“Only when I don’t get my way,” he says with a haughty smirk.
“Has anyone told you lately that you’re an arrogant asshole?”
“And you’re a stubborn bitch,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Now get on your knees and show me how much you hate me.”
“By the way, I stole your gun,” I say, pulling it from my waistband. “I may just keep this, though. In case you piss me off.”
He snorts. “You couldn’t shoot someone if your life depended on it.”
“You sure about that?” I ask, raising the gun. My heart is hammering in my chest as I aim it at him. I don’t like guns. I prefer fists. But he taught me that my fists aren’t enough when the person is as crazy as everyone in his family.
He leans back on his hands and gives me a challenging look. “So, shoot me.”
“I could,” I say. “But I have no reason to.”
“Don’t threaten to shoot someone if you don’t mean it,” he says. “It makes you look weak. Now stop waving that thing around and come here.”
He pulls me onto his lap, scooting back so I’m resting on the edge of the bed between his thighs. “Once you take the safety off, you’re committed,” he says, putting his hand over mine and pulling the safety off. “Then you aim for his torso if you want to cause real damage or kill. Don’t aim for his head unless he’s standing still and you’re a good shot. It’s too small. He’ll go down if you hit a major organ, and you can get close enough to shoot again, get that kill shot.”
He skims his lips over my ear. “You hold onto this as long as you’re in this house. But don’t ever point it at me again unless you plan to pull the trigger.”
“You want me to shoot you?”
“I’d rather you shoot me than make empty threats,” he says, putting the safety on before taking the gun and setting it on the bedside table. “I’ll get you lessons at the gun range so you know what you’re doing and can hit a target. I have a feeling you’ll be a natural.”
I don’t have much experience with guns, but I grew up in a trailer park where all the little white trash kids shot beer cans with bb guns for hours on end, so hopefully my aim isn’t too shabby.
“I’ll do my best to make you proud,” I tell him, twisting around to kiss him.
His hand slides around to my belly, pressing me back against him. “I’m going to shower off,” he says. “But first, tell me who you belong to?”
“You,” I say, kissing his nose lightly. “Of course.”
“Good,” he says. “Just making sure we’re past your little rebellions. Now, my little slut, you’ll do as I say. So get on your hands and knees and play with your pussy until I get out of the shower. I want you dripping wet when I come out. Understand?”
I swallow, my knees squeezing together involuntarily at his dirty command. “You don’t want to play with my pussy?” I ask, smiling up at him and biting my lip.
“No,” he says, gripping my hair and pulling my head back. “I want to use your pussy like a cum dumpster. Tonight, all the pleasure you’re getting is what you give yourself. So get started if you want to cum before I’m done with you.”
He slides me off his lap and stands, turning to grab my hair and pull my head back again. He kisses me hard on the mouth. “Now open wide for me, my pretty plaything,” he murmurs, pulling back, his dark gaze heated as it locks on my mouth.
I open my lips, wincing as he tightens his grip in my hair.
“Wider,” he commands.
I open my mouth, and he leans down, working his tongue around before spitting into the back of my throat. I swallow reflexively, gagging a little, tears blurring my eyes. He smiles, stroking my throat with his free hand. My cheeks heat with shame and arousal at once.
“That’s my little whore,” he says. “Are you wet already?”
“A little,” I admit.
“I want you soaking,” he says, releasing me and striding into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
I don’t know if I should be pissed or turned on, but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be both. But he’s always done this to me. We’re both fucked up, and we’re even more fucked up together. Maybe that’s why it works.
I make sure the door is locked before I strip off my clothes, thankful for the moment alone to clear my head of the lust fever he puts me in when he calls me those things. I climb onto the bed and slide my hand between my legs, touching myself. Suddenly, all I can think about is how many times I’ve done this before—gotten on the bed and waited for a man to use me for his own pleasure, caring nothing for mine.
Hands and knees… Good girl.