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In the past, I’ve endured his darker, more twisted appetites—even the ones I don’t share—but tonight…
I can’t do this.
Not when he called me by her name.
This is worse than what I felt in the car. That was panic, but this is slow, inky dread with too many layers to fully process right now. Maybe I could have pushed that aside and forced myself to mostly forget, but this will leave a dark mark on my soul that no time will scrub off.
“Dare, I—”
“Shh.”
His hand slides around to cup my jaw again, but this time I jerk away.
“No.” My voice is firm, not fearful. “I’m serious, Dare. Get off me.”
Since he doesn’t immediately move to do as I’ve asked, I shift my body in a less subtle attempt to unseat him.
Finally, he says, “I thought we were going to play.”
“And I thought the game was going to be fun.”
I move again to let him know I want him off. He lifts his hips to free me—or so I think. When I roll over onto my back, he pounces on me so quickly, I gasp out loud.
It happens too fast for me to process. He grabs my left hand and sinks it into his pillow. I try to unlock our fingers and pull free of his bruising grasp, but I can’t. He’s holding on too tight.
His other hand clamps over my mouth hard and all the breath leaves my lungs. Panic breaks loose inside me, and I thrash wildly, like he’s a true attacker and my life depends on getting free.
It’s never fair having to fight him, though.
He’s so much stronger.
My cries are muffled. I shove and scratch at him with my free hand, but his grip on the other only tightens painfully, so I cry out against his palm. Heat from the struggle boils beneath the surface, making my skin hot even as a chill shoots down my spine when he moves his hand and replaces it with his mouth.
I cry out as he conquers my mouth. I don’t kiss him back. I turn my head from side to side, trying to evade him as he pushes his hand down between our bodies.
I feel a horrifying twist of lust between my legs when his palm slides down to cover my pussy and he grabs it possessively.I’m sure it’s just because I’ve adapted to his style of lovemaking by now, but this time, it triggers an unfamiliar wave of self-disgust.
“Get off me!” Since he won’t keep his fucking mouth off me, I do something I’ve never done in anger before.
I bite the fuck out of his lip.
He pulls back, surprised. On impulse, he shoves me against the mattress, planting a hand on my chest to hold me down.
He sits back on his heels, then runs his long, elegant fingers over his bottom lip.
The room is dark and I’m breathing heavily from the struggle. The moment seems to freeze, then thaw slowly as he draws his finger away from his lip and looks at the tip.
He looks down at me slowly, and I feel a cold flash of fear.
Then he leans down fast enough to make me flinch, wraps his hand around my throat, and smears his blood across my lower lip.
His voice cold and commanding, he says, “Lick it off.”
The instinct to fight is still holding on, but my fear is taking over. I never fight him like this, and I know he’ll find a way to twist it and use it against me.
Sometimes it’s easier to just do what he wants.
A minute ago, it wasn’t.
