His skin feels like silk wrapped over a boulder. I shudder against him, welcoming the warmth. His erection is pressed against my thigh. I have just enough time to get my fingers out of my soaking slit before he grabs me by the hips and twists me around. He forces me onto all fours and then his cock thrusts inside me, relentless and rough.
I cry out at the aggression of that first thrust. But for as forceful as the first one felt, it’s nothing compared to what comes after.
He fucks me with so much power that I’m afraid my eyeballs will pop right out of my head. It really does feel like he’s a man possessed. And I’m pretty sure I’m the possessor. Which is what gives me the courage to crawl further onto the bed, forcing him out of me.
I twist around before he can grab me. “No,” I say firmly. “I don’t want it like that. I want to look at you.”
His eyes flash before he narrows them. “It doesn’t matter what you want. I’ll take you however I want.”
He plants his hand on my hip but he doesn’t force me back down. As confidence pools in my chest, I turn the tables—I rise up and push him down onto the bed and mount him quickly. I grab his cock, raise my hips, and drop down on top of him, swallowing his cock with my pussy.
A surprised breath escapes from his lips. His hands are heavy on my waist, but he doesn’t throw me off.
I look him in the eyes as I start rocking my hips back and forth. “You want to be angry at me because you need someone to blame? Fine. I get it. But don’t think for one second that I believe you hate me. You love me and it’s fucking killing you.” The truth is, I have no idea if that’s accurate or not. But I’m on a high and the words are flying out of my mouth faster than I can process them. “So you can do what you want with me. Treat me like your whore if it suits you. Fuck me as you please. Just be a man and have the balls to look at me while you do it.”
His eyes churn as he leans up and grabs my ass. I ride him just as hard as he fucked me. Even when my lungs feel like they’re about to burst and my legs start cramping, I keep going. I wait until I feel his body tighten and then I just ride him harder.
Everything gets faster and sweatier and tighter and hotter until boom, he explodes inside me. I milk that orgasm dry and come right along with him, twitching and gasping until my own orgasm has settled.
But the moment my hips stop moving, Uri shoves me off him unceremoniously. He’s up instantly, reaching for his clothes, avoiding my eyes. Within seconds, he’s walking out the door without so much as a goodbye.
The high I was riding—literally and figuratively—comes to a crashing halt. My insides quiver with unease as I grab the sheets and tuck them around me. I can feel the tears coming but I bite them down. If he decides to go back and watch the monitor, I do not want him to see me cry.
So I curl up in bed and cover my face with a pillow, finding whatever solace I can underneath the comfort and warmth of the covers. Somewhere in the middle of my chaotic thoughts and my hurt feelings, I drift off with the lights on.
A sharp pain and a stickiness down between my legs has me bolting upright, ripped from my dreams. I don’t mind so much—my dreams aren’t what they used to be.
I pull off the covers and look down between my legs, expecting to see the streaked signs of Uri’s cum painting me as his.
Instead, I see blood.
That’s when I start to scream.
19
URI
Even the vodka isn’t helping.
Usually, I can count on it to dull my senses, sand down my feelings, suck the harsh color out of everything in my life that I’m trying to escape from. It’s been the secret elixir that’s gotten me through the hardest moments in life.
But vodka is no match for the force of nature that is Alyssa Walsh.
What just happened?
I played right into her hands, that’s what. I promised myself I’d never lose control and then, like the same sick dope fiend hunting for his next fix, I turned that damn monitor on again and watched her strip naked.
I never thought of a pregnant woman as remotely sexual before. But watching her pull off that top, I realized that a pregnant woman is nothing but sexual.
Especially if she’s carrying your babies.
I resisted—right up until she started touching herself. Then all bets were off. My brain shut down. I went into autopilot mode. My instincts took over and before I knew it, I was marching down to the basement without a plan or any sense of control.
Now, I’m back in my seat, staring at the dark monitor that I’m refusing to turn back on as punishment for my weakness. My cock is still wet with her juices. My body slick with her sweat. I can taste her on my tongue and smell her on my skin. Even when she’s not with me, she’s everywhere, all over me, inside and out.
“Fuck!” I yell, slamming my fist down on the table.
Why can’t I get my shit together with this woman? She’s no good for me. She got my brother kidnapped. She got my sister sold. So why the fuck can’t I stay away from her?
Maybe because you don’t really blame her for what happened at all.
I push that voice away. What do I have if I don’t have my anger? What do I do if I don’t have a scapegoat to blame?
My door slams open and one of my security personnel, Chekhov, appears on the threshold looking damp and out of breath. I get to my feet immediately. No one just barges into my office unless there’s a damn good reason.
“What is it?”
“Boss, I heard a scream from inside the basement. I went in to check and—”
I don’t wait for him to finish. The look on his face is all I need to know that something has gone very wrong. I’m already running down the hall towards the basement, pushing past everything and everyone in my way.
When I blow into the basement, I find Alyssa sitting in a pool of blood, staring down, staring at her bloody thighs in confusion.
“Alyssa.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I… I think I’m losing the babies,” she chokes out.
I grit my teeth. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” I scoop her into my arms and turn towards the door. “Chekhov! Get one of the SUVs ready and call Dr. Popov. We’re heading to the hospital.”
She feels unbearably light in my arms. She doesn’t move or fidget as I carry her upstairs. Her head falls against my chest as though the effort of keeping it upright is just too much for her.
I keep her on my lap through the whole ride to the hospital. The slip she’s wearing has mopped up some of the blood, so I’m hoping that it looks a whole lot worse than it is. Every so often, I can feel the moisture from her tears soak into my shirt.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I tell her softly. “You’re gonna be okay.”
She doesn’t say a word. Her face is paler than I’ve ever seen it and the eight-minute drive to the hospital is the longest of my life. I bark at Chekhov twice to drive faster and then I curse at him for driving too fast.
My chest feels tight. It’s like every beat is costing me something. Looking down at her doesn’t help a goddamn thing. She just looks so sad… so lost.