Page 59

This is Ignazio Vitale.

He loves me. Still, I try to remember. I don't ever want to forget. But this man battering my body, the one clutching my throat, fucks me like he hates me, like my life is in his hands alone.

Like he has no qualms ending me if he sees fit.

It's treacherous.

It's terrifying.

So why am I enjoying it so much?

"Oh God," I whisper, my voice strained, my vision blurring. I can feel the tears building and the pressure mounting… I feel like I'm about to explode beneath him. I'm a live wire, sparking everywhere he touches. It's electrifying. My hands find their way into his hair, gripping the locks, yanking on it. I don't know whether to push or pull, beg him to get away from me or give me even more.

Closing my eyes, my back arches, thrusting my breasts against his chest as the convulsions violently rip through me. My voice escapes me in a shrill scream, strangled by his hand on my throat, but loud enough to make my ears ring. He's unaffected, though—doesn't slow down, doesn't take it easy.

The orgasm tears it all away from me, taking my apprehension, my anxiety, and my will to fight. I drift away in a cloud of ecstasy, my mind gone, my body finally succumbing to him. I don't struggle anymore, even though he's still rough, even though he's physically asking for it.

Oh God, he broke me.

He broke me.

But I had no idea broken could feel so good.

Tears leak from the corner of my eyes, ones he kisses away as he whispers the word, "remember." I know I could get him to stop with a simple word, and maybe that's why I don't say it. I don't want him to stop. I want to be his. I want to be his everything. I want him to take me, and make me, and use me, and abuse me, because he thinks he has control and I know now that's what he craves. I want to play his game with him, because I know one mere syllable from my lips will stop him dead in his tracks, and if that's not real power, I don't know what is.

Hours, or days. Minutes, or seconds. I don't know how long he keeps it up, how long he plays this game of his. I just remember existing in the moment until the world fades around me, sleep pulling me away.

And then I'm roused awake.

The room is eerily dark, bathed in a sort of neon glow, as the lights from the strip shine in through the window, the curtains drawn open. I sit up, wincing at the stab of pain. My body is sore and achy; I'm naked and grimy. I feel like I ran a marathon and collapsed straight into bed.

I'm not even sure I can walk anymore.

My fucking legs are numb.

Across the room, bathed in green and gold light from the glow of the building, stands Naz, staring out the window, fully dressed.

Did he even undress?

He stands completely still, like he's a fixture of the room. The only sign of life is the rise and fall of his chest, subtle breathing, innate. He's not doing it. It's just happening.

In fact, he's not doing anything.

I thought he broke me in the moment, but I was wrong. I think he woke me up instead, like my life so far has been nothing but a monotone dream and he showed me what it's really like to open your eyes. I've never felt so alive. But broken is what I see when I look at him. It's like a thread was cut, something severed, and disconnecting the man I know from the body in front of me.

The monster came out. I saw him. I played with him. I welcomed him inside of me, and I didn't push him away.

I think, looking at Naz, that the monster decided to stay.

"Naz?" I call out, but he doesn't react, like he didn't hear me. My voice drops lower, a concerned whisper. "Ignazio?"

He moves.

His head turns, his eyes regarding me from across the room. After one quick glance back out of the window, he strolls toward the bed. He doesn't speak, slowly unbuttoning his shirt as he approaches. I see it when he gets closer, the tear in the fabric, the hints of blood streaked on the sleeves. I gape at it as he pulls his shirt off, seeing the deep gashes and claw marks raking down his strong arms.

I'm alarmed. I think I might've hurt him more than he hurt me.

He undresses in silence before climbing in bed beside me, shifting his body so he's on top of me. He nuzzles into my neck, settling between my thighs. Not a word spoken, he eases inside of me.

The first few strokes are gentle, followed up by an uncomfortable deep one. I gasp, my voice strained as I cling to him and croak, "yellow."

He slows his thrusts until he's barely moving, covering my body with his, making love to me. I feel him in every cell in my body, listening as he pants and moans into my neck, his warm breath fanning against my skin. He's usually quiet during sex, unless he's teasing me, but I hear him now… hear his shaky breaths and strained moans. I wrap my arms around him tightly, twirling the soft curls at his nape around my fingers. It's sweet, sweet... so fucking sweet... as he trails kisses along my jawline before pulling back enough to look down at me.

He still says nothing, but the curve of his lips, the soft smile he offers in the darkness, brightens the air between us. It's beautiful. So beautiful.

It's everything.

He's everything.

He finishes inside of me, still staring down at me, a look of ecstasy passing across his face that I marvel in. His lips part, eyelids drooping, as the softest whisper of a moan escapes in the form of my name. "Karissa."

Afterward we lay there, me on my stomach beside him on the bed, the blanket draped around me. I'm half asleep, exhausted and content, when I feel his feather light touch on my back, his fingertips tickling as he caresses my skin. My eyes close, the sensation causing my toes to curl as I bite down on my bottom lip, forcing back a giggle.

He's drawing something, or writing on me... what, I don't know. I try to follow the pattern, make sense of his movements, as he coats my flesh with goose bumps.

"What are you doing?" I whisper, not at all surprised when he doesn't answer my question. He keeps drawing patterns for a few minutes, nearly lulling me to sleep, before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss between my shoulder blades. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me onto my side toward him, my back flat against his warm chest.

"I was connecting the dots," he says quietly. "Your freckles are like stars. They tell a story, depending on how you connect them."

I smile to myself as he takes my hand, linking our fingers together. "What did they tell you?"

"They told me you're beautiful," he says. "And I'm a lucky son of a bitch to have you all to myself."

I stand in front of the long mirror, tugging on my dress, trying to situate it on my body. It feels tighter than I remember, showing more skin than I usually show. I'm all put together, my hair pinned up and makeup on, my lips the same blood red shade as my clothing.