Page 8 of Little Author

H e was hot enough.

He was tall, with a sharp jaw, and had pretty tattoos that didn’t mean anything.

We matched on an app I downloaded. The same night, I realized that getting off with a button from a freed serial killer probably wasn’t the healthiest.

His name was Jules, or maybe Julian. Something soft and forgettable. He said he liked dark things. His profile said he read Anne Rice and watched crime documentaries. I swiped right when I read, “I am not afraid to get a little rough, so get ready, little brats.”

I wore thigh-highs under a dress that didn’t cover my bruised knees from the crime scene.

I had sent him a simple text that made my intentions clear.

These apps weren’t used for grabbing tea and conversations.

“I want you to hurt me.”

“U cum to the right place, babe.”

I tried not to cringe at the usage of ‘cum’ and kept that line of conversation going until he was in my bed.

When he got to my apartment, all the drinks we had did the job.

“Let’s see your idea of rough.”

He smiled like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear that.

But his idea of hurt was a hand on my neck with no pressure, and a smack that sounded loud but didn’t sting. He pushed me down. “You like that, baby? Oh yeah, you do.”

The hesitation in his voice made my pussy dry up mid-thrust.

I tried to play along, tried to close my eyes and pretend it was him.

Roux.

That he’d followed me home and decided to punish me for writing him wrong, I imagined a real hand around my throat, one that meant it. I imagined being tied down not for fun, but because I’d earned it. Because I’d made myself prey and begged for my punishment.

But Jules just kept humping like a golden retriever in a Halloween mask, moaning like he was doing me a favor.

He didn’t even pin my wrists right.

“Harder.” My teeth clenched, lifting my hips, offering my throat like an apology. “Don’t pretend. Fuck me like you hate me . Rough remember? Come on.”

His grip faltered.

“What?” He laughed. Laughed. “Damn, you’re intense.”

I slapped him, right across the face.

His mouth dropped open like he couldn’t decide if he was shocked or turned on.

“You want to play dangerous,” I growled, pushing him off. “Then grow a fucking spine and a pair of balls, mate.”

He stared at me, dick softening like a deflated balloon. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is you’re not him . ”

Before he could respond, I stood, dragging my pillow with me, and walked to the bathroom. I made sure to slam the door until the hinges moaned in response, better than he had.

Maybe that will give you a fucking clue, you daft muppet.

I sat on the floor, robe open, thighs sticky with someone else’s failure. I cried, not sad tears. Not even ashamed. These tears were pure and utter…

Frustration.

Desperation.

Because I wanted to be hurt by someone who meant it. Someone who knew what I was. Someone who saw the rot in me and wanted to dig deeper, not pretend it was foreplay.

Someone like the man I wrote about…Rue.

Roux.

The only one who ever felt real.

I touched myself again. Alone and furious, hissing through my teeth as I imagined his voice calling me in the dark. As I imagined his hand…big, cold, and fucking final. He was gripping the back of my neck and making me choke on my own name.

“Come for me, Elodie. Let me paint your stories on your beautiful skin so I can recreate every depraved scene in that naughty mind of yours.”

I couldn’t come, even with Roux’s voice in my mind.

I stopped.

My fingers were throbbing from the efforts now wasted. Leaning forward, I silently screamed with my teeth clenched and a pillow shoved between my thighs.

When I came back out, Jules was gone.

“Good. Go read my damn books, you bellend.”

I clicked on my app and erased his name from my inbox.

“It’s for the best.”

Roux’s image floated through my mind like a whisper, and I moaned.

“Good girl. Your body belongs to me.”

I smiled at that, knowing he was right. And besides, Jules was lucky he ran off.

He never would’ve survived the rest of me.

Maybe no one would.