“You wouldn't,” I growl.
He pauses again, and his expression portrays utter conviction.
“I would do anything to show you that you're mine.”
Somewhere between the beginning of his statement and the end, my heart worked its way inside my throat. I'm unable to speak or swallow, only stare at him in shock, for which he takes as confirmation to keep going as if he didn't just rock me to my core.
I blink, and he's fucking me again, tightening the belt around my throat until black spots swarm my vision, though careful not to cut off my oxygen completely.
This time, he sets a steady yet thorough pace, ensuring to watch my reactions closely. Within half a minute, he's targeted a sensitive spot inside me and focuses on stroking right there until my eyes are fluttering.
It shouldn't be so easy for someone to be able to pick me apart like that, but there's not a single inch of me that gives a fuck right now. I wouldn't even be capable if I tried.
“Cage,” I moan, my brows furrowing as the sensations become too intense. I strain against his hold, attempting to curl my hips forward, if only so it gives me a moment to fucking breathe.
“Where’re you going?” he barks, bringing me back to him. Then, he laughs, the sound savage. “Did you really think I couldn’t break you when you can barely take me?” he questions arrogantly.
“I’m taking you just fine,” I bite out, my eyes threatening to cross when he hits a spot that feels otherworldly.
“Then why are you trying to run away?” he whispers wickedly.
I want to slap him, but I’m so overwhelmed by the pleasure that I can hardly formulate a snappy response.
“Fuck,” I cry, squeezing my eyes shut as he fucks me harder.
“I know you can do better, baby. Let me see you take my cock like a good little slut.”
A sharp moan pours from my throat, followed by his name.
Once more, he's licking along the seam of my lips, as if to taste his name on my tongue. Just as his mouth covers mine, I feel a warm liquid splatter against my chest.
I flinch, my brain beginning to split and latch on to the fact that I'm being covered in more blood. The corner of his mouth tics up, and he releases my jaw—though his hold on the belt keeps me in place—and flattens his palm against my stomach. He groans into my mouth while he smears the liquid up to my breasts.
While my instinct is to recoil from it, Cage only fucks me harder, seeming to get off on my body being covered in it.
It should disturb me. This entire situation is beyond fucked up. Yet, it becomes impossible to feel a damn thing outside of the orgasm looming just beyond the horizon.
Cries pour from my throat, and he swallows them all, proving just how starved he is.
“Don't stop,” I gasp, my voice strained. “Fuck, Cage, please.”
His lips retreat from mine, trailing up along my cheek. I lose all coherent thought, my surroundings becoming disjointed and incomprehensible. The pleasure is like a disease, shutting down my nervous system and taking control. I'm a puppet to the infection, and there's nothing I can do but succumb.
Time stills, and I shatter just as he releases the belt, sending blood rushing to my head, intensifying the explosion detonating throughout my body.
My bones liquefy, and the muscles surrounding them seize. Vaguely, I feel rather than hear the broken cry leave my throat. A sound that quickly morphs into a scream when I feel something sharp bite into my face.
Directly over the scar beneath my eye.
He groans against me, flesh trapped between his teeth, and his body stills before flooding my pussy with his cum.
Burning pain battles with the euphoria rolling through me in harsh waves. It becomes so overwhelming; it feels like I'm on the verge of combusting.
“Cage!” I squeal, and finally, he releases my cheek.
The plunge back to earth is dizzying, more so when he drops his hand from the belt, allowing me to straighten.
My back aches from being in the same position for so long, so I drop forward, catching myself on both hands as I pant heavily.
Fingers brush over my back, and then his thumbs dig into my tailbone, instantly relieving some pressure.
“Jesus, way to remind me I'm not twenty-five anymore,” I groan.
His soft chuckle reaches my ears, and I work up the nerve to straighten again. I cock my head over my shoulder, meeting a stare that hasn't waned in intensity.
His thumb brushes against my scar gently. “I hope you think of me next time you look in the mirror.”
Insecurity rises, and I’m almost embarrassed that he’s focusing on my trauma so plainly laid out on my face. I’ve always hated my scar, and something inside me rebels against him finding a way to make me accept it. Especially seeing as part of me wants to let him.
I narrow my eyes. “That wasn't cool. Don't do that again.”
His smile widens, not the least bit ashamed.
“It didn't stop you from coming all over my cock, did it?”
“Almost.”
A massive lie.
One he clearly doesn't believe by the way his lip crooks higher.
I expect a smart-ass response, but instead, he leans forward and places a kiss over the bite mark. I’m taken aback when he pulls out of me, distracting me from the surprises he keeps throwing my way. Now that I'm firmly back in reality, I'm realizing once again that I'm covered in the woman's blood.
“Let's go shower. Show me around the rest of the house while you're at it,” he suggests casually.
My mouth pops open. “You—what? No. You're not coming to my house again. You haven't been invited!”
He stands and shoots me a cocky grin.
“Baby, if you keep playing hard to get, I'll fucking move in. Now, let's clean up and shower before I decide I'm hungry again.”
He picks up his jeans and begins to slide them on.
And all I can do is kneel on the floor with my mouth agape and stare at his bare ass being covered.
I hate that it feels like it’s too soon.
Molly
Fourteen Years Ago
2008
It's fucking hot outside, but even the suffocating summer air can’t deter the bone-deep chill washing through me, a reaction that only standing in front of my childhood home can evoke.
The home I was sold from.
It’s a small, yellow one-floor house with missing shingles and dirty siding. It'd be considered cute and quaint in a suburb if it wasn’t so broken down. If it fostered a happy family with loving parents.
However, in Reaper Canyon, a town that’s seen more drug overdoses than gender reveal parties, the only thing that’s been born in this shithole is half of my fucking nightmares. The other half were bred by Francesca and her filthy brother.
“This is so going to get you killed,” I mutter aloud .
At any moment, my parents could stumble out the door, lay eyes on me, and call Francesca.
I'd be forced to leave Layla behind.
I don't have much of a heart left to break, but I'd give her the last piece of me if it meant she'd escape this house of horrors.
It took me two days of hitchhiking and bus rides to get here. An adventure that was almost as terrifying as escaping that house. I covered up my scar with dirt and lied to the drivers, telling them my car broke down on the way home from college, and I needed to get home to my sick mom.
By some grace of God, or Zeus, or whoever, the second driver I came across was a sweet old lady who offered me money. Enough to buy a hoodie from the thrift store, get something to eat, and take a bus the rest of the way home.
I got lucky and can only pray that it’s still on my side.
Steeling my spine, I trudge through the useless, rickety chain-link fence surrounding the house, and head toward the back. My feet kick through overgrown grass that nearly reaches above my knees, the blades getting tangled around my worn shoes.