Broken Girl(51)

I reached over and picked up the dusty bubble mailer from the floor next to me. It was the first package Garrett, Mr. C mailed me after I told him I wasn’t going to see him anymore. It was the nastiest kind of torture when you fell for a date and pinned your future on him hoping he’d save you from all the dirty f*cks who never gave a rat’s ass beyond just getting off.

I got up, stood there and stared at all the bribes Mr. C sent me before I pulled open the edge of the package, tilted the bubble mailer and watched the contents tumble out.

A soft black cashmere scarf fell into my hands. I caressed my thumb against it before I dragged it across my face. A deep hollow ache returned to my gut, a crave I had had for someone to fill the deserted hole left in my heart. But, I knew this scarf, every feeling it evoked through my body, every sharp stabbing fear it seared into my soul, all the memories of our three days together knotted into one night where Mr. C had broken me and shredded my heart. Truthfully, a year ago it was the scarf which had become my only comfort. Today, it pulled me back into a memory that was seductively frightening.

It was all so stupid because broken girls aren’t given hooks to hang their dreams upon. I wasn’t given the key to the castle; I was buried below the dim streetlights and darkened skies. I will never be the princess or the queen; I will always be the call girl, a romp in the hay, the whore for hire. At least with Mr. C I was with someone who gave my pain a purpose. I held the scarf to my nose, and inhaled, hoping I’d capture Mr. C’s essence. Disappointed, I dropped the scarf to the floor and it became lost against the black shaggy area rug. I was alone in my apartment, nothing but thoughts and memories thundering through my head.





PAST


THE MOONLIGHT SHINES bright, my eyelids are too thin to protect me from the glow. Mr. C’s fingers crawl down around the front of my stomach, slipping between the silky soft sheets and my body, he snakes his fingers down between my legs. I stretch, lifting my hips slightly from the bed, and act as if he woke me up.

His chest grows heavier against my thighs. He’s demanding and strong when his fingers finally find me. I’m caught, taken from the moment he drags the tip of his tongue along the seam of my ass, I try and spread my legs, but they’re locked under him.

“That’s right, my little Rosebud, you like that?” he growls before he bites the edge of my ass.

I buck and clench against his long talented fingers as he buries them deeper in my dampness. I relish in the excitement his fingers create deep where they troll.

“Mmm, you’re gonna make me come,” I hum.

He freezes, the friction his fingers create stops and so do their magical assault, his lips leave a cold trace across my skin. Unexpectedly, he climbs on top of me; I lose my breath as his stone-hard cock slides up between my legs. It pressures against the crevice of my ass, I tense.

“What did you say to me?” he quips against the side of my face. My skin pricks with his tone. I pulse low with an ache for him to f*ck me from behind.

“Ummm . . . something ‘bout coming,” I answer in broken breathless huffs.

“Ahhhh, Rose, you’re such a beautiful woman, why must you speak that way?” His voice is deep, low, dark and pain-filled. Shifting slightly, the weight of his body rests against the curve of my ass.

“What way?” I ask.

“Untrained, it’s our third night together. Don’t you remember what would happen if you continued to use those lazy words around me?”

“I don’t think you ever said.” I settle under him, just enough to make eye contact with him.

“You become poisonous to me.” He adjusts his weight to one hand and with the other swipes the strands of hair from my face.

“Poisonous? What the hell does that mean?” I try and to buck him off my back. Playing into his fantasy is one thing, but calling me poisonous, is something else entirely altogether. I’ve lived my whole life believing that I am poisonous to people.

He uses his body weight to pin me down. I’m stuck under him, his prisoner.

“It upsets me when you don’t speak properly. Someone so beautiful should have a vocabulary to match.”

He gets up off of me and lets me go. Free.

“Well, maybe I ain’t what you think. This is me, if you don’t like whatcha got, maybe you should have picked up someone else.”

His eyes constrict while he shakes his head, it’s as if he is wickedly disappointed . . . yet again.

“If I wanted someone else, believe me I would have them. I chose you, I want to take care of you. Teach you how beautiful you are,” he answers. The tone in his voice is breathy, yet constricted and strong.

His eyes are sexy, dark, thought provoking. His jaw tenses as he stands at the edge of the bed and rolls his hand in the sheet. My eyes swallow every inch I can see, from the top of his head down to the lingering moment I stare at his cock.

“You trust me?” he asks.

His eyes pin me.

“Well, do you?” he commands.

I nod.

I’m caught in Mr. C’s enchantment; his eyes penetrate every fear I’ve ever had. For three days, he’s captured me in a whirlwind of incredible and unforgettable. Although, it makes me uncomfortable at times, he’s gotten under my skin and infected every cell of my body and I let him.

He pulls a slight smirk across his face before he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, his eyes constrict.