Broken Girl(21)

“You don’t want me?” I ask, standing undressed by his words, feeling stupid because of how easily I let him play me into his game.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to, your actions said it loud and clear,” I say.

Torn apart. I push him away, turning to get my clothes; suddenly his body consumes mine from behind. His lips press against my ear, his voice is commanding. His chest is heavy against my back, and his arm is firm across my ribs as his hand captures my breast. His other hand becomes lodged between my legs as his long fingers are deep in my *.

“Don’t ever turn your back to me Rose. You agreed to be here for me, do whatever I asked,” he argues. His body is still draped over mine. His fingers unyieldingly plunging deeper and deeper into me, his thumb stroking rhythmically at my tingling clit.

“Yes, I agreed—” I breathe my words as I throb, responding to his fingers pushing and pulling. I rock my hips against his seamless rhythm. His breathing ignites a burn through my body that I’ve never felt with someone before. Owned. By. His. Touch. Nobody’s ever made me want to come so bad. Problem is, I don’t wanna come before I get to feel his cock fill me.

“You have no idea what I want. Maybe I need you to ache for me. Maybe I want to watch you twist in your own flawless skin until you can’t take it anymore and you beg me to f*ck you.” He pulls his fingers from inside me and in that mindless moment when the air licks at the fever surging at my doorway I turn into a slave to his demands. “I want you to beg me to f*ck you.”

“Please . . . Mister . . . please, f*ck me.” He’s got me. Twisted, taken and ruined.

He turns me around, facing him, his fingers digging into my biceps; he pulls me within inches of his lips.

“If you only knew how much I want to f*ck you, drag the tip of my tongue across every inch of your body, consuming every ounce of your sweet nectar,” he whispers as he’s dragging the tip of his nose across my cheek over to the bend of my neck. He inhales my scent. Aching to kiss him, he breathes words that expose my soul.

“I want to make you come so hard, you’ll never forget who I am and how I ruined your * for any other man. Now, get dressed.”

Everything I am stops. I don’t feel my heart beating in my chest. My lungs empty, and suddenly I can’t catch my breath. The surge vibrating through my nipples turn to chills. I soften as he strips my ability to argue, I’m naked, and completely vulnerable to him.

“What the f*ck? You can’t pull me to the edge, and leave me like this.”

“I just did,” he snaps as he picks up my clothes from the floor and holds them out to me. “And after tonight, don’t wear this outfit when you are with me.” His eyes restrict. His lips pull straight and colorless across his face, the edges of his ears glow with a touch of crimson.

“What do you expect me to wear?” I clip back quickly.

I collect my clothes in my all too shaky arms.

“Clothes I choose for you.” The back of his fingers graze my cheek before he turns and walks toward the elevator. Panic fires through my body. The little girl buried deep is afraid to open up to him, I’m scared. But the woman in me, the fighter that shields herself to all who tries to enter, she wants what he’s offering. I’m hungry to taste him, give him the energy that swirls just below the surface of my skin, I crave him to finish what he has started.

I toss the mismatched outfit onto the bed, pulling out my black lacy bra; I hold it up in front of my chest, desperate to stop him from leaving.

“So, you don’t want me wearing . . . this?”

He stops, turns back to me. The tip of his tongue slowly creeps along his upper lip, as his silvery-blue eyes, light up with an excited spark.

“No. No bra.” He shakes his head as he pushes the button on the elevator.

“Are you sure about that?”

“My fragrant Rose, I’ve never been surer about anything in my life. Put on those despicable clothes for the very last time and meet me downstairs,” he commands.

My mouth fell open, but not quick enough to rebuke his rudeness. He steps into the waiting elevator. Son of a bitch, he has rendered me speechless before the elevator doors close and he’s gone. What the f*ck was that and what the hell? Nobody talks to me that way.

I stretch on my bra, pull on my despicable clothes for the very last time. He has no idea what he’s in for. If that nameless man thinks that I’m gonna let him finger f*ck me to the edge of oblivion and leave me aching for relief, he’s sorely mistaken. I grab my purse from the huge round granite table in the entry and press the button on the wall. Minutes later the elevator doors open with no jester waiting to greet me. I step into the empty space and push the button with the bright-blue star.

The doors rumble shut behind me with a gut twisting bang and in the millisecond it takes me to inhale a heart settling breath; realization settles heavy in every fiber of my being . . . This nameless bastard got me. He owns me, mind and body. He’s the only man who has ever got me to chase down an orgasm . . . one demand at a time.





AS MY MEMORY was disrupted by the flurry of busy people and hum of washing machines, I shoved the magazine into my purse, pulled my clothes from the dryer and thrusted them into my laundry sack. The memory of the first night with Mr. C made my stomach churn. I knew our arrangement. It wasn’t built on anything more than the idea that he bought me for three days. Eight thousand dollars cash and the eight outfits, I was a high-priced f*ck, period. Was it worth it? Financially, yes but emotionally, never. Besides it was over . . . water under the bridge . . . A reminder that Prince Charming didn’t exist in my world because there was nobody willing to invest anything more than money to f*ck me. I was naive enough to want something more when I was nineteen, someone who took care of me, made me whole, wrapped their arms around me and gave me the life I thought I wanted.