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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?”
Why am I walking toward him, like a moth to a flame?
He seems unaffected by my begging, but I can see his cock growing in his pants, and the power of arousal makes me feel like I’m a queen. Even if he doesn’t want to believe it, some part of me has a tiny bit of control over him.
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.
The numbness that encompasses me is something I’ve craved for months.
“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.”
“Marking you will show him you’re mine. It will show others you’re unavailable.”
I’m not a doormat. I’m a fucking queen.
“You act like you don’t want me, but we both know you do. You want me even when you hate me, and that’s okay because I feel the same way about you.”
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.”
