Page 88 of Loving the Tormentor

"Yes,mon trésor?"

"Fuck me."

"Anything for you."

Two hands grip my hips, and he pushes inside me with an intensity that steals my breath away. I moan loudly as he thrusts in and out, uncaring of who can hear or see us. All I want is to feel all of him, to get so high with him that we’ll both turn to dust when we crash back down.

I roll my hips back, groaning from the slight pain of how deep he is when I feel his lower stomach against my ass, and I still beg for more.

"Fuck, Nyx," he pants, and I can hear him choke on his own pleasure as mine keeps building.

My legs tremble, electricity sparking through my entire being as his restraint goes out the window.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" For once, he's the one losing control, and his hand comes to slap my clit as he barrels toward his climax without being able to do anything about it.

I explode a split second before he does, under the small slaps he keeps delivering. And he pulls out of me in a rush, probably aware of the time.

Within a few seconds, his pants are back up, he's gotten me out of my ripped tights, and has put my underwear in place. I'm sitting on my chair with him kneeling in front of me and retyingmy sneakers when some students walk back into the music hall post-lunch. I don’t even think they were untied. He just needed an excuse to justify his position.

I'm still buzzing, barely catching my breath, but when Achilles stands up, he looks as relaxed as he always does. Not a hint that he was fucking me into oblivion a second ago.

My ass hurts all afternoon as I'm forced to sit through rehearsal and feel the pain of the baton. Every now and then, my eyes cross with Achilles's, and the mischief in them says he knows how I'm feeling.

But I've never played so beautifully.

And I wonder if maybe that’s what happens when someone truly cares about you and your dreams.

Chapter Twenty

Nyx

LOVE LOOKS PRETTY ON YOU – Nessa Barrett

Saturday mornings are always the hardest shifts, but the tips are good. My eyes scan my phone as I walk out of the diner, reading the countless texts I’ve sent to my dad. He hasn’t answered any of them. I don’t usually let my mind wander to why my father isn’t replying, but my body always contracts in the worst way, wondering if the worst has finally happened. Did he drink himself to death? Did one of his debtors get their hands on him? Probably Val Brolik, since Chase isn’t here to pay the debt anymore, and no one got in contact with me.

I rush across the parking lot, freezing in my t-shirt since I didn't bother to put my coat on for the short walk. It's not until I'm by my car that I realize the state it's in. The windows are broken, the seats have been torn through with a knife, and the tires are slashed.

"What the hell?" I gasp as my phone clatters to the ground. "Fuck."

I step around the car, my hands gripping my hair as my stomach twists.

"Shame, ain't it?" someone snarls behind me.

It's Bennett. Chase's friend. The mere thought of that group used to keep me meek, but I weirdly don’t feel scared. I’m fuming, feeling years of intimidation burning in my chest.

"Did you do this?" I ask. "In broad daylight too."

He snorts. "I think you spend so much time on your fancy side that you forget no one bats an eye when a crime is committed here."

"It's my fucking car," I rage. "I need it for everything."

He takes a threatening step toward me, and instead of stepping back, I do the same until we're facing each other. Something has been shifting in me since Chase's death a week ago. A weight is off my shoulders; a fear has disappeared. Achilles freed something inside me, but I’ll never admit that to him.

"No more boyfriend, no more home, no more car. You're one hell of a vulnerable girl, aren't you?"

"And you're one hell of a brave boy for admitting what you did."

I feel unstoppable. I know Bennett is a dangerous man, but I feel braver than him. I know I am. I took more shit than he ever did.