Guess I still have a kink for degradation.
Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just throw his accusation right back at him.You think I’m a whore? You’re the one who told your friends to rape me. I’d never had anyone until I had you. But you told them to rape me, and now I’m a worthless whore in your eyes.
Sometimes Idofeel like a worthless whore, though. I should have stopped it. I should have kicked and screamed and forced them off me.
I always thought I was a feminist. I never victim-blamed anyone, until I became a victim. Now I blame myself. Because somethingiswrong with me. Maybe I’m exactly what Quill thinks I am.
Someone who lets others fuck her, then throw her away like garbage.
I’m garbage.
Quill sees right through me.
He probably doesn’t need to see very far into me right now, because I suspect my face is currently the perfect reflection of how I’m feeling inside.
But I clench my jaw, unwilling to cry yetagainin front of Quill. I swallow furiously, pushing down on the lump in my throat, refusing to blink so the tears burning my eyes don’t fall.
I guess I’m tense enough with the effort not to cry that my expression must be unsettling. Well, at least, Quill definitely looks unsettled.
His cold expression is gone as he edges back toward me and sits down on the bed beside me. I turn resolutely away, not sure if his body being so close to mine will make me break down in tears again, or beg him to fuck me. It’s a strange sensation to be so close to crying, while simultaneously being so turned on I’mleaving a damp spot on the bed.
He places his hand on my wrist and I jump, so startled by the unexpected touch, searing into my skin, that I’m unable to control my reaction. He seems to misinterpret it, because he backs away immediately, and I bite down on my desire to ask him to touch me again.
I’m notthatpathetic. Am I?
He’s still looking at me quietly, and I realize the hurt that was in his eyes earlier is sadness. Sadness, as if he’s lost something.
Except the only person who lost anything is me. I’ve losteverything. I even lost the beautiful pretense that was our relationship, because I know now that it was only a hopeless little dream.
Some cruel game he dreamed up to hurt me. To win my trust and my heart, then to shatter me to pieces by telling his friends to rape me.
What have I ever done to deserve such pain? What have I ever done but wear glasses and talk too much?
I turn my head away from him as the dangerous lump rises again in my throat. I’m still managing not to cry, but I know my skin has turned splotchy red, and my nose is the shade of Rudolph’s.
I hate how my skin is such a giveaway. I hate that Quill knows that about me. I hate how he knows everything about me.
Even facing away from him, I’m so tuned into him that I can tell he’s opened his mouth several times just by the very light breath that falls onto my neck. It’s like he’s started to speak then thought better of it. Maybe he’s searching for words. Words to tell me just how much a worthless whore I am, I guess.
What I don’t expect are the words that hedoessettle on.
“I’m sorry your parents died.”
Well, that did it. Wiped away all desire to cry. I can’t fucking believe he would say that. I actually let out a laugh, and it’s notstrangled at all. It’s a full belly laugh.
I turn back to him and see him staring at me like I’m deranged.
He’s the one who’s deranged. He’s the one who killed my parents and is now offering his weak condolences.
Or maybe fake-apologizing for killing them. Like a feeble sorry is going to change anything.
“What the fuck?” I spit out.
His brow clears as he probably realizes I’m angry, not clinically insane. He also looks a bit startled, and I guess he’s never heard me swear before. I didn’t used to be the swearing type. But a lot can change in three years.
“Language, cricket.”
His deep sexy voice, paired with the mild admonishment, would definitely make me want to fuck the hell out of him at any other time. But this whole situation is just too absurd.
