As she pants, pain weaves through every breath. She’s wet, stretching around me just right. I’m not hurting her pussy. Not like that, at least.
“Get off me...please,” she begs.
Despite how fucking good she feels around my cock and how much I don’t want to pull out of her, I do. Self-restraint has never been a strong skill of mine, so I struggle between the bit of humanity she draws out of me versus everything I’ve always been.
I get out of bed, snatch the sheet around me, and flip the light switch, illuminating the room. She’s pulled up her pants, but they’re still undone.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” I ask, harsher than I intend, even though her wetness coating my cock makes mealmosttoo hungry to stay off her.
“I—” she begins, but the rest of the words are choked off. Her lip trembles, and she cuts her gaze from mine. Her body shakes, and that broken little girl is suddenly back in front of me.
I sigh, wiping a hand through my hair. I gather my composure as best I can and walk to her side of the bed, a hand still clutching the white sheet around my waist. I lift her chin with the other, forcing her to look at me. “What was hurting you?” I ask again, more forcefully this time. “It wasn’t my cock, so what was it?”
“The bruises,” she whispers.
“On your stomach?” When I rolled her onto her stomach, I was careful with her. I tried to be, at least.
She shakes her head.
“There’s more?” I ask, but I know the answer already. There must be more marks on her skin than what she showed me. I force her to her feet, and she flinches when I grip her bruised wrist. “Show me,” I command. I leave no room for argument.
When I reach out for the buttons on the front of her blouse, she screams out a no thatalmostmakes me stop. I bat her hand away and return to the buttons. She keeps wiggling and fighting me. I release my hold on the sheet, and it falls to my feet as I knock her back into the nightstand. The lamp teeters behind her. I grab her arms and pin them to her sides, and she releases a whimper.
“Stop fighting me,” I seethe.
“Please don’t,” she begs. Her eyes widen with fear, as if she thinks I’ll hate her once I see what waits beneath her clothes. Or at least think differently of her. Her hands go for my wrists again.
“If you don’t keep your hands at your fucking sides, Selena, I’m going to grab my gun, put it up to your pretty little head, and force you to strip for me. Your choice.” She’s gnawing on my last nerve.
Her hands finally fall to her sides and remain there. I work the buttons off, one by one. She keeps her face turned away from me as the fabric spreads on her chest. More bruises. They cover her sternum and wash down her breasts. I can’t even take a moment to enjoy her tits because I can’t believe what I am seeing.
The front of her pants is still undone, but I ignore the brown hair between her legs and focus on another patch of purple peeking from beneath the fabric. I reach for her waistband, and she grabs my wrists with undeniable fear on her face. She’s forgotten the threat I made because what I’m doing is scarier than my gun.
“Leave my pants on,” she pleads.
Absolutely not.
“No, Selena. I’m going to see every inch of you. I need to know where you’re hurt.”
Tears fall down her cheeks, an uncontrolled overflow of her emotional pain. I slide her slacks down and my mouth gapes. More bruises. The worst is a large mark that takes up the entire length of her outer left thigh. I’m guessing that’s what hurt her when I pinned her beneath my weight. My knee dug into that area, keeping her legs together as I pushed deeper inside her. Or it may have been her chest, where her hands would have been pinned beneath her breasts.
“Oh, bunny,” I whisper as I rub my hand up her thigh, making her nearly jump from the pain. I wonder how I didn’t hurt her in the car, but then I remembered that leg would have been cushioned against the back seat when I was over her. It all makes sense.
My erection is gone, and I hang limp between my legs. She cries as she tries to cover herself again. She looks ashamed more than anything, which rubs me in all the wrong ways. Shame isn’t what she should feel. Her fucking husband should carry this burden, not her.
“I’m usually fine with pain,” she rationalizes as she buttons her pants with trembling fingers. “I’m used to it. But your knee pressed right into this bruise”—she touches her left thigh—“and it was too much.”
When she goes to take a breath to keep babbling on, I take the chance to pull her into my chest. She swallows the words instead of continuing. My heart breaks for her, and I don’t understand how it can when I’ve never had one. I’ve never felt sympathy for anyone or anything. But my blame shifts in my selfish mind. If she hadn’t tried to play Sleeping Beauty, I wouldn’t have pinned her like that. I curse myself for putting the blame back on her. I’m the one who was too forceful.
“Sweet bunny,” I whisper, “I’m going to fuck you, and then we’re going back to New York.”
She looks up at me and tries to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “But...why?”
I brush her hair from her face. It’s sticky with the salt of her tears. “Because I’m going to kill your fucking husband.”
She shakes her head. “We can’t.”
I fist her hair. “Which part?”