Hate the ache building between them. Hate how it throbs with every beat of my racing heart. Hate how his voice slithers into the deepest parts of me and poisons the place where pride used to live.
“You want to be good,” he murmurs, “but your cunt’s just a filthy little traitor, isn’t it?”
A sob breaks out of me. Small. Choked. I jerk my face away, but he doesn’t let me go. The tip of his hook traces back up, dragging slowly along my inner thigh. My breath catches. My eyes squeeze shut.
“You going to touch me now?” he whispers. “Going to break your own rules and reach for the man who broke you?”
“I hate you,” I breathe, the words cracking as they leave me.
He chuckles—and I want to slap him.
“Liar.”
“I do.”
“You’re soaked.”
My whole body flushes with shame. I move to turn my hips away, to curl in on myself, but he doesn’t let me. The hook presses down—not painfully, just enough to remind me that he’s always one step ahead. That I’m not leaving. That I don’t get to run.
He lowers his mouth to my ear.
“Go on, sweetheart. Rub your little thighs together. Try to chase what only I can give you.”
I shudder violently.
“Tell me no again with that pretty mouth whilst your body screams yes.”
My fingers curl tighter in the sheets.
He waits. Watches. Breathes against me like he’s not even human—like he’s something darker, made of rot and obsession, a sin given a silver smile.
I don’t know what comes out of me—moan, gasp, plea—but it’s enough.
He moves like a striking shadow, fast, hard, brutal in his precision. One hand slams beside my head on the mattress as he cages me in, and the hook drops the lace strap of my bra without effort.
He doesn’t touch the skin that’s revealed.
He just looks.
Then lifts his gaze.
“You don’t get to cum until I say,” he says, voice guttural now. “But you do get to beg.”
And I hate that my knees are already parting.
That I’m already aching for it.
That some sick part of me wants to obey.
Even as the rest of me screams to fight.
I don’t beg.
I don’t beg.
I would rather die with my pride in splinters than let him see me fall to my knees for this. For him.
My body is a traitor. A twitching, slick, desperate thing that doesn’t care what my mouth says. My thighs are trembling. My hands are fisted in the sheets so hard I feel the bite of my own nails through the skin.
