Page 48 of A Wreck, You Make Me

“Then how come,” he says, squeezing my neck so hard that I gasp for breath and arch my back, my core pulsing crazily, “you always end up in my lap with your legs spread and your pussy dripping?”

I grab his hand on my neck. “You m-make me.”

“Yeah?” he keeps growling, squeezing and releasing my throat, alternatively letting me breathe and letting me die. “Well, I can make you do other things too, you know that, don’t you? Because if you think thisbullshit every nightis going to tide me over, then you really don’t know anything about obsession.”

“I do. Iknowabout obsession,” I tell him. “I’ve been obsessed with you since I-I saw you.”

A puff of air escapes him as he growls, his hand pulsing around my throat. “Yeah, you may have been obsessed with me since you saw me a year ago, but I can still teach you things about obsession that’ll make you clutch your naive schoolgirl pearls, yeah? Because, baby”—he squeezes my throat again and stretches my neck up, making me moan with discomfort—“you may dress like a fucking whore but we both know what youreallyare is an innocent little rose.”

A year ago wasn’t when I saw him for the first time. This should be my cue to stop everything. This should give me enough sense to get off his lap and run away before I keep drowning in my own lies. But I can’t. All I can do is blush and whisper, “So then, y-you should leave me alone.”

Another puff of breath. “Yeah, you don’t really mean that.”

“I do,” I insist. “I’m not a w-whore. You just said it.”

He hums as if in satisfaction. Then, “Maybe not. But it’s time to make you one. It’s time to turn my Little Strawberry into my Little Whore.”

With that, he widens his thighs, making me open mine, and before I can drag in another breath, his other hand goes down to my pussy. He cups me between the legs, gives me a squeeze, making me moan and twist my hips. And then, he goes ahead and slides my panties aside, exposing me. And as if that wasn’t enough of a shock to my system, him exposing my throbbing and wet core, he proceeds to run his finger up and down between my lips. As if he’s trying to bathe his fingers in my juices. Trying to scoop it out. Trying to pet my pussy.

Before he smacks it.

Holyfuck. That was… I practically scream and spasm in his lap, coming instantly. At which point, he smacks my pussy again,making me scream even harder, making my orgasm spread all over my body. Like my blush. Like the sting of his slap.

But if I thought he’d let me go after that, I was wrong. He doesn’t. He keeps assaulting my core, sometimes smacking it hard, sometimes tapping it soft, like playing an instrument. Making music out of my drenched pussy and my hurt-y and lusty moans. And like any instrument, I’m a slave to his fingers, coming and coming andcoming.

Just when I think I can’t take any more, he rasps, his hand on my pussy, rubbing my burning flesh, “Are you a whore yet, baby?”

I’m panting and rolling my head side to side on his chest. “Y-yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good, that’s good,” he praises. “Because you can’t stay an innocent little rose forever, can you? That’s not how the world works. You like playing the sexy little schoolgirl, don’t you? Here’s a little fairytale lesson for you: one day, a man comes around. People call him the Thorn, but what he really is is a toxic snake. He catches a glimpse of you, of your gorgeous red hair and your creamy skin. He hears your sweet voice and your musical laughter and gets a little obsessed. Days pass, months pass and his obsession grows. He doesn’t like it, but he can’t escape it. Until one day he decides to stop escaping it and do something about it. He decides to do something about you. And what else can you do with a rose than to make it bloom, yeah? For him. Forme.” His fingers keep skimming my core, going up and down. “Because what a waste of a fucking rose, baby, don’t you think? What a waste of a tight fucking pussy if I don’t get to wreck it and make it mine.”

“You—”

“You know I saw you first,” he whispers.

“What?”

“You didn’t know I was there, watching you that first time a year ago,” he explains and my heart clenches. “And then you turned around and I thought those are the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Shepard,” I moan because I don’t know what else to do.

I can’t tell him the truth and I can’t make myself move away. So I say his name like a plea. Like a prayer. To come save me.

“I fucking love the way you say my name,” he murmurs then, rubbing my pussy as if soothing it, praising it, as if showing how much. “It sounds needy. Desperate. So fucking good. So fucking horny. It sounds like you need me to breathe life into you. It sounds like you’ll die without me. Without my touch.”

I will. I will, I will, Iwill.

“You n-never say mine,” I accuse, or more like breathe out because I’m panting.

He keeps running his fingers between my pussy lips. “You agree to be mine and I’ll say your name day and night. I’ll moan it in your ears when I’m pounding into your hole. I’ll spell it out with my tongue when I’m licking this cunt. I’ll fucking tattoo your name on my skin. All you have to do is say yes.”

With that, he taps my core again and again and again, making me lose my mind. Making me think why the hell am I not saying yes. Why the hell do I insist on keeping this distance between us? In moments like this, I don’t even care about the money, our connection that he knows nothing about. But it exists, doesn’t it? And I can’t. I can’t deceive him any more than I already am.

And these are the easy nights. A couple of nights, he’s tried to make things hard for me.