Page 18 of Breaking Ophelia

Her breathing isn’t steady anymore. She’s angry, but not scared. Or rather, she’s scared, but anger is winning.

I press my body closer. Her back hits the books. I can feel her tits flatten against my chest, the ridge of her pelvis against my hip. I want to rip the waistband of her skirt and leave bruises for the morning, but I make myself wait.

“Let me go,” she says, and yet despite the words, she’s frozen.

Did I imagine her hips pressing forward into my rapidly swelling cock?

Judging by the blush rising furiously over her face… no, no I did not.

“No.”

She tries to slide left, but I block her with a knee. Her pulse is wild now. She’s fighting the urge to claw at my face. I almost hope she does; I’d like to see her nails break skin.

Instead, she just looks at me—really looks.

“I’m not scared of you,” she lies.

I smile. “You should be.”

I reach down, close my fingers around her wrist. Not tight, not yet. She tries to jerk free, but I hold her, forcing her palm against the rough grain of the shelf behind her. Her hand is small, warm, but the muscle in her arm is stronger than I expected.

“You can hit me,” I say. “Scream, if you want.”

She doesn’t.

Instead, she spits in my face.

It’s a clean shot, right at the corner of my mouth. I taste the salt. The surprise freezes me a full second. Then I laugh. The sound is ugly, real. I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand, then lick it, slow, making sure she sees.

“Better,” I say.

I close the space between us, my mouth a breath away from her ear. “Next time, that spit will be on my cock as I shove it to the back of your throat, do you understand me, Ophelia?”

She shudders. I can feel her hate, thick enough to eat.

“You think this is the worst I’ve endured?” she says, teeth bared.

I press my thigh between hers, pushing her harder into the wood until I can see the imprint on her skin. “I think you’re dying for someone to fuck you.”

She bares her teeth. “Fuck you.”

“Not yet,” I say. “But soon.”

I let her go, just to see what she’ll do. She doesn’t run. She stands, breath ragged, face flushed, jaw set like stone.

My cock is so hard, I can barely think. I need to let her go before I do something against the rules.

“You’re mine,” I say, then step back.

She doesn’t even look at me as her chest heaves.

She stands there, hands clenched, eyes wide, and I see the future in her: a hundred nights like this, her body learning to anticipate the ways I’ll twist her, her mouth learning to say my name like a curse and a prayer.

“Not yours.” She repeats, just like last night and then tries to walk past me.

“You don’t get to leave,” I say.

Her mouth opens, ready to argue, but I don’t let her speak.