He’s not even really fucking me and I’m already close to coming.
Curse is wrong. I do deserve this. And I do want this.
There’s an ugly sort of darkness inside me. The kind that recognizes his.
The kind that was made to answer it.
Maybe this is why Curse is the first man I’ve ever wanted. The first person who’s ever made me aroused. Not because I loved him before. Not because of who he once was.
But because of who he is now. A monster that won’t give me any mercy. Because mercy isn’t what I need. I need pain and pleasure and the suffocation of every thought in my reeling head.
“Put your legs closer together,” he orders, fisting my wet hair and dragging my head back towards him. “Squeeze me. Fuck.”
I clench hard, not even necessarily because he just told me to, but because I’m coming and I can’t fucking help it. I trap his brutal hardness between my spasming thighs, moaning hoarsely. Terrific slaps ring out as Curse slams his body against mine, rhythmic and rough. If it weren’t for the wall ahead of me, I would have collapsed by now.
He swears again, another rasping “Fuck,” and then he’s coming, too, driving hard, shooting semen against the glass wall ahead of me. He’s still holding my hair and my left hip. My skin screams. My pussy squeezes over and over and over again.
When he finally releases me and pulls his softening cock from between my thighs, it feels like a loss I should be grieving.
“Stay here,” he says to me for the third time this morning.
I do.
Chapter 20
Curse
Aurora remains in place while I finish my shower. It’s hard for me not to look at her. Naked and wet and fucking celestial in her beauty. Her eyes are hooded as she leans against the wall. She does not speak. I wonder how much she’s regretting what just happened.
I don’t. I can’t remember the last time I actually regretted something.
She needed to see that little slice of what I’d actually do to her. And it really was just a slice. I didn’t go anywhere near my full desire for her. I held myself back.
Barely.
I don’t want gentle.
Yeah. She doesn’t have a fucking clue. Even if she did come. If it were good, and it were right, and it could make her happy, she wouldn’t be standing there completely fucking zoned-out like she is right now.
We will get married. We will have sex once. And then I won’t fucking touch her again.
It has to be this way. The divorce with its attached conditions is the perfect solution. I get what I want – to never have to watch her marry someone else.
And she gets to be free of me.
After a month, no one will gain anything by coming after her. She’ll be safe.
That’s what fucking matters, in the end. That she’s safe from all of them. And safe from me. Because my desire to protect her extends most of all to myself. But it’s being chipped at. Worn away by the hunger for her that I never fucking saw coming.
“You’re all packed?” I say when I turn off the water. She breathes in deeply, her wet eyelashes fluttering, and straightens up. Like I’ve just woken her from a dream.
“Yes. Pretty much.”
“Good. Bring everything you need. I don’t know when we’re coming back here.”
Of course, I can buy her anything she wants or needs in Ontario, too. But I don’t want her to be without something necessary because she’s left it behind.
“How long is the drive?”
