Page 37

“It looks like you’re spreading your legs for a stranger like some kind of easy whore. Tell me he paid you in advance at least.”

“You watched me enough to know I don’t get paid for this.” I look down at the ground before catching his stare through lowered lashes, not willing to vocalize what I suspect now to be true.

You enjoyed watching back then, didn’t you?

I roll my eyes as his jaw clenches,crossing my arms. “It’s not very enlightened of you to denigrate the world’s oldest profession.”

“Comparing sex work to whatever this is would likely be considered an insult, I suppose. My apologies,” he says, “to them.” Yet, he appears far from disgusted as he closes the distance between us. “You reek of desperation, Gwyn. What is it you’re trying not to feel?”

Adam’s blood has dulled my high, and yet the air between us crackles with something potent.

Roman seems to be stuck, caught between action and inaction.

And aren’t I the same? Because on one hand, every nerve ending in my body is on high-alert, desperate for him to touch me, but on the other, my mind shudders at the thought.

Because how am I any different than what he suggests if I want him to fuck me in this dirty bathroom?

If the goal is to avoid emotion, Roman is the worst person for the job.

With him, there isn’t a choice but to feel.

Even before he came into this room, each of my senses knew the exact shape and weight of him.

Roman has ownership over far too much already, like a terminal illness when I’ve exhausted every treatment.

It’d be better to just give into my inevitable death. Take me off life support and call it quits.

And still, my thighs are slick with want.

I swallow before lifting my chin in defiance. “A woman has needs,” I say, weakly.

Roman’s answering grin is sharp, a razor-toothed predator that has scented blood in the water. He stalks closer, and there’s barely room to breathe between us. He grabs my chin, his large thumb rubbing over my lower lip.

“So soft,” he whispers, frowning at my mouth. “But we both know you need it rough. You need the pain, don’t you?” Despite myself, I nod. “Did you really think a stranger could give you that, sweetheart?”

“What’s the harm in trying?” I ask, spectacularly aware of the way our bodies align. It would be too fucking easy for him to pick up where Adam had left off.

“I’ll go get him for you, if you want to risk disappointment.”

“No,” I blurt, and he strikes the moment he confirms my weakness.

“Beg me, then.”

My mouth goes dry. “Fuck you.”

“You can’t hide how needy you are right now.”

“I’m not going to beg.”

“Lie to me then, for old time’s sake. Tell me he touched you better than I can. Tell me he filled you up just like you need.”

It doesn’t matter what he thinks he witnessed because I did almost fuck that man, fully intended to, and yet Roman stands here, clearly wanting what he shouldn’t have.

I’m panting, unable to speak, and his hand brushes over exposed skin where my shirt has ridden up.

I take a deep breath, hoping to find some clarity, but it’s all mint and leather and smoke.

Maybe I should just pull the fucking plug.

“Lie, and tell me you don’t need me.”

“Please,” I whisper, and the corner of his mouth lifts as I admit my defeat. His large hand wraps around my throat, and he tilts my chin up. Eye to eye, I can’t breathe. I’m like putty in his hands, wanting to lie just because he told me to.

But I refuse because there’s no use in pretending.

“You can’t, can you? This is the line you won’t cross, huh? Dirty, little slut can’t lie about how bad she really needs me?”

“Would you just shut up and?—”

He pulls my shirt over my head, throwing it at the sink across the room.

The ruby fabric puddles in the bowl like blood.

I stare at it as Roman dips lower, cupping my breast in one hand as his fangs trace threateningly over touch-deprived skin.

I groan as he slips my bra down and tongues one sensitive peak.

“Seems like you need me too,” I say, and he bites down. I hiss, closing my eyes and arching my back. My flesh presses against his sharp teeth, and I need more. He’s gripping my waist, squeezing handfuls of skin and soft flesh, but I relish the pain.

“Need to get inside,” he says, desperate, before he straightens.

When he bites my neck, my body moves on its own, hips rolling against him as I search for friction.

He drinks deeply before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the wound he created.

I’m not sure if it’s my blood or my assertion that he needs me too, but he’s lost all constraint.

His hands palm me and grab me and squeeze and pinch and it’s all I can do to stand still.

Because I love it.

I match his frenzy as I tug at his t-shirt. He swats me away, and a growl tears up my throat. I want his skin on mine, but he spins me away from him. He flips my skirt up over my ass, and the clink of his belt buckle makes me clench.

But at the last second, when he’s rubbing that thick cock down my opening, I turn around.

“We’re not gonna pretend this never happened,” I say. “Look me in the eye while you toss aside your hatred just to fuck me.”

His chest heaves for just a moment, indecision warring on his terrifyingly beautiful face, but then he’s bending his knees and aligning his length once more. He grips my thigh, pulling it up high on his waist to get the right angle. And then he’s sliding into me—with force.

There’s only a bit of resistance, and he doesn’t hesitate to push his way through it. It’s perfect and it’s everything, and I could die like this. I scream as he thrusts, and he leans forward to bite my lip. It feels nearly as intimate as a kiss.

“Hatred’s found a home here, Gwyn. There’s no tossing it aside,” he says, and he’s using both hands to hold me and grip me and guide my body as he fucks me harder than I’ve ever been fucked in my life.

The sounds he coaxes from me are barbaric as he pulls out entirely before slamming back in.

I wonder if it hurts him too, as he hits the deepest parts of me.

The pain reverberates through my core, but it feels good.

It feels overwhelming. It’s all there is and all I need and all I want.

Tears stream down my cheeks, but I don’t ask him to stop.

I nearly slide down the tile, scrambling for purchase. Roman adjusts, hauling me up to wrap my arms around his neck as he slams us against the wall. He’s unable to move so drastically in this position, motions slowing as he still manages to push deep. Fuck if I don’t love every moment of it.

He’s biting my neck again, and it’s probably for the best that I can't see his face because stupid words I should never say bubble up my throat as he brings me to the brink. Silly ideas that I’ve encountered after a sleepless night dance on the tip of my tongue, and I bite them back as he takes from my body what he needs and gives me everything I’ve been looking for.

He breaks free from my flesh, letting out a breathy moan that gives me goosebumps as he continues to piston into me.

But then he slips his hand between us, thumb finding my clit, and I bite him just to keep myself from speaking it all out loud.

Because he won’t believe it.

Because he will believe it, but it won’t stop him from hating me.

Because I deserve his hatred.

He groans, slowing down, allowing himself to push deep and hold there.

Pull out and repeat, making sure I feel every fucking inch as I take him.

His blood tastes the same as it did before, and being this close, being so fully enveloped by him and his taste and his smell and his body, makes my errant thoughts seem like a recitation of a prayer.

I’m nearly unraveled by his thumb’s firm ministrations against my clit, and I must lose my mind because I’m opening my mouth when I should take a vow of silence instead.

“Some of it was true,” I murmur against his warm skin, praying to his rage and his violence and hoping for an act of contrition that will absolve me of some of the guilt I carry. “Most of it.”

At first I don’t think he hears me, his stuttering breath matching each thrust of his body into mine, but when I start to repeat myself, the hand he was using to bring me to orgasm comes up between us, and he presses it against my mouth as he continues to fuck me—harder now than before.

“I don’t fucking care, Gwyn,” he says between thrusts. “This isn’t some sort of homecoming. This is a goddamn death march.”

And then there are no more words, no more pauses, just swift and thorough strokes, bringing me to the edge and pushing me over into the abyss.