Brutal Obsession (33)

Concern creases her eyes. “That guy… he didn’t do anything, right?”

“He saw me and ran.” I grab a cup and pour myself a glass of water, chugging it down.

I refill it in the sink and hand it to her, then tip my head. We go through the kitchen and down a short hall to a bathroom.

She locks it behind us, and I take the much-needed opportunity to pee. She fidgets with her fingernails. “I just don’t get what someone wants with you, in particular.”

“I was sure it was Greyson.” I pull up my leggings and wash my hands, then follow her out.

“But you called right after it happened?” She glances through the doorway to the living room, pausing again in the kitchen. It seems safe enough to talk in here without them overhearing. “He was here. The whole hockey team was, actually.”

I grimace. “Yeah.”

“So, ruling him and the team out… was it someone else we know?” She rubs her forehead. “You know what? Maybe this is a conversation we’d have easier when I’m not tipsy.”

“Tomorrow? Brunch.” We’re obsessed with brunch. I’m not sure why. It’s always been a Sunday treat.

“Deal.”

She finishes the water and sets the cup in the sink. When we reenter the living room, the lights are dimmer. Someone has put a movie on, and everyone has adjusted to watch it. Greyson’s gaze on me is a weighty thing, and I sense him watching me as I pick my way toward him.

I try to sit beside him, but he redirects me again. I land on his lap, and he wastes no time rearranging my limbs to suit him. He shifts me so I’m cradled sideways, my legs up on the couch and extended toward Steele and his girl. Greyson wraps a blanket around both of us, but I know it’s not a comfort thing. It’s a possessive thing.

I don’t know how I know, until his hand goes into my leggings.

“Thought I told you to keep me between your legs,” he says in my ear.

I shake my head. “You can’t just stop bodily functions.”

He grunts, and his fingers move. I let out a breath when I realize what his intention is. My clit is sore from the earlier abuse, but he’s gentler now. My pussy pulses with need, reawakening, and I put my hand on his wrist.

He tsks. “Watch the movie, Vi.”

Vi. He called me that in his text to himself from my phone, too. No one calls me that, not even Willow. As a kid, I was very against nicknames. I hated that my name could be shortened. Unlike Willow, whose only real option is Will, there are too many ways to chop mine up.

Violet can turn into so many terrible things to creative kids. Vile was common for the bullies. Lettie by my well-meaning mother, although she dropped that by the time I turned twelve. When I met Willow, I was sick of people asking what I’d rather go by, that I ranted to her about ending all nicknames. Outlawing them.

But, damn it, I’ve got to admit that I like the sound of it coming out of his mouth.

I shift, rotating in his direction. I let my head rest against his shoulder and make myself a promise.

Tomorrow, we will go back to hating each other. Tomorrow, all the bad things can sweep back into my brain. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Right now, I close my eyes and enjoy the slow strokes of his finger on my clit and the way his cheek feels against the top of my head. And the sounds of the movie and the people around us. I should be wary, or afraid, or just altogether unwilling to orgasm in front of people.

But when it sneaks up on me, I turn my face into Greyson’s neck and bite. Hard.

His fingers push into me, and I clench around him. I try not to make a single noise with my teeth locked on his skin. My tongue flicks out, automatically soothing the area. His cock stiffens, pressing against my hip.

Why do girls always go for the bad guy?

I don’t think I can change him. I don’t think I want to—in fact, I’d be happy if I never had anything to do with him ever again. If we walked away right now, I’d accept it.

No, Violet. That’s a fucking lie.

Girls like me need guys like him to spar with, to fight. To hurl the miseries and the anger at someone who can handle it.

He withdraws his fingers and puts them to my lips. I clench my teeth and ignore it. There’s no fucking way I’m sucking on his fingers that were just in me. Nope.

His breathy laugh is the only warning I get before he pinches my jaw with his free hand. He grips my cheeks so hard, my mouth opens to avoid the pain. And then his fingers slip into my mouth, pressing down on my tongue, and he waits.

Mortification floods through me at the taste, and the position, and the power of him. I loathe it, but he’s more stubborn than me. He rubs his fingers back and forth across my tongue until I close my lips around his two fingers and tentatively suck at them. He releases my jaw, and that hand slides down my back.

He lets my tongue explore his fingers, the edge of his nails. The texture of his knuckles. When I’ve done what he wants, he pulls them from my mouth. I lick my lips and lift my head to glare at him, but he’s uninterested in my reaction.

It isn’t the aftermath that he cares about—it’s the act. And since he got what he wanted, he’s ready to focus on the movie.

I let out a sigh and put my head back down on his shoulder.

I’m so fucking tired. I don’t give a shit that my eyes close. That anyone could’ve seen what just happened. Instead, I fall asleep.