I’ll do whatever it takes.
I let my enemy get too close. Now I need to remind her why I hate her so much and why she needs to hate me too.
CASSIDY
The bedroom door swings open and slams against the wall, and I shoot up in bed.
What the hell?
Killa stands before me with pure, unadulterated hatred seething from his blue eyes. They’re so dark they’re deadly, holding a promise of retribution.
He isn’t the Killa I know him to be.
The one who runs baths for Noah, the one who holds me during my nightmares or takes control in situations that have me panicking. The protector.
Right now, standing before me is the Killa who hates me with every fiber of his being, the one who would kill me in a heartbeat and not spare me even a breathof air. He’s volatile, and, like a predator, ready to strike at any minute, consequences be damned.
“Killa?” I search his face for answers as to his change in demeanor.
The glare that bores into me is filled with deadly contempt, and I struggle to swallow the dread building in my mouth. An alarm bell is ringing in my head to move, but I remain still. I know what he wants, what he craves, and while I might not be able to give him the answers he deserves, I can give him the retribution and control he needs.
His hand darts out and grips my throat so tightly I know he’s going to leave marks, but I still refuse to cower to him or even attempt to struggle.
Nostrils flaring, the blue in his eyes has darkened to almost black, and the scent of alcohol rolls off him in unrelenting waves.
Jesus, I’m in trouble.
“What a beautiful Little Demon you are. I’m going to love destroying you.”
My heart skips a beat.
“I wanna play, Little Demon,” he growls, low and sexy, and somehow manages to throw me across the bed and flip me onto my stomach.
The feel of the mattress dipping lets me know he’s on the bed, and when his thick hand presses my face against the sheets, I know he’s detached himself from me again. He’s lost in his head; I’m the enemy holding the key to his questions, and he’s the devil seeking answers that might always remain hidden.
He tugs down my sleep shorts, and I hate the excitement throbbing between my legs. I shouldn’t get off onthis, I shouldn’t crave the orgasm his talented hands bring, but I do, and I loathe myself for it.
As I push back against his jeans, he slaps my ass hard with his free hand. “You trying to make a mess on my jeans, Little Demon?” One of his fingers dips down to my mouth, and I use my lips to pull it inside, to suck on it while he lowers his zipper. “You bein’ a little slut for me.”
I buck beneath him. “Gonna fuck you so hard,” he spits out. Then he thrusts his fingers inside me. “You have a wet cunt, for someone being forced to fuck.”
He knows he isn’t forcing me, that I want it; I think I always will. I’d beg, plead, melt beneath his touch, it’s like I was created for him to toy with, and while I would walk into a fire for him, he would be the one to light it, knowing it was going to hurt me, knowing I would be burned. He’d set me alight with a smile on his face, the same face I long to kiss, to witness laugh, and create new memories with.
“I’m going to use you all the time.” He thrusts forward hard, his thick cock stretching me to capacity, but I welcome it and his filthy words. “Fuck. Even when you’re pregnant with my baby.” He slams into me harder, faster. The thought of him wanting me pregnant sends a rush of exhilaration through me.
Jeez, I’m truly broken.
How can the thoughts of being pregnant with a baby by someone who hates me turn me on? And I’m sure as hell in no position to have another child; I can barely afford the one I’ve got.
“I’m going to keep taking you.” His cock slams in and out, in and out, faster and faster, and my ass bounces against his solid hips, his cock plunging deeper and deeper inside me. Each filthy word he chants becomes a promise. “Until you’re all round and knocked up with my kid while I fuck you.” His hand glides over my stomach, and he groans. “Fuck, I want that. Then you’ll be mine forever.”
Is that what he plans? Me to be his forever? For me to be tied to him with a child.
The scenario causes me to whimper, and I push down the pain that thought brings with it. Somehow, I choke back the sob gathering in my chest. I don’t want that. Not again.
If I was to have another baby, I’d want it to be born out of love, not hate. Not again. Something I gave up on a long time ago.
The mattress squeaks beneath his quickening pace, and his grip tightens.
