“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t like being told hard truths?”
“You’re the one who doesn’t. You were pissed off even before you found out about the picture because I told you facts your little moral compass doesn’t approve of.” He shoves me down against the counter and I buck, but he pins me in place by the nape, so I have no choice but to hold on to the edge of the marble. “But here’s the thing, I’m not going to lie to protect your fragile little emotions. What’s so fucking special about emotions anyway? You think you’re great because you have them? Here’s the thing, you see me and you’ll continue to fucking see me, Glyndon. Empty shell, devil side, and all.”
He’s mad. No, probably enraged.
I’ve started to notice that he only calls me by my name when he’s angry.
The sound of his zipper echoes in the bathroom, followed by a slap on my arse cheek. I yelp, but it’s drowned by a moan when he enters me from behind.
I’m supposed to be sore, but the moment he’s fully sheathed inside me, I let out a small whimper.
“Fuck, I’ll never get tired of this,” he murmurs with obvious lust, then thrusts inside me with the rhythm of a madman.
I want the earth to open up and swallow me rather than feel the onslaught of both pleasure and pain.
All of a sudden, he tugs my head up by the hair and makes me stare at the stranger in the mirror.
Killian is behind me, tall like a god and sinister like the devil. His face is hard, his features dark with both lust and domination.
And me?
I’m bent over, being used and abused and utterly dominated by him, but instead of pain, my eyes shine with erotic pleasure. My lips are parted, and my nostrils are flaring.
His hold on my hair makes the scene even more disturbing. Wrong.
Carnal.
“Look at how much you want this, baby. You’re about to cry for it.” He slows his rhythm but deepens it until my hip bone hits the edge of the counter. “Next time, you don’t question that you’re mine, you don’t go around ghosting me for it, and you sure as fucking fuck do not push me away. Is that clear?”
I dig my nails into the marble, feeling every stroke, every burst of pleasure inside.
His teeth meet the flesh of my throat and he bites down, so hard that I shriek.
“Is that fucking clear, Glyndon?”
“No…” I glare at him in the mirror and he bites the spot next to it.
A sob leaves me this time, but the onslaught of pain adds to the friction his cock causes.
“We’ll try again. Is that fucking clear?”
“I don’t want to be yours.”
“Not your call to make.”
“I don’t want to lose myself,” I admit, tears gathering in my cheeks.
“You won’t.”
“How would I know? You’re getting your way with me.”
“It’s up to you whether I punish you and you don’t enjoy it or I actually bring you pleasure.” He rolls his hips and hits a spot inside me that whitens my vision for a brief second. “Say you’re mine, baby.”
I purse my lips, but the fight in me is long gone. I still murmur. “I’ll never be yours.”
“Terrible fucking mistake.” His rhythm turns berserker and it’s intense, so intense that I cry.
So intense that I wish I could die and orgasm at the same time.
But he makes me come again and again, demanding that I say the words.
I don’t.
He could kill me and I fucking wouldn’t.
This is the last part I have of myself, and I vehemently refuse to hand it over.
He said he wouldn’t lie to me.
I will.
Until he finally lets me go.
27
GLYNDON
I never knew life could be this hectic, absolutely foreign, and downright…surreal.
It’s been a week since Killian fucked me against the bathroom counter—or more like punished me.
He’s been punishing me ever since.
Yes, he lets me come, even goes as far as making me beg for an orgasm, and while he takes pleasure in satisfying me, he also likes proving his domination and the fact that he holds all the cards.
He picks me up and throws me down, with his fingers on my throat and his cock wreaking havoc inside me. He bites and slaps and leaves all sorts of hickeys and bruises, especially where everyone can see.
He makes it his mission to be touching me somehow in public, whether with his arm around my waist or shoulder, or my hand tucked in his. Anything that will let the world knows that I belong to him.
That no one dares to ‘look at what’s his,’ as he so eloquently told me.
Unlike what I predicted, however, he hasn’t tried to force my friends to accept him. Instead, he’s used a manipulative approach like the way he got Bran to his side.
He’s barged into our circle, without so much as asking for permission, and sits with us for lunch—that he makes for me every day now. He indulges in everyone’s interests and has made them slowly come out of their shells and accept him.
Never once has he used violence or threatened them—that’s obviously just reserved for me.
As for their reactions, they differ. Ava is all for me getting laid, Cecily still doesn’t trust him, Annika seems like she feels sorry for me more than anything, Remi kind of found out about it last and became adorably dramatic, and Creighton just doesn’t care.
When I told Killian that Remi is like the funniest ever, he didn’t appear amused.
If I thought Killian was overbearing before, I’ve come to learn that he’s nothing short of a dictator. Not only does he want all his orders met, but he also has zero tolerance for opposition.
The more I say no, the more ruthless he becomes. The harder I fight, the more severe my ‘punishment’ is. And that can happen anytime, anywhere. Whether it’s in his car—that he got fixed in record time—his room, my room—after he sneaks in from the balcony—or at the firefly lake, that’s sort of become our meeting spot.
Bottom line is, I’m getting trapped deeper into the web he’s been customizing for me and I’m not sure of the way out.
Do I even want a way out?
Killian is not totally a devil and can actually be nice. He prepares all my meals, and makes sure I eat my food and drink my water—he totally sounded like a doctor when he ordered that.
The other day, I caught him watching Inception and he said he wanted to see it again and imagine me watching it for the first time. Totally didn’t like it when I said Leonardo DiCaprio is my celebrity crush, though.
Anyway, he shows interest in my interests, has subscribed to a shit ton of art magazines and bought me a premium palette just because he felt like it.
Then he told me to paint him fucking me with it, the bastard.
As if that’s not enough, he always makes me talk about my art, my friends, and my family. He even chooses to do it when my guard is down, after sex, because he knows I become more open then.