to ignore it.
My thumb hesitates over the screen before I unlock it and open the text.
Nikolai
Good evening, lotus flower. Thought I’d start the text like that since you love being so proper.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and wait for the next text to come. He always has a few of them.
After the night in the alley, not only did he go back to texting me, but he also resumed testing my patience every morning on my runs.
What used to be a sacred activity is now muddied by his endless questions and constant attempts to get close to me.
I skim over his last texts, trying not feel impatient about the dots that keep appearing and disappearing.
His texts are usually long-winded, and, for some reason, he likes to tell me stories about things that happen in the Heathens’ mansion as if they’re any of my business.
His texts can be so sporadic. For instance, yesterday, they were along the lines of:
Nikolai
