Page 82 of Viper

“I bet he tastes good,” he whispers. “His dick. His mouth.”

A smile curls my lip. “His mouth tastes divine,” I whisper.

Breaker stiffens, and his grip tightens. “You kissed him?” The words grate out raw, exposing threads of hurt.

He grips the back of my head and spins me. He’s so much larger that when he shoves me forward, I stumble from the force, taken by surprise at his sudden brutality.

But I got exactly what I wanted. My words needled under his skin. And now, rage and hurt make him stronger. Faster. Mean as shit.

My face and chest hit the bed, and it shakes from the impact. He pins me to the bed, and Breaker’s teeth graze my neck, his hot breath on the side of my face like a demon possessed.

“This fucking mouth is mine,” he grates, his cock grinding into my ass. “Fuckingmine.”

I press my palms to the bed and buck him off. He stumbles back, but latches onto my shoulder and shoves me to my knees. They hit with a solid thud, and pain shoots through them. I grind my teeth, the room fading as images from my past take over.

Cold stone floors. Candles. A tub of water. Soiled towels, no longer white.

“Open,” he grates, pulling his cock free. “Look at me. Look at me, filthy boy, and open your fucking mouth.”

A tremor runs through my hands, making me press them to my thighs as I clench my jaw. It must be the dream, because I’ve never had this with him before. Memories or even an ounce of that old fear.

My eyes dart up to meet his. “Fuck you,” I hiss.

He narrows his gaze when I don’t follow his command. And I won’t. Not like this. This isn’t him. I thought I’d want him sick with jealousy, but this is a possessiveness grown from hurt.

Breaker commands me because I let him. Because I like him so starved for me, he can’t stop himself from demanding I give myself to him, and when he does, I feel the pulsing desire to have me, own me, flowing from him, and I soak it up, ravenous for his love.

But right now, anger and hurt taint every word, every demand lined with something cruel. Breaker is gentle in his dominance. He’s safe. The oasis in my anger. The rain to my fire.

Right now he’s red rage and green envy, all because the first man I ever willingly kissed was Striker.

Not him.

When I don’t do as told, he lets out a vicious growl, one hand tangling in my hair, and my head snaps back. When our eyes lock, I see every ounce of hurt.

He has a right to feel anger. To feel this level of hurt. I’ve denied him, letting him love and adore me from afar. And to make things worse, I hurt him more by giving the only thing I could have kept just for him to someone else.

I place my hand on his thigh, but the apology refuses to slip past my lips.

“Open,” he grates again, chest heaving. He slaps his hard cock against my closed lips. “You want a cock so bad, then choke on this one.”

My cock pulses. I grip myself through my pants, trying to ease the pressure building inside. Breaker sees me and kicks my hand away.

“Not until you open that mouth of yours,” he growls. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

My pulse skyrockets, another memory flashing to the forefront of my mind. I shove it down, focusing on his dick. His dark skin and his familiar cedar scent flooding me. But unease creeps through my limbs. Whispers of sin fill my mind. The scent of candles and the stench of vodka, tangling up like a poison.

I shake my head, gripping his thigh as he slaps my mouth with his dick again.

I’m here. Now. Not there.

When I don’t open, he releases his cock and slaps my cheek, just hard enough to sting. “Come on. Open and be my dirty boy.”

My neck heats, flames of humiliation licking up my cheeks. My chest heaves, and I bolt to my feet. He stumbles back, a hand flying to catch himself on the bed rail.

“You want my mouth,” I growl. “You’re going to have to force me.”

I stalk across the room and fling the bedroom door open. It’s early, but the smell of coffee wafts through the house as I head downstairs.