CHAPTER 7: Fucking Asshole

I shut the door of the guest room so quietly it barely clicked, then leaned my back against it like the wood could hold me upright when my legs didn’t want to anymore.

The hallway had been cold but my room felt colder. Or maybe that was just me, skin fever-hot and trembling, every nerve ending screaming for something I’d been denied twice within five hours.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until I saw sparks.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry again!

But the tears were already there, burning behind my eyelids, because I was so turned on it actually hurt. My clit felt swollen, rubbing against the seam of my shorts with every tiny shift of my hips and sending jolts I had to bite down on a whimper.

I was disgusting.

I was pathetic.

I was losing my fucking mind.

I slid down the door until my ass hit the carpet, knees pulled up to my chest again, the same position I’d started the night in. Full circle. Only now I was worse off than before. Now I knew exactly what Gage's mouth tasted like, exactly how his fingers felt curling inside me, exactly how mercilessly he could fray me and then leave me dangling over the edge.

He’d looked at me like I was a meal he intended to devour, and then had the nerve to tell me I wasn’t ready.

I dragged my T-shirt over my head and threw it across the room. My nipples were so hard they ached, stiff little points begging for a mouth, a hand, anything. I cupped my own breasts and hated how small my hands felt compared to his, how gentle I was when I wanted to be mauled.

A ragged sound slipped out of me, something between a sob and a moan as I crawled to the bed on shaking legs, yanked open the nightstand drawer, and stared at the pathetic collection inside: lip balm, a hair tie, an unopened travel-size bottle of lube I’d bought on a whim months ago and never used. Because Noah was apparently making sure we pace ourselves.

I laughed at that, a cracked, watery sound, and the first tear fell.

I stripped fast, almost ripping the shorts in my hurry to get them off. Naked, I fell back onto the mattress, knees spread wide like I was already being watched. The cool air hit my soaked folds and I jerked, oversensitive, a fresh rush of wetness coating me.

God, I was drenched. I could smell myself and the shame of it only made me wetter.

I dragged a pillow over my face to muffle the sounds I knew were coming, then let my hand slide down my stomach. My fingers trembled so badly I had to press my thighs together just to steady them.

The first touch to my clit was electric. I cried out into the pillow, hips bucking off the bed. I circled once, twice, slow, trying to draw it out, trying to pretend these were his fingers instead of mine. Rougher. Bigger. Crueler.

It didn’t work.

I plunged two fingers inside myself without warning, the way he had, and the sound that tore out of me was feral.

“Fuck!” I cried out, my voice muffled as I fucked myself hard, my palm grinding against my clit with every thrust, chasing the memory of his hand pinning me to the door. I added a third finger and stretched myself open, thighs shaking, while my tears leaked from the corners of my eyes into my hair.

“Mr. Gage,” I whimpered into the pillow, and the name tasted like sin.

I hated how much I wanted him to hear it.

I pictured him standing in the doorway right now, arms crossed, watching me fall apart on my own hand because I was too scared to crawl back and beg. I pictured that cold, controlled mask cracking, pictured him stalking across the room and replacing my fingers with his cock in one brutal thrust.

I wanted him to punish me for touching myself with the thought of him.

I wanted him to own me so completely I never had to make another decision again.

The orgasm was building in my belly, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. My fingers were too small, too soft, and too familiar.

I needed more.

I… needed him.

I rolled onto my stomach, ass in the air, face buried in the mattress, and reached back with both hands. One kept fucking into me, three fingers now curled hard against that spot that made my vision blur, while the other circled my clit in tight, frantic strokes.

My hips rocked shamelessly, chasing friction against nothing, imagining his weight pinning me down, his voice in my ear telling me I wasn’t allowed to come until he said so.

I was crying openly now, ugly sobs that shook my shoulders, snot and tears soaking the sheets. I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop. I was so close, teetering on a knife’s edge, but every time I got near the crest it slipped away again, like even my own body was refusing to give me relief without his permission.

“Please,” I gasped, voice shredded. “Please, please, please…”

I didn’t even know who I was begging.

I shoved a fourth finger in alongside the others and the stretch burned so good I screamed into the mattress. My clit throbbed under my thumb, swollen and hypersensitive, every circle sending sparks up my spine. I was dripping down my wrist, down my thighs, a mess of tears and sweat and my own slick wetness.

I thought of his voice again: I will ruin you so thoroughly you won’t be able to leave on them.

Was that even a threat?

I wanted to be ruined.

I wanted to be broken open and rebuilt.

I wanted to be his.

The orgasm crashed over me without warning, my whole body seizing with my back arching off the bed, as a strangled wail ripped out of my throat.

I came harder than I ever had in my life.

My pussy clenched around my fingers, gushing over my hand, soaking the sheets under me. I kept fucking myself through it, drawing it out until it hurt, until the pleasure tipped into pain and I was sobbing again for an entirely different reason.

When it finally ebbed, I collapsed onto my side, shaking uncontrollably, fingers still buried inside me because I couldn’t bear to pull them out yet.

“Fucking asshole,” I cursed not even sure if it was directed to the father or the son.

Maybe both.

I curled into a ball and let the tears come for real this time. They weren’t even sad tears anymore; they were something else entirely. Relief, maybe. Or grief for the girl I used to be.

I stayed like that for a long time, staring at the wall while the morning light crept across the ceiling.

Eventually I dragged myself to the shower, turned it as hot as I could stand, and stood under the spray until my skin was red and the water ran cold.

I dressed in the plainest, ugliest clothes I owned, which was a baggy sweatpants, and an old college T-shirt with a hole in the hem, because putting on anything pretty felt like a lie now.

“Fuckers,” I cursed again as I collapsed onto my bed.