He fucks me harder, and then harder still, until I'm right at the edge of blackout. Then he lets go of my throat, slapping my ass again, milking every humiliating sound out of me.
When I come, he bites my shoulder again, holding me in place while my body convulses around him, helpless and perfect and so fucking his I might as well not have even bothered washing off his name last night.
He comes a second later, grinding against me so deep I swear I can feel him in my stomach.
He doesn't move for a long time afterward. He just pants against my back, his sweat dripping onto me, his cock still hard inside me.
I can't move. I can't even breathe.
When he finally pulls out, he presses a kiss to my cheek, soft, almost apologetic. The contradiction is so acute that it leaves me shaking.
Then he slaps my ass and climbs off the bed, sauntering naked toward the bathroom. He looks over his shoulder, grinning like a demon.
"We're showering. Don't make me drag you."
I hate him. I hate him so much it scrapes the inside of my ribs. I hate how I can't stop trembling, and that some part of me already wants round two.
I lay there, my breath refusing to even out, listening to the sound of the shower. There's no cleaning what he did to me off my skin, but I drag myself out of bed anyway, because I know if I don't, he'll come back and haul me in by my hair.
I step into the bathroom, steam hitting me in the face. He stands under the spray, his eyes closed, water running in rivulets down his chest and the ink of his tattoos. The scepter on his spine looks like a weapon, the crown and bloody thorns on his chest a warning. I watch his eyes flick open, watch the way his gaze drags over my ruined body, and the way his cock twitches at the sight of the mess he made.
He holds the shower door open for me.
"Get in," he says quietly, as if this is a normal morning, as if he's not still inside me in every way that matters.
I step under the scalding water, my eyes closed. For a second, he lets me just stand there, soaking. For a second, I think he might let me have this, just a minute to wash away the ache and the aftershocks.
But he kills that thought when he crowds in behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, his chest pressed to my back, his cock already hard again.
He doesn't say anything, just kisses the top of my head and lathers his hands with shampoo, massaging it into my scalp. The gesture is so gentle, so out of character, that I almost cry. Instead, I swallow it back and let him tip my head back under the water, rinsing me clean.
Afterwards, he runs a bar of soap down my body, paying special attention to the bruises he left, the fingermarks around my throat, the bite on my shoulder. When he reaches between my legs, I jerk away, but he holds me in place, careful but absolute.
"Don't," I say, but it's only half-hearted, and he knows it.
"I hurt you?" he asks, and I hear real concern in his voice.
I want to slap him. I want to pull him closer. I can't do either.
"You always hurt me," I say.
He crooks a finger beneath my chin, turning my face up to his.
"You're the only thing I want to hurt, and the one thing I never want to hurt," he says. Before I can ever process what that's supposed to mean, he kisses me like he intends to take his time memorizing my taste.
He doesn't fuck me again. He just stands behind me, his arms around my body, holding me against his chest until the hot water runs cold.
And yet again, I find myself wanting to believe this could be real. It's a dangerous thought, one destined to break me in ways his hands never will. And yet…the longer our agreement goes on, the more often I find myself thinking it.
I make my first friend at work on Tuesday afternoon, after Asher sends me on a mad dash through the office to find some file I think he made up just to torture me. I wouldn't put it past him. Torture is his style.
Mina is a junior agent, working five floors below Asher's office. I nearly collide with her coming out of the elevator.
"Shit. I'm sorry," I mutter, immediately stooping to help scoop up the paperwork scattered all over the tile.
"It's all good," she says with a soft laugh. "I'm used to being run over around here."
I pause, glancing up at her. Almost instantly, I get what she means. She's maybe five-two, with pink cheeks and frizzy hair. She doesn't look like she belongs. Hell, she doesn't even particularly look like she wants to be here.
