I fall back onto the mattress, and he's on me immediately.
Different from the other nights. Rougher. He yanks my dress up, doesn't bother with my underwear—just tears them off. The sound of fabric ripping makes me flinch.
"Saint—"
"Shut up."
I reach out and rake my nails across his cheek. He howls, and I smile. “You want to hurt me,” I growl. “Be prepared for me to give it back.”
He enters me hard, no preparation, and I cry out at the intrusion.
"This is what you wanted, right?" he grunts, hips slamming into mine. "To make this difficult. To fight back the only way you can. To make me the bad guy.”
“You are the fucking bad guy,” I say, scrambling to punch him. He holds down my hands.
“I don’t want to be tied to you any more than you are to me,” he grunts.
So instead, I rear up and try to headbutt Saint. He moves out of range, not stopping. “Fuck you, Saint.”
“Fuck you.” His eyes are intense as he thrusts, and something about this moment, about the charge of it, the weird passion, the knowledge that we are both miserable makes me tighten.
He slams into me, and I can’t help it, I feel moisture starting to form. Saint does too, and he snickers. “Like it rough, huh? Is that what you’ve wanted, to be used? Have I been too gentle?” He leans down and bites my lip. Blood fills my mouth, and I spit it in his face.
“I hope you fucking die,” I growl. “And that I’m the one to do it.”
“Promises, promises.” He reaches down, pressing his thumb to my clit. I try to stifle the cry that builds inside of me. "Maybe if you acted like a wife instead of a prisoner, this would be easier," he says, rubbing me. "Maybe if you tried?—"
"I don’t want to be your wife," I choke out. I claw at his chest, trying to get him off me before he realizes this weird turn of events. My lower belly is tightening, and I’m trying to buck him off me.
"Yeah, well, I didn't want you either. But here we are." He thrusts hard one more time and this angle has him hitting my g-spot. I tighten, and I know he feels it.
I’m coming. I’m losing.
“Oh God,” I cry out, arching off the bed, lost in the sensation.
Saint laughs, and I feel him finish inside of me with a harsh groan.
He pulls out immediately. No lying there. No recovery time. Just done.
He zips up his pants, not bothering with his shirt.
"Keep your legs elevated. Maybe it'll take this time, and we can both be done with this."
He leaves.
The door closes, and I lie there, legs still spread, feeling him leak out of me. I'm shaking. He took me, used me, and what’s worse is that I enjoyed it.
A lot.
The food in my stomach feels like poison now. Too much. Too heavy. Wrong.
I stumble to the bathroom, barely make it to the toilet before I'm vomiting. Everything from dinner comes up—the soup, the chicken, the risotto. My body rejecting it, rejecting everything.
I heave until there's nothing left, until I'm just dry heaving over the toilet bowl.
Finally, I sit back, wipe my mouth, and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.
Mascara-streaked. Red-eyed.
