He fucks me tentatively, almost reverently, his hands roaming from my hips and across to my stomach before slowinginching upwards. He cups me through my bra, and I whimper at the contact.
I need more, so much more, but I can’t bring myself to voice it.
I need to stay indifferent, detached, unwilling. Because if he gets the slightest hint that I’m enjoying this as much as I am, he’ll never get over this obsession he has with me.
His hands disappear from under my hoodie before one grabs my hip and the other curls around my throat. The plastic of the masks bumps the side of my face when he leans down and says, “You’ve been such a fucking brat, Gracie. It’s almost as though you’reaskingme to punish you.”
As soon as those last words leave his lips, his grip on both my neck and my hip tighten and he speeds up his movements, fucking into me harder, so hard that with every thrust my body is shoved forward into the tree.
It feels amazing. I’d convinced myself that the first time was a fluke and that it couldn’t have been anywhere near as good as I remembered it.
I figured it was just the excitement of doing something new, something I would never normally do.
I was wrong.
So, so wrong.
This time feels even better than the last, and I despise him for it.
“Feels so good, love. You’re fucking drenched for me. You love it, don’t you? The way I take control, and you just have to go along with everything I do to you. You pretend that you don’t, fight me at every corner, pretend you’re scared of what I’m going to do to you, but you need me almost as much as I need you.”
His words rattle around my brain as my body hums with pleasure.
His grip isn’t too tight, not tight enough to cut off my airway, but just tight enough for me to feel the bite of it. The mixture of pain and pleasure has me biting my lip to stop the urge to ask him for more. My knuckles are white as I grip the tree in front of me and force myself not to move an inch, not to reach back and touch him—or God help me, to urge him to give me more. Blood fills my mouth as my teeth draw blood from my bottom lip as I keep myself quiet.
He’s right that I love it, but he’s wrong about me pretending to be scared.
I am scared.
No, I’m freakingterrifiedof him.
I love the way he makes my body feel but hate everything he brings out in me.
He makes me feel like a completely different person, and it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever encountered.
He has no right to make me feel this way, no right whatsoever. I don’t even know his damn name and yet he brings out something dark in me, something so addictive that it keeps me up at night, from both fear and need.
He is literally everything I should never want—everything I can never have—and yet he’s what my body needs.
It both pisses me off and scares the shit out of me at the same time.
And yet I still can’t force those feelings away.
When I wake in the morning, the first thing I do is check my phone to see if there’s any new messages from him. I hate that my heart jumps every time there is, I hate how I anticipate seeing him in the shadows, I hate that my gaze is always seeking him out, even though he’s never there.
I hate how my body feels like it’s on fire every time he touches me, like it was made just for him.
I hate the way he makes me feel in every way.
“You’re wrong,” I rasp. “There’s nothing about this that I love. You’re nothing but a fuck toy, and when you leave, I’ll forget all about you until you inconveniently pop back up again.”
Stop, Gracie, you’ll only make it worse, an inner voice whispers, but I can’t listen. I’m too stubborn and too far gone to listen to common sense.
“You think you have some sort of claim over me, but you don’t. You never will. I don’t know you; I don’twantto know you. You’re nothing but a sick fuck with an average sized dick and a mask to hide behind. You could never be anything more than a passing thought to me and you’ll never mean even a fraction of what I apparently mean to you. You think you know me so well but really, you don’t know a thing about me, and you’ll never get close enough to know the real me, so go ahead and play your games. Keep stalking me, keep texting me, keep planning out a delusional future for the both of us, because that’s all it will ever be, a delusion. I’m not yours, I willneverbe yours.”
He stills inside of me, his entire body going taut while his hands on me tighten to the point of pain and I hold back a cry as he squeezes my neck so hard it will definitely leave bruises before he’s gone.
Just like that, he slips out of me and let’s go of me all at once, stepping away from me and giving me some much-needed space. I let out a sigh, though I’m not sure if it’s a sigh of relief or exasperation, and spin around to face him.
