Mateo
[THURSDAY]
“Did you have to fucking hurt her?”
Mia’s breath hitches as she draws in an unsteady breath beneath me, her body moving in tandem with mine. Her face is turned away from me. She stares hard at the bedside table. Not because my gun’s there this time—it’s not. She just doesn’t want to look up at me. A flash of displeasure hits me. I hope it’s displeasure. It feels uncomfortably close to guilt.
Not guilt over performing the action itself, guilt because Adrian was right when he stormed into my study earlier and threw a pile of soiled bed sheets on the floor in front of my desk. The act itself is a necessary part of my plan, but I probably don’t have to make it physically hurt her. Not that much. Not anymore, at least. I’ve already checked that off the list. Her hatred for me won’t evaporate into thin air if I ease back a little—I’m already the bad guy here. That needs no further clarification.
As a result, however, this is taking longer than it needs to. Judging from the bed sheets Adrian left in my study like an asshole this afternoon, and the micro-bursts of pain that flash across her face from time to time as I move inside her (even though I’m being much gentler), I’m still hurting her.
In the interest of speeding things up, I lean down and kiss her. She doesn’t kiss me back. Irrational aggravation shoots through me before I can process and dismiss it. Of course she doesn’t want to kiss me, but fuck it, she’s going to anyway.
Her gaze darts to my face, the most absurd flash of betrayal in her pretty blue eyes. I don’t know why. I’ve made her kiss me all three times; it shouldn’t be a surprise at this point.
Her continued surprise leads me to the ridiculous supposition that she somehow keeps waiting for me to be better, to stop what I’m doing, but it’s too absurd to consider. She can’t still think for a moment that I have a conscience; I’ve given her loads of evidence otherwise.
“Kiss me back,” I order, measuring out just enough meanness that she obeys.
Her kiss is tentative at first. She forces herself to do as I’ve commanded, but there’s no heart in it—not to mention the tears still clinging to her eyelashes and dampening her cheek—so it doesn’t help me out much. I bring a hand to her face, cupping it so I have more control as I deepen the kiss, turning it from a pitiful performance to… something. A gasp of surprise escapes her. Her hand moves to my chest like she’s going to try to push me away, but her muscles seem to give up halfway through and she just leaves it there.
That’s better.
With a little help, I finally reach my climax, emptying myself inside her body.
As soon as I move off her she tries to withdraw physically, curling up on her side away from me.
I don’t even give her a minute to recover. I reach over and drag her back against me. She huffs in protest, but she already knew it was coming.
“Do you post-rape snuggle all your victims?” she asks, her tone biting.
I smile, even though she can’t see me. Her back is to me and she’s angry already, but I can’t resist lightly mocking her. “Of course not; you’re special.”
She utters a sound of sheer disgust even as she pouts at me—somewhat ridiculous, given my cum is still inside her and my arms are wrapped securely around her tiny waist. Here she is, completely at my mercy, and she pouts. It’s kind of adorable, actually. At least until she tentatively asks, “So, you have done this before?”
I should lie. I should tell her I have. I’ve already chopped down the tree; if the point is to convince her I’m the worst person she can imagine—not even a falsehood, frankly—I should add every single log to the fire.
“No,” I murmur, instead. For whatever reason, it doesn’t sit well with me to tell her that lie. I don’t know why. I tell myself it’s overkill. She already gets the message, there’s probably no need to bang her over the head with it.
Another minute or so passes in silence. It’s pleasant silence though, at least for me. It’s been ages since I’ve brought a woman into this bed. I don’t bring strangers home, so Beth was the last woman who stepped foot in this bedroom to do anything but clean it. Mia’s presence here reminds me how nice it can be—even though this one in particular hates my guts. I guess the last one did, too. At least this one lets me hold her. Not that she has much of a choice, but it doesn’t matter. It still feels nice.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she finally asks.