"You like that?" I growl, one hand clamped around her hip hard enough to bruise. "You like being fucked by a toy in one hole and my cock in the other?"
She sobs, but not in pain. I know what her pain sounds like. This is something else. She's coming hard and constant, a rolling seizure that leaves her limp between my hands.
I thrust slow and deep, until I feel my own orgasm building, and then I let loose, fucking her like a madman. Every thrust is a punishment, a refusal to let her get too close. I want to hurt her. I want to own her. I want to fill her so full of me that there's no room left for her pity.
"Say it," I growl, slamming into her. "Say you're my filthy little slut."
She chokes on a sob, but says it anyway. "I'm your filthy little slut."
"Louder," I demand, smacking her ass so hard my palm stings.
She screams it, the words bouncing off the high ceiling. "I'm your filthy little slut!"
I drive into her faster and harder, until I feel her tighten and pulse around me again. She comes with a scream, her whole body shaking.
I pull out before I come, jerking myself until I explode across her back, thick and hot and messy. I paint her skin, her ass, the backs of her thighs, and watch the tremor in her legs as she tries to catch her breath.
I remove the toy, flicking it off, and then tuck myself away, zipping up while she lies there, wrecked and panting.
"You're not allowed to wash me off all day," I say. My voice is steady, but my hands shake.
She stays draped over the couch, her hair a wild snarl, her body marked with my seed, my handprint red against her ass.
I look at her, really look. Faint, jagged scars from the accident crisscross her side. They're barely visible now, but I see them. The skin is smooth and pale, but the lines never go away.
"I've never forgiven myself for almost killing you," I blurt, the words out before I can stop them. "I doubt I ever will. The nightmares should haunt me, Brielle. They're what I deserve."
She blinks, her lips parted. For once, she doesn't have a smartass reply.
I almost want her to tell me that it wasn't my fault, that she's fine now. But I know she won't lie to me. She won't give me a single fucking inch I don't take by force because that's what I did to her, that's what I turned her into. I almost killed her, and then I kept her bleeding, just so she never forgot what I did. Just so I never forgot, either.
I need her to hate me. It's the only way I can live with myself. But I wish to God it could be different. I wish, just once, that I could deserve her.
I turn away, walking to the window. The city is gold and blue, crawling with life, but I don't see any of it. All I see are the ghosts of every mistake I've ever made with her.
She clears her throat. "Asher—"
"Don't," I say, cutting her off.
There's a long pause, one full of everything we never say. It claws at me until I want to peel my own fucking skin off just to escape the sensation.
"I'll see you Monday morning," I mutter, not trusting myself to look at her. I grab my jacket and head for the door, leaving her naked and shaking on the couch.
I need her to hate me.
It's easier if she does.
But I'll never be able to outrun the sound of her voice telling me that she loves me, or the feel of her lips on mine, or the scars she'll carry for the rest of her life because of me. I'll never be able to outrun the reminder that the last thing I said to her that night—that I didn't love her—was a fucking lie.
I step out into the hallway, closing the door behind me, but the ghosts follow anyway.
They never stop.
Chapter Nine
Brielle
On Monday morning, I'm still reeling from the weekend, trying to process the reality that Asher blames himself for the accident…that he hates himself for it. I don't have time to prepare for whatever fresh hell he intends to throw at me today. I'm not even sure I have the emotional bandwidth to deal with it.
