Page 164 of Only for Him

He roars, so raw it peels the air.

He fucks me through the words, through the hate, through the blood and the fire. When he comes, he slams so deep I swear I feel it in my bones.

He bites into my flesh, consuming me even as my pussy takes all he has to give. His cum pours into me, wave after wave, more heat than I can take, not enough—never, ever enough.

Until, against my will, the pleasure bursts open and swallows me whole. It rips through me, so strong I arch off the floor. I see white, then red, then oblivion.

42

GISELLE

ONE WEEK LATER

WhenI finally agreed to meet Ida for a drink, it wasn’t just because drinking sounded better than rotting in bed, and not just because I felt guilty for blowing her off for so long.

It’s because I needed to get away from the smell of blood.

I scrubbed the floors twice, bleached the couch legs, tossed every towel, but it’s still there.

And then, every once in a while, I swear I can smell him, that ghost of danger curling through the air as he fucked me.

My body doesn’t know it’s not real. Every time, I combust into shimmering, slick throbbing, and hear the symphony of being fucked the way only Roman can.

It’s not like before, when I’d come home and know he’d been there.

Now it’s just my own sickness and need trying to trick me.

A memory that turns me into a wanting machine, programmed only to ache and hate.

But, it turns out, the bar isn’t much better, because all I feel there is the absence of Roman’s surveillance. It’s rainy out, the crowd is sparse, and I don’t feel the familiar prickle of a rabbit stalked by a wolf. He’s not here, because he’s not watching me.

My chest aches so sharply I think my heart might fall out and splatter on the floor. Maybe it should. Because every beat is just another shard, stabbing me from the inside out.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

Just walked away with Russo’s body slung over his shoulder, like everything between us hadn’t just shattered.

And I shouldn’t fucking care.

Because I still hate him, right?

I haven’t felt pain like this sinceSerena. And God help me, this might be fucking worse.

That grief was clean, but this? I can’t make sense of what happened. I can’t make sense of anything anymore.

How do I look at Roman and not see the man who crossed a line I was too afraid to?

How do I not love him for it?

If I hate him as much as I tell myself I do, shouldn’t I be at the DA’s office right now laying out the case for arresting him?

Then again, maybe I don’t need to bother. Maybe Pavel will do it for me. I’m the one who gave Pavel the map to find Roman. If he dies, it’ll be my fault.

I’ll have killed him just as surely as if that bullet had hit an artery.

Great. Now we can add fear and guilt to the list of shit I’m feeling that I don’t fucking want to be feeling.

Fuck this.