Asher stands over me, zipping up and re-knotting his tie, not even bothering to fix his hair. For a long, silent minute, he just stares at me, and I wonder if he sees what's in front of him—me with my legs splayed, my lips swollen, my hair wild, and my panties in a ruined tangle beside me—or if he sees what's beneath that. If he sees my racing thoughts and the way satisfaction and shame crash together, crowding out every other emotion.
I curl up, hugging my knees to my chest, and try to pretend my body isn't pulsing with something wild and addictive. My thighs are sticky with blood, his cum, and my own juices. The pain between my legs is an electric throb. And God help me, I already want more.
I wait for him to gloat. To say something cutting.
Instead, he kneels.
The monster of New York, the CEO who breaks everything he touches, lowers himself to the floor, bringing his face level with mine. There's nothing left of the arrogance that usually pours off him. There's only a strange, taut concern that looks foreign on him.
He lifts my chin with a single, careful finger. "You okay, princess?" he asks, his voice raw.
I nod, but there's a tremble in it I can't shake.
He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and starts cleaning me up. He wipes my thighs with a tenderness that makes me want to puke. The fabric catches on my overly sensitive skin, and I wince, but he doesn't apologize, only slows his movement.
I watch his hands. I expect them to be steady. They're not. His fingers tremble so slightly that anyone else might miss it, but I'm looking for a flaw, for evidence he's less than invincible. I don't really expect to find one, but there it is anyway.
I just wish I knew what it meant.
He pulls my skirt up, tugs my blouse down as best he can, and stands to retrieve my shoes from where they skidded under the desk. When he comes back, he slips the heels onto my feet before tucking my ruined panties into his pocket.
"Can you walk?" he asks, more softly than before.
I try to stand. My legs don't want to hold me, but I'll be goddamned if I let him see that. I grit my teeth and rise, using the edge of his desk for leverage. He moves to steady me, but I shoot him a look that says I'll kill him if he touches me.
He holds up both hands, backing away.
We stand like that for a second: me, shaking and angry, him, tight-lipped and silent. There's nothing left to say.
He unlocks the office door and motions for me to go first. I step into the hallway, my heels clicking, every step an exercise in humiliation. But the office is empty, even the cleaning crew long gone. There's no one left to witness my walk of shame except the ghost of my former dignity.
He follows me onto the elevator, neither of us speaking as it descends. I see my reflection in the chrome doors…eyes glassy, makeup smeared, a bruise blooming on my neck where he bit me.
I look wrecked. Somehow, even though he's perfectly put together beside me, he looks just as wrecked as I do, with bites, scratches, and claw marks blooming to bruises all over his throat and jaw.
When we reach the garage, he hits the remote to unlock his car. "I'll drive you home."
I want to refuse, but the idea of limping to the subway, of being pressed into a crowd of strangers while I look freshly fucked and have no panties, is more than I can stomach.
I slide into the passenger seat, staring out the window as he pulls onto the street. The silence is corrosive. I count my breathsand pretend I don't want to reach over and claw his face to ribbons.
That is what I want, though. Because he made me forget myself. Because he made me believe, for just a second, that this could be real. Because, God help me, I don't regret a single second of what happened. I loved every rough, cruel, perfect moment, just like he said I would.
And I don't know what to do with that.
How do I teach myself to hate him when he feels like the only thing in the world that I might actually need? How do I learn to guard my heart against him when he's a master at finding ways to burrow deeper? I can't tell love from hate anymore, not with him. I'm not sure I ever could. And now that he's been inside me, now that he knows the shape of my ruin, and the taste of my defeat? I'm not sure I'll ever truly be free.
He drives with one hand, his knuckles white on the wheel. The city flashes by in barely noticed bursts—bodegas, yellow cabs, a couple fighting under a broken streetlight. Everything feels both hyperreal and impossibly distant, like I'm somewhere else and right in the center of it at the same time.
I don't look at him until I realize we're not heading toward my apartment. He's taking us north, in the exact opposite direction.
"You missed my turn," I say, my voice flat.
He doesn't answer. He just keeps driving, his jaw set and his gaze fixed straight ahead.
I glance at the dashboard. The navigation screen shows a route that clearly isn't mine.
He's taking us to his place.
