He pushes my jeans down, cups my sex again, and he’s right. I’m wet. Wet for him. I feel it. Hear it as he slips his fingers between my folds. He kisses my mouth, my cheek, brings his mouth to my ear.
“I know what you did before,” he whispers.
He’s playing with my clit and what I want to do is wrap my legs around his hips. I want him inside me. His fingers aren’t enough. But I can’t do that. I won’t.
“Stop,” I try. It’s weak though. We both know it.
“No.” He spins me around so one side of my face is pressed to the door. I hear him unzip his jeans and a moment later, he’s inside me. My eyes close in relief as I feel myself stretch to take him. He groans and when he moves, he smashes my pelvic bone against the door.
“You like this,” he says.
“Harder.”
He grips a handful of hair, lifts me up, walks me to his desk. He shoves the papers off, swiping everything to the floor as he bends me over it, as he bends over me, his cock moving inside me, his breath at my ear.
“I know about The Black Swan.”
I shudder like the room is freezing but it’s not. He can’t know about that. Can’t know it’s where I go when I need to take back control. When I start to feel things slipping away. I arch my back. “Harder.” I squeeze my eyes shut, try to turn my face so I can’t hear him, but he won’t let me. The sound of our fucking is wet, and his breath is shallow. Sweat drops from his forehead onto my closed eyelid, slides over the bridge of my nose.
“I know, Cilla. I know.”
I’m going to come soon. “You know that I fuck strangers? Good for you.”
He draws back a little, slides his hand over my belly, down to my clit. I let out a moan when he pinches it.
“Open your eyes. Look at me.”
I do, craning my neck a little. I see him at a strange angle, from the corner of one eye.
“It’s about control with you. You never let them have it. But with me, you give it up.”
“You take it. You make me.”
“You need me to make you.”
I don’t speak. What is there to say?
“Did you even come with them?”
“Fuck you.”
“No, I’m fucking you, sweetheart. Answer me.”
I’m too close and I want to let go, but I’m fighting it too. Fighting him.
“Answer me, Cilla. Did you come with them like you do with me?”
I shake my head, close my eyes.
“I didn’t think so.” He pulls out, thrusts in so hard, I cry out, but it feels good. This feels so fucking good. “More?”
I nod.
“Say it.”
I groan. I want this. I want it so badly.
“Beg for it, Cilla.”
I’m so close, and he pulls out a little, teasing me with shallow thrusts when I hesitate.
“I hate you.”
“Beg me.”
“Please.” I grunt with one of his thrusts. “Fuck me. Do it hard.” I’m gripping the edges of the desk, a supplicant. “Please.”
“Good girl,” it’s a low, deep growl and I hear the victory in his voice, but at least he stops talking. He’s fucking me harder, deeper, like he’s determined to touch the very core of me, and maybe he does. Maybe I let him. Maybe it’s okay for him to know. For someone to know.
We come at the same time. His groan is muffled in my neck and when I cry out, he closes his hand over my mouth and we’re both breathing hard and fast and when it’s over, when he’s filled me, we slide to the floor together and he holds me between his knees, our jeans half on, half off. I let my head fall into his chest. Let him hold me. We’re both sweating and panting but we don’t talk, not for a long time.
“I know it wasn’t you he touched.” His chin is on the top of my head and the moment his words register, my heart begins to pound. “I know it wasn’t you he raped.”
Slowly, so slowly, I turn my gaze up to meet his. His midnight eyes hold mine, steady, strong, in control.
“I know it was your brother. Is that why you did this? Why you take care of him? Guilt?”
I exhale. Relief softens the tension in my belly. He doesn’t know. I almost want to laugh. It’s sick, this is where I’m sick.
“I know he hurt you to force your brother to cooperate.”
The memory is so vivid, I can almost feel the physical pain of the hammer. Almost hear the sound of my scream.
Of Jones’s never-ending screams.
A tear slides down my face and I look away, unable to stand the pity in his eyes. I’m not weak. This didn’t break me. I refuse to let the fucking memory of it break me now.