Page 89 of Cruel When He Smiles

Didn’t even think about saying no.

Fuck.

I all but begged him to take control. I teased him, pushed him, and needled him until he snapped. I wanted it; I wanted him unhinged. I wanted to see what he’d do if I stopped playing it safe. I asked him to ruin me and then thanked him for it.

I shove the blankets off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the floor too hard. My skin is too warm, too exposed. Every mark, every bruise, every lingering ache is proof of what happened—and I wanted every second of it.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My fingers twitch against the sheets, my skin crawling with the memory of last night, with how my body had melted under his touch, the way I had leaned into it, the way I had fucking liked it.

“Such a good boy.”

My breath shudders.

I’m not his.

I’m not.

My legs are shaky beneath me as I force myself to stand, and I don’t know if it’s from what happened or the realization of what it means. The room is too quiet, the absence of him making mystomach twist, even though I should be relieved he’s not here. Instead, all I feel is hollow.

Like he took something from me that I didn’t even know I had to give.

I stumble toward the bathroom, gripping the sink when I reach it, forcing myself to look.

I regret it instantly.

I stare at myself, at the wreckage of me, my chest rising and falling too fast, my fingers gripping the porcelain too tightly.

My lips are swollen, my throat—Jesus. Faint bruises, bite marks, dried cum, and the red imprint of Liam’s mouth over my pulse point. There are scratches along my ribs where he must’ve gripped too hard, and lower, just visible above the waistband of the sweatpants I tugged on—finger-shaped shadows where he held me down. My skin’s a map of everything I let him do, every moment I surrendered, and the worst part?

I don’t hate it.

That realization cracks something in my chest, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I lean over the sink, trying to pull air into lungs that won’t fucking stay open. My chest tightens, my vision blurring at the edges. I don’t cry—I don’t fucking cry—but my eyes sting like hell as I grip the porcelain tighter.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to give in. I wasn’t supposed to want it.

“What the fuck have I done?”

My phone rings.

The sharp buzz cuts through the silence, startling me out of my own fucking head. My grip tightens on the sink, my breathing still too uneven, my reflection still a disaster, still covered in him. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to breathe, forcing myself to focus on the sound instead of the way my stomach feels like it’s fucking collapsing in on itself.

Liam.

Of course.

I stare at the screen, knowing I should ignore it and pretend this whole thing never happened. But my fingers move before my brain can stop them, and I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear with a shaking hand.

“Breathe,” Liam says, before I can say a word. His voice is low and calm in that exact fucking way that needles under my skin and settles there. “I know you’re spiraling. I know your heart’s racing. I know you looked in the mirror and started tearing yourself apart.”

My throat closes at the sound of his perfectly fucking composed tone, like he didn’t ruin me last night, like he wasn’t the reason I woke up feeling like I had lost a fucking war I didn’t even know I was fighting.

I close my eyes. “Fuck off.”

There’s a faint chuckle, not mocking. Calming, somehow. “You always say that when you’re overwhelmed.”

“I’m not—” I stop, swallow the lie, and press my fingers to my temple. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”