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“What I want are your screams, your tears. I want you weak and immobile. I want you begging me to stop while I take and take until there’s nothing left to take.”
All she’s worried about is her stupid little book, and I fucking hate it. I hate that she is ignoring me. I hate that my dick is getting hard just from looking at her.
“No one goes into her room besides me. No one touches her besides me. No one torments her besides me. She is mine and mine alone. If I find any of you are doing anything to her, I will cut off your balls and shove them down your throat. Is that clear?”
Nobody tells you that grief is like living two lives, one where you’re forced to move on and go day by day living, and the other where your heart bleeds with every thump. A wound that will never heal.
“Your pussy is mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to tease,” Quinton growls, nipping at my earlobe.
“Pretend you don’t want me. In fact, pretend for both of us because now that I’ve had a taste of you, I don’t know if I can ever go back.”
“I should mark you. Put hickeys all over your neck so everyone knows that you’ve been claimed. What do you think?”
“I’m not a trophy to be fought over. Marking me is only going to stir the pot and cause problems for me.”
“Marking you will show him you’re mine. It will show others you’re unavailable.”
As fucked up as it is, she is my missing piece. The calm to my storm, the virtue to my wickedness.
“You don’t have to pretend you hate me, not here inside this room.” She shakes her head, her blue eyes shining with some unsaid emotion. “Yes, I do because any other emotions would lead us down a road neither one of us is going to survive.”
