“We had an agreement,” I burst out with, the attempt at diplomacy laughable even by my low standards. Whatever agreements we had disappeared the moment I pointed a gun at his head.
No. Maybe not.
But definitely the instant I pulled the trigger.
“Why weren’t there bullets in the gun?” I try as a distraction. “Does that mean Razek wasn’t dangerous after all?”
My deflection makes him growl and the shorts slip past my knees no matter how much I try to glue them together.
Then they’re completely off. The only underwear I possess is currently drying in the bathroom, not offering the slightest defence.
He rolls on top of me, not bothering to ease his weight by supporting himself on his elbows. I’m squashed flat as a bug beneath him. His voice growls near my ear, his breath hot and wet. “I took the bullets out so I wouldn’t hurt you accidentally.”
The sting of guilt hits me as he intended. My thoughts are so scattered it’s hard to pull together even the simplest of pleas.
Then his fingers grab the hem of my tee shirt, tugging upwards. I buck and wriggle, trying to stiffen my arms so removing it becomes impossible.
My defence is laughable but I’m not in a laughing mood. I open my mouth to scream, and he shoves three of his fingers deep inside.
“Naughty,” he rumbles in my ear, sending tingles running the length of my body to lodge in the soles of my feet. “And only minutes after you promised you wouldn’t scream. You’re such a fucking liar. I’m never believing a word you tell me again.”
His weight lifts, knees either side of my chest as he straddles me. With one hand shoved halfway down my throat, he takes longer to tug at the shirt fabric with the other.
My body twists and bucks but I haven’t eaten properly for days, my energy was used up long ago.
If this was day one, I might still have the slimmest chance. As it stands, I don’t.
“Keep struggling,” he says, relaxing his hold on my shirt to move his lips close to my ear again. Like he knows how it feels to have those growling wave lengths travel into my body, how much it enjoys hearing the growing thickness in his voice.
He pulls his fingers free, letting me gasp in an enormous breath, then jams them straight back in, pumping them now, in and out, while I struggle to work out the rhythm so I can stay conscious long enough for whatever hellscape he plans on next.
“That’s good. Just like that.”
His free hand holds my head flat against the bed while he works his fingers in and out of me. I don’t understand what he gets out of it, but his fixation on my mouth means he’s no longer trying to strip me bare.
Then his weight returns. All at once. Driving the air out of me in a rush so I’m gasping around his fingers, struggling, desperate.
“Do you like being pinned to the bed?” His deep voice sets my nerve endings alight, making my scalp dance and sending a cascade of shivers running down my spine.
Malakai shoves his hand between my legs, slapping my thighs apart before plunging a finger two knuckles deep inside me.
“It feels like you like it,” he mumbles, vocal cords now so rough it’s hard to distinguish the words from each other.
He finally withdraws his fingers from my mouth and doesn’t put them back. Not yet.
“Tell me no,” he directs me, shaking my shoulder. “You tell me no and act like you fucking mean it.”
Not a hard ask when he grabs the hem of my shirt again, tugging it upward. I writhe, panting, saying no, then again louder when the one finger inside me becomes two. I twist my hips, thighs clenching hard. Whether to keep him in place or try to expel him, I no longer know.
“Don’t you want me inside you?” he asks in such a breathy voice that I struggle to understand.
“No,” I mutter, unsure whether to play his game. Is this a trap or a chance at redemption? “No!” I shout in a full-on panic when I think he’s about to reveal my body in all its shabby glory. Reveal the scars and wounds from a thousand one-sided fights. Reveal the wrinkles and stretch marks and sagging skin. Reveal the parts of me where I store my deepest shame.
His hands move, now each one gripping a thigh and forcing them apart. So wide and open he could double as my gynaecologist.
“Keep fighting,” he orders but I don’t need the direction. Not with my heart beating enough that I can see the pulse in my eyes.
My arms are pinned but I still bend my elbows, trying to drive them into him, not that they stand a chance against his hard muscles. I’m more likely to break myself than hurt him enough that he feels it.
