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“You are close,” he grabs my breast and pinches my nipple hard while hitting a sweet spot inside me.
I hate, hate, hate, hate what is happening to me.
“Come with me, bitch,” he tightens his pinch.
“No,” I groan.
“Give it to me slut,” he pinches my nipple harder, so hard the pebbled flesh might cut off.
“I hate you,” I grit as my body caves in, throwing me to a pleasure high and tossing me down.
Stars dance in my vision and, at the same time, the flame in my stomach turns wildfire, melting me to jelly as I combust, shuddering and sputtering nonsense, till I come apart.
I'm too far gone to notice when he comes. It is only as he pulls out that my mind veers back to reality.
He lifts off from me, and with no care for what he has done to me, he walks into his bathroom, leaving me on his bed, clothes ripped, hair tangled, and body wrecked.
More tears find their way to my eyes and start to course down my cheeks.
Every part of me hurts. My mouth from his biting, my neck from his choking, my hands from how he twisted them, my throat from how loud I was screaming, my pussy from how rough he was drilling. Everything hurts. My stomach hurts the most, from how hard I came. It took me by surprise because I didn't think it was possible for me to come. And what does that even say about me?
I drag myself off his bed, wrap the ripped robe around me, and take my sobbing self out of his quarter.
I hate him.
I hate my life.
Chapter Thirteen
BENEDETTO
She's fucked.
I grunt, loving that I am the one to ruin her this way but hating that it happened the way it did and for the reason it did.
I look at myself in the mirror above the sink in my bathroom and bite my lower lip so damn fucking hard. Harder than I have ever bitten it before in my entire fucking, cursed life.
I knew this day was coming. I fucking knew this day was fucking coming.
I glare at my bruised reflection. Scratch marks and bite marks, that I don’t even remember her giving me, now have blood clots on them.
I don't recognize the man in the mirror. I don't recognize this man who is still having a hard-on thinking about what he hasdone and wants to go back there to make her imprint more marks on my skin.
I punch the mirror and twist my fist on the broken shards so some of the broken glass can inflict pain strong enough to reshuffle my mind. I start to grind my fist against the mirror and I see blood begin to paint the spot, then start to trickle down.
I have gone off the cliff and I know there is no going back for me. I don't even think I want to go back from this.
Fuck me.
What have I done, damn it?
How do I undo what I have done?
Fuck me for allowing myself to go off the grid and now even I know it's impossible to want to find my way back.
She called me sick, and it's exactly how I feel. I feel sick to my stomach. Sick at the reason for my rage. Sick that I let the fucker steal this moment that I wanted to happen differently from me.
I retrieve my hand and step out of my boxer briefs, then beeline for the shower.
