There’s no gentle stroking, no loving preparation. Once he finds my center, he pushes himself inside, unbothered by how very unprepared I am for him. A loud groan escapes from his lips as his nails dig into the skin of my back. He brings himself back out and then slams inside. My muscles tense, my eyes fill with tears, and a tightening sensation claws at my chest. I feel raw and battered by the time he slows his pace. His fingers never find their way to my core again, instead, he holds onto my hip with one hand and my back with the other. He wasn’t being coy when he said he wanted to fuck me hard. In and out, one razor sharp pounding after another, and I’m so tense, so frustrated, so not enjoying this, I’m close to crying again. If I didn’t feel like a whore in that field with Duke, I certainly feel like one now.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks through a grunt. He slows down just a little, and I open my eyes, relieved for a break from the battering he’s doling out.
“No,” I lie. Because I want to give him this, and I need to give myself this. He’s treating me with, maybe, an ounce of kindness, and not much else. My eyes catch sight of the varied mess of open condom wrappers. I’m nothing more than another cum dumpster right now. This is what it means to be a Lost Girl—at the club’s disposal, fucking without emotion, fucking because Forsaken wants to fuck. Not because I want to make love.
These men are off-limits to you, Ruby had said that day at the rest stop. She said it before I even really understood why. Now I do, only it’s too late to avoid getting hurt.
He picks up speed again, and it isn’t long before he’s grunting and jerking behind me, still providing no relief for me. When he stills, I hear him sniffle and mutter, “Fuck.”
Once he pulls out and backs up, I quickly turn over and fold into myself, looking up at him. Blood is streaming from both of his nostrils. He tries, and fails, to wipe it away. Once he gets it under control, he grabs my arms and pulls me out of bed. I don’t fight him. His jaw ticks; his gray eyes stare me down intently. I could convince myself he’s hurting in some way, from the sad look in his eyes, but I’m done trying to convince myself he gives a shit about me. Bringing me to stand before him at arm’s length, he says, “It’s you or my patch. Your pussy’s good, but it ain’t that good.”
He pulls the condom off, tosses it in a nearby overflowing wastebasket, and adjusts his boxers. His eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but directly at me. Before I can stop myself, insults come flying out of my mouth in Italian at rapid speed. Still, he doesn’t meet my eyes. He just ignores me and, after a beat, walks to the door, unlocks it, and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. The last thing I see as he goes is a large tattoo of a Nordic warrior that spans his back from shoulder to shoulder and down to the line of his boxers.
I rush to get dressed, trying to ignore the uncomfortable burn between my legs. Pulling on my pants and then my shirt and jacket, I can’t help but wonder what’s become of me. I’ve lost all control, all sense of morals—everything. Once I have everything as it was when I entered this room, I wait until I have the courage to walk out. I have no idea what’s going to await me. Eventually though, I tell myself that whatever it is can’t be as bad as being stuck in here waiting for Ryan to come back. He doesn’t want me here. He’s made that abundantly clear. I can’t bring myself to cry anymore. I just want to scream and let out some of my anguish and humiliation. I’ve been trying so hard to fit in here, but everything I do just makes me feel even more used and dirty. I hate it. I hate this.
Gathering my courage, I pull on the knob and walk into the hall. Directly to my right is a full living room. Ryan sits—still in just his boxers, in a Lay-Z Boy. Duke is across the room, sitting in a kitchen chair. His emotionless face turns murderous as he looks between me and Ryan. The attention makes me cringe, and want to retreat back the bedroom. But there’s no way out through there. So I soldier on and walk the rest of the way into the room. Forsaken, at least seven in number, sit on couches, and the floor. A few stand. The one on the floor is rolling a joint and lighting it. Ryan leans over, snagging the first hit, completely ignoring my presence. If he’s trying to make me hate him, he’s fucking succeeding.
“Duke’s going to take you home,” he says, not even turning to face me. Duke’s attention snaps to Ryan, his eyes narrowed with anger. Ryan pulls in on the joint, holds it, and then releases the content of his lungs. “Just fucking do it, or she’s going to have to take a cab.”
Duke shoots up from his seat, points a finger at Ryan and says, “We’re going to fucking deal with this later.” Walking over to me, Duke places a hand on my back and leads me out of the house. “Come on, Princess.”
Chapter 19
The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for.
Bob Marley
EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS moment makes me feel weak and exposed. The men in the living room watch as we leave. From the corner of my eye, I see Diesel lean in toward Ryan, who’s bent forward, his full back tattoo proudly on display. Diesel takes a moment just staring at Ryan before shaking his head and saying, “No good, brother. This is no fucking good.”