“Put me down!” I wriggle in his hold, but it’s no use.
“No,” he says. He doesn’t sound pissed. He speaks the way he so often does, dispassionate and distant. Like he expected this of me, and can’t even bring himself to be disappointed. “I told you what would happen back in the motel. If you leave the room when I’m showering, and I can’t see you, then I will find you and drag you back.”
This is less dragging and more caveman-style carrying, but his point still stands. He did tell me what would happen.
Part of me didn’t think he’d actually do it.
A worse part of me wanted him to.
He does put me down, but not until we’re both in the shower. He blocks the way out with his body. There’s no way I can get past him. I’d probably slip and crack my skull open if I even tried.
“Stay here,” he says again, scraping his wet hair back from his forehead. The water flattens the natural wave out of it, turns it glossy. Rolls down his body in worshipful rivulets. Down his tattooed neck, the hard lines and planes of his chest and abdomen, until it reaches his…
“Curse,” I gasp. “You’re…”
I can’t make myself say it, but I see it. He’s hard.
He ignores me, grabbing his body wash and squeezing it into his hand. He lathers it up, then begins to rub the suds all over himself. Beneath his arms. Down his belly. All around his groin.
Goosebumps prick along my arms, though I’m not cold. It’s hot in here from the steam. My nipples tighten, too, drawing his eyes like metal to a magnet.
With a sudsy hand, he grips his cock. Starts to stroke it. His eyes on me the entire time.
“Don’t move, angel.”
There it is again. Angel. Does he even realize he’s saying it?
Yet again, I find it impossible to obey him. I move, taking a step closer to him. So close that the slick tip of his cock bumps my belly.
His eyes flash. His free hand splays against the place between my breasts, pushing until he’s got me backed up against the shower wall.
“Don’t provoke me,” he growls, still pumping his cock in a relentless rhythm. “I barely have any control around you to begin with.”
Control?
What is he talking about?
“Why do you need control?”
He grabs me by the shoulder, spinning me around. Scared of falling, I plant my palms against the shower wall to steady myself
“Because when I fuck,” he rasps, “I don’t fuck gentle.”
“Maybe I don’t want gentle.”
Carlo was always gentle. Soft touches and syrupy words.
I want Curse to make me come again.
I want Curse to make it hurt.
There it is again – that bitter, humourless laugh. Like I’ve just said the stupidest thing he can imagine. I gasp, arching, when his cock fits itself into the cleft at the top of my thighs. He doesn’t push inside my pussy, but instead shoves forward, thrusting himself between my legs.
“You don’t even know what you want,” he growls. “But I know what you deserve. And I know it isn’t this.”
Suddenly his thrusts are harder. Faster. Brutal. I can’t even imagine how intense this would be if he were inside me right now. How painful. His fingers dig so cruelly into the flesh of my hips that I already know I’ll be bruised tomorrow.
He’s not even really fucking me and it already hurts.
