Page 53 of Lovely Venom

“Show me.” His voice takes on a familiar edge.

My body responds to his quiet authority as if not a day has passed since I last saw him. When he tells me what to do, it doesn’t just free me from the constant war inside my head. It permits me to be vulnerable without overthinking it. It’s the only time I can allow myself to let go of control and trust that I’m safe.

I follow his command, hitching up my nightgown so he can watch as I slide my fingers inside me and pull them back out. There isn’t an ounce of modesty left in me when I show him the evidence of what he does to me, and I don’t care.

“Look how bad you’re aching for it,” he rasps. “I never got to wreck that pussy. Now I’m not sure you deserve to come.”

A soft protest escapes me as my fingers move of their own accord, sliding back inside me without his approval. The dark sound of amusement that pulls from his chest ripples through me, both a threat and a reward.

“I’d beat your ass red for that if I were there right now,” he admonishes. “But you’d like that too.”

A quiet acknowledgment hums in my throat, and when I close my eyes, the image burns itself into my brain.

“Have you been thinking about what my cock would feel like inside you?”

“Yes.” I groan.

“Is that how you got yourself off when he fucked you?”

My fingers stall as I register the question—and the bite in his words. Bran has always been controlled to a fault, whereas I felt like I was flying too close to the sun whenever I was near him. But now I know he wasn’t as unaffected as I’d tried to convince myself.

“Did he make you come like I did?” he asks.

“No,” I confess on an unsteady exhalation. “Nobody has ever made me come like you do.”

“That’s because your pussy is mine.”

His possession consumes me, feeding the flames of my desire as my fingers start to move again. A sense of urgency overtakes me, and I chase that high with a desperation that leaves me dizzy and frantic.

“Say it,” he demands.

In the moment, I convince myself it’s a game. But when the words slip free, and I tell him that my body is his, nothing has ever felt so real.

He lets out a shuddering breath, and I realize that he must be stroking himself too.

“I want to see you,” I beg.

“Only good girls get to watch me come.”

White-hot jealousy surges through me, and I know it’s irrational, but it doesn’t make it sting any less. Of course he’s been with other women. I walked away, and he has every right to do what he wants. But the idea that he could have that dynamic with someone else fractures something inside me, dislodging emotions I don’t want to acknowledge.

I swallow hard, choking down whatever awful feeling this is as the momentum of my orgasm dies a swift death.

“You don’t like that very much, do you?” he concludes.

“No.” My throat tightens. “I don’t.”

“You gave it up,” he reminds me.

That observation blisters under my skin, resurfacing the memory of our last night together. He was the first person I truly felt like I could trust after what happened. Losing that connection carved out a hollow in my chest that time and distance have never repaired. But I know I only have myself to blame.

I did give this up, and regardless of the reasons, he doesn’t owe me anything.

“This was a mistake.” I reach for the phone with the intention of ending this conversation.

“Don’t run away, Chantel.”

I freeze for a breath.