I start to ask, but decide it doesn't even matter, not when he's inside me. Every thrust is possessive, his grip hard enough to bruise, his mouth open and hot against my neck.
"You're perfect," he murmurs. "Perfect and tight and always so fucking ready for me, even when you're sleeping."
I moan, the sound escaping before I can stop it. I feel my inner muscles clench around him, greedy and desperate, and he laughs, the sound full of triumph.
"You love this," he says. "Being used. Being taken whenever and however I want."
He's right, and I hate him for knowing it.
I clutch the sheets, trying to anchor myself to something real, but he yanks my arms behind my back, pinning them at my spine with one rough hand.
His cock is so big it hurts, but the pain is perfect, igniting every nerve in my body.
He fucks me harder, the slap of our skin echoing off the bedroom walls. I gasp, each breath a ragged little plea. He eats up every single one like they're a prayer.
"I've done this twice already this week, Brielle," he rasps, his lips against my ear. "I didn't even care if you woke up and caught me. I love fucking you when you're so soft and helpless. When you can't fight back."
He punctuates his confession with a savage thrust, and my body goes white-hot.
I want to be disgusted, but all I feel is need, gnawing and absolute.
"You don't hate me when you're asleep. You don't pretend you hate the way I make you feel. You fucking moan for me like I'm the only thing you've ever wanted." He bends my arms higher, forcing my chest into the bed, my ass into the air. The angle is brutal—he can get so deep like this, every stroke scraping something inside me raw.
"God, you feel so fucking good when you're sleeping," he whispers. There's a note of awe in his voice, like he can't quite believe it himself.
He moves faster, his control slipping. For the first time, I feel him really lose it. His rhythm falls apart, his breath gets wild, his teeth sink into my shoulder, and he moans my name like it's the only word he remembers.
He comes, spilling hot and messy inside me, groaning my name.
I splinter apart at the sound of it, shattering around him with a moan I can't fight.
For a long minute, neither of us moves. He just holds me there, shuddering, his weight crushing me, his hand still tangled in my hair. The only sound is our breathing, chaotic and out of sync.
Eventually, he lets go of my arms, but his hand lingers on my face, his thumb stroking my jaw. He doesn't say anything, but the way he touches me is almost tender.
I stay perfectly still, my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the moment to pass. But instead of rolling away, he stays, his cock softening inside me, his breath ruffling the hair at my nape.
He presses a kiss to my temple, so soft it's almost not there.
"I won't ever stop wanting you," he says, so low I'm not sure I was supposed to hear it at all.
He falls asleep like that, wrapped around me, his weight a comfort and a curse.
I stay awake for hours, staring into the darkness, trying to decide which Asher is real—the monster who uses me like a toy, or the man who can't let me go.
At this point, I don't think it even matters.
God help me, I want them both.
I fall asleep again at some point, and when I wake, he's gone again, as if he were never there at all.
But I know better now.
I think about his confession all the way to the office—about how he's been slipping into my bed, fucking me while I was asleep, about why he disappears before I'm awake most of the time. I'm not mad about it. I've almost accepted the fact that I'mhis to use however and whenever he wants. Most of the time, I love it, even if I'll never admit it.
But…I hate that he thinks I hate him for the accident. I hate that we've spent so damn long at war because we've been unable to forgive ourselves. I kissed him to prove a point, and it nearly destroyed us both. That one moment had consequences I never expected or planned for.
All I wanted was for him to admit that he felt something for me, too. Instead, I distracted him, causing him to crash the car. I nearly died, and he went to jail. He nearly went to prison.
