“Fuck, Jolie,” he whispered like he was watching my every move.
I rubbed harder, my hips rising to meet the friction. I felt myself shudder. I already knew what I liked. It happened quicker than usual,listening to the sounds coming from Hell. Watching him as he pleasured himself for close to the dozenth time over images of me.
I started to moan, the rag, the cum, brushing against my clit. I tingled everywhere, goosebumps lining my arms and legs. The wetness between my legs grew and my legs became weaker.
I slumped, my feet taking the weight from my knees. Intense pleasure about to shoot through me at any second. I moaned again, too fucking loudly, and he heard me.
His body turned, his fist still wrapped around his thick cock. I froze, right on the knife edge of an orgasm.
“I didn’t tell you to fucking stop,” Hell’s voice rasped, breaking in parts of the short sentence.
He was in pain, and for once, I actually cared.
“More,” he whispered, barely a sound above the raining shower.
I buffed myself with the rag again, my eyes on Hell as he stepped from the shower, water trickling over his skin. I followed a droplet to his Adonis belt. To his balls. . . but I didn’t watch as it splat on the tiles.
“Faster,” he instructed.
I followed his orders.
“Open your legs wider. I want a better view.” He stepped closer, challenging me.
But he didn’t need to. I gave in, partly because it was something I was used to doing, giving men pleasure to try to avoid pain. And, partly, for Woodrow. Because it was still his beautiful face staring back at me, even if it was Hell’s cold expression sat on top of it.
“Good girl.” His mouth moved soundlessly.
And those words, God, those words did something to me.
I didn’t need more orders. . . I just needed more.
I dropped the rag, replacing it with my fingers, and I lay back, stroking myself. My eyes still on my enemy, my lover. . . my husband. My everything good and bad in the world, asking him to join me, to replace my touch with his.
“Why the fuck are you doing this?” he croaked.
“It’s a peace offering. No more violence. . . you can have my body if you agreeto that. Agree to what we once agreed.”
“For always?”
“Always.”
“For always, you acknowledge that you’re mine?”
“No violence.”
He didn’t immediately answer. And moving down between my legs, he looked almost disappointed that the bleeding had stopped.
“If you run from me again, Woodrow won’t stop me from killing you. If I can’t have you, no one will.”
I nodded, agreeing with only a hint of fear shining behind the arousal in my eyes.
His lips landed on mine, surprising me. I stiffened, and that fucked him off. His hands pinned me down, one on my throat, the other at the side of my head, smoothing through my hair.
I hated that. Hated that I didn’t quite hate it as much as every other time he did it.
I was warming to him.
His fingers opened my mouth, and he gave me a look that said, “You either want this, or you don’t.”
