Page 83 of Conjure

“No,” I reply, quivering in his grip, too aroused to focus on the cold metal against my pulse point.

“No,” he breathes, but it’s an affirmation. “He wouldn’t. You like to have this tight little cunt filled. Don’t matter whose fingers they are, as long as you get to come.”

“Fuck,” I choke, my nails digging into the wallpaper. I can barely keep upright. “Please, just…”

“Let you come?”

“Put me out of my misery.”

“Beg me.”

I whimper, shaking my head.

“Beg me, or I kill your boyfriend.”

When I fail to respond, he stretches me with a third finger. “We can play this game all day, darlin’.”

“Please, let me come.” The words shred my vocal cords like barbed wire.

“Come on now, little girl. You can do better than that.”

What the hell does he want?

Sobs rip from my chest, and I press my forehead to the wallpaper. “Please, Wilfred. Please, pretty please.”

“Please, Daddy,” he corrects, his beard scratching my jaw, his hard cock sliding up the small of my back through his denim overalls as I shudder.

“Please, Daddy,” I force out, my knees threatening to give out. “Let me come.”

“Wasn’t so hard, was it, darlin’?”

Tears wet my cheeks when he flicks my clit with his thumb, and I clamp down on his fingers. Self-hatred tastes putrid even as an orgasm rips through my body.

A small part of me whispers that it’s a response to the fear, but a deeper part of me—a part that frightens me more than the shotgun in his hand—wants me to admit something darker.

Something shameful.

That I like to have my will confiscated from me.

My body loves danger.

It loves it when someone takes it without asking.

It lovesthis…

Sliding his hand from my shorts, he spins me around. I stare at him through heavy lids, strands stuck to my wet cheeks. The urge to claw his eyes out tingles my fingers, and it takes everything in me not to spit at him when he lifts his slick hand.

Spreading his fingers, he tuts. “Such a mess, darlin’.”

Unable to look at the strings of cum between his fingers, I glance away, cheeks burning with humiliation. He grips my face with his wet hand that smells of debauchery, the shotgun brushing up against my leg, like a cold threat, and I whimper.

“We’re not done yet.” His sour breath wafts over my face. “A sweet thing like you is too good to kill just yet.”

When he releases me, I slump to the floor.

Despite the voice inside me that urges me to keep it together, tears stream from my cheeks. I don’t know where Dominic is.If he’s dead or alive. I feel dirty,ashamed,clit pulsing from the receding orgasm.

Wilfred’s mud-caked boots step closer, my fingers sliding over the broken glass shards as I let my eyes travel up his filthy overalls until they clash with his empty gaze.