Page 69 of Fixation

“I hate you.”

“You’ll have to learn to be more obedient.” He completely ignores me.

He’s after other things, and he’s taking them.

Anderson demands that my own fingertips run down to the corner of my lips, so that’s where they travel.

“You have to understand that I know best.”

I open my mouth to tell him I will never.

His lips quirk in a devious smirk. Then he shoves my fingers into my mouth.

“I made a mess of your fingers.” The man shoving my fingers in and out of my mouth is pure depravity. The embodiment of sin.

This is what this debasement feels like.

Like a hospital room and sex. And filth.

“As your doctor…” He pushes my fingers deeper into my mouth. His knuckles are soft and firm, pressing to my lips. I gag on my fingers and swallow the salty taste of him. “I’m telling you that you need to clean it up. You need to suck them until there’s nothing left. Do it.”

His cock stretches against his scrubs. From the split second I was awake, just before he came, I felt him. How big he was in my palm. I could barely close my hand around it.

The veins on it, I remember those too. How smooth and hard he was for me.

A humiliating moan slips past my lips, and I could cry. I am crying.

“Lick it,” he seethes, his free hand curled into a fist. The veins beneath the barbed wire tattoo pulse. “Lick it fucking clean, Miss Arlington.”

“No,” I groan, the word mumbled. My fingers hit the back of my throat. I’m so full of him. Of myself. “No.”

“Anothernoand I’ll sedate you.” His head cocks to the side. “For a whole day. Two. Three even. Imagine all the things I could do to you.”

I want to call his bullshit so bad. I hear it in his voice.

He’s an evil man.

Putting me under for so long, however, is irresponsible. Dangerous. I’ll probably end up dead.

He won’t go through with it. I believe what he said hours ago. Or was it yesterday? Whenever it was. I believe him. He won’t be reckless with me.

He does what he knows best, nursing me to health. The monster in a hospital uniform. The lover who demeans me with every move he makes.

I’m part horrified, part grateful.

That, too, fills me with shame.

No part of me should warm up to him.

Absolutely no part of me should listen to him.

I do, anyway.

I suck in my fingers, then dart my tongue out to lick his hand. One swipe over them, and he shudders for me.

“Good, that’s very good.” The tension in his shoulders tells me I’m getting to him as well. I might be bound, but I’m getting to him.

At least that’s the lie I tell myself. It’s how I convince myself that’s why I lick and suck and take my fingers down my throat. To fuck with my captor.