I didn’t come here for multiple rounds or even to fuck at all. I’m here so Anastasia will stop looking at me, so she’ll stop being attuned to me when she has no business to.
She turns around and slowly gets into a kneeling position, then stares up at me. My cock twitches at the view of her completely naked. There are a few red marks on her pale skin from when I gripped her—around her neck, on her wrists, and on the creamy flesh of her breasts. Her nipples have become red and puffy from my assault. Her lips, too. They’re swollen, plump, and tempting me to shove my dick between them.
But what really gets me is the look in her eyes, the satisfaction in them, the fucking pleasure that she’s not ashamed to show.
Because we’re compatible, she and I. Other women wouldn’t appreciate the roughness and dirty sex, but my Anastasia gets off on it.
Wait. My?
Since fucking when did I start thinking of her that way in my mind?
I need to go home and erase these cancerous thoughts from my head.
This is fucking.
Only fucking.
I haven’t taken even one step when she asks, “Do you want to grab something to eat?”
I should turn and leave. Should ignore that fuck-me look in her eyes or the hope in them. If it were any other situation, I would personally crush that hope.
But I don’t.
I go against my principles one more time and stay.
And the shadows have no say in it this time.
19
ANASTASIA
I think I did something wrong.
Because the tension that’s been floating in the air for the past half hour is suffocating.
Even more than when he fucked me on the floor, face down, and made me come the strongest I ever have.
Without a condom.
Again.
But for some reason, that doesn’t make me mad. Deep down, I liked the sensation of his hot cum inside me and the friction of his skin against mine.
In fact, I liked it so much, I might be a little bit obsessed with it. And his rough dominance.
And devious fucking.
And everything about him, really.
But that’s wrong. I shouldn’t be so tangled up with him that I can’t escape his trap.
Even now, I can’t stop staring at him, at his broad shoulders that are stretching his shirt. But that’s not the only thing straining against his shirt; there’s also his bulging biceps, his pectoral muscles, and even his abdomen.
A wave of heat slaughters the fairies in my stomach and I clench my thighs together to trap whatever sensation is trying to escape.
I pulled on my hoodie earlier, but I couldn’t locate my panties, so I’m bare and that feels so revealing. Vulnerable, even.
My breathing is harsh and I’m glad I put on my “Oldies” playlist when we sat down so he can’t hear the loud inhales and exhales or how much I’m crossing and uncrossing my legs.
Besides, even on a low volume, my playlist gives me peace and a sense of courage. It’s even stronger than liquor in that department.
We’re sitting across from each other at the coffee table, eating the pizza I ordered. Or, I’m nibbling; he’s studying my small place with a critical eye. From his point of view, this must look so subpar. There are smoke lines on the cracked ceiling that is decorated by some star drawings the previous tenant left behind.
My furniture is sparse to none. Since this is a studio apartment, I only have a sofa that can be turned into a bed and a table—the one we’re sitting around. On the floor.
But he’s not looking at those, his attention is on the clothes scattered everywhere and the dishes piled up in the sink.
“I was going to clean them,” I blurt.
He focuses back on me with a small smirk. “Did I say anything?”
“I can tell you were going to.”
“You can tell how?”
“Well, people like you don’t appreciate the chaos.”
“People like me?”
“Prim and proper.”
“Liking things organized doesn’t have anything to do with being prim and proper.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No. You’re living proof of that.”
“How is that?”
“You’re prim and proper yourself, but you’re not organized.”
“I’m…not prim and proper.”
“Wearing lace panties, drinking water with a straw, and always keeping your nails clean and trimmed says otherwise. Besides, your manner of speech is calm and measured, as if you were taught by private tutors to speak a certain way.”
My mouth falls open and the slice of pizza remains suspended mid-air. How and when the hell did he even notice those things?
Hell, even I don’t pay attention to half of them.
I should’ve known he’d be a danger to me. I should’ve pushed him away harder when I could’ve.
But that’s not possible now, is it?
Not when I’ve become inexplicably addicted to him, to his ethereal face and that delicious accent in his deep voice.
Not when seeing him brings a sense of peace I’ve never experienced before.
He leans back on his hand, the gleam in his eyes so similar to a predator who’s enjoying toying with his prey. “Tell me, what made you prim and proper, Anastasia?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I take a bite of my pizza.
“Let me guess. It has something to do with your real identity, which is why you changed it. Was it suffocating where you came from? Is that why you left?”
My ears heat, but instead of playing into his hands, I strike back. “How about you?”
“What about me?”
“How did you become prim and proper?”
“Again, I’m not prim and proper, but I did have a cool foster father who saved me and my twin sister from the slums. It’s because of him that I changed from an ugly duckling to a beautiful swan.” He winks, but there’s no playfulness behind it. If anything, it seems like a camouflage for something dark and sinister trying to peek through.
“How about your parents?” Usually, I wouldn’t ask. I don’t really get curious about people in general, because I’d rather not get involved, but I am curious about him.
About the reason behind the darkening in his golden eyes.
He takes a bite of the pizza, chews slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. “Never knew my father, and my mother was a whore, who was as clueless as us about the identity of the man who impregnated her. When she got mad at us when we were six, she said we were the product of a gang bang from which she received her stash of drugs for the month, and the only reason she kept us was because many of her clients had pregnancy and lactation kinks.”
I gulp the mouthful of food, but that has less to do with the information and more to do with his tone when he talked about his mother.
In all my life among monsters, I’ve never heard someone speak with so much venom and pure hatred about their parent. It’s as if he wishes she were on the edge of a cliff so that he could push her off and watch as she meets her demise.
Knox leans back on his palm again and tilts his head to the side. “Now that the boring information is out of the way, why don’t you tell me about your parents?”
“What about them?”
“You mentioned your mum was abused and since you spoke about her in the past tense, I assume she’s no longer alive?”
The food gets stuck in my throat and it takes me a few swallows before I can push past the clog that’s built up there. “She’s not.”
“How about your father?”
“He’s around…”
“And?”
“What?”
“Are you close?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Do you not want to be around him?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
I tighten my hold on the slice of pizza until it’s almost crushed. “Because.”
“I see. Is he the reason behind the identity change?”
My head jerks and I realize my mistake when he smiles in that predatory way.
“So he is.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Then what do you want to talk about? How about how suspicious you are or…” he trails off when the opening of “Nothing Else Matters” by Metallica echoes from my phone. “You get a small pass for having good taste in music.”
My eyes bug out. “You like Metallica, too?”