Brutal Obsession (66)

He shifts to the side and slips his hand between us. He touches my clit, soft at first, then harder. He tweaks it, and I almost scream.

“I want to hear you,” he says in my ear. “I want anyone who lingers here to know exactly who’s fucking you.”

I’m silent.

He twists, a new angle, a new punishment. Harder and faster. “Say my name.”

“Fuck off.” I squeeze my eyes shut.

His hand leaves my clit, and I’m left gasping for air. His orgasm comes swiftly, out of nowhere, and he stills. Buried in me.

In the back of my head, I know I should be worried. Birth control doesn’t protect me against everything.

He lifts his head, and I slowly open my eyes. My vision has adjusted. Moonlight comes in through skylights and high windows. There are faint emergency lights outside the rink, just barely visible from here.

The cold hits me, and I shiver.

He slips out of me and scoots back on his knees. He grips my knees and widens my legs as far as they can go. My ankles are still trapped together by my jeans, stuck on my boots.

When he runs his finger from my slit up to my clit, my lips part.

“Here’s a little challenge for you, Violent.” He toys with my clit again, analyzing my reaction.

I squirm. I want to get off, I’m right there, on the edge, but he pulls away before I can get there. Again. And again. We go through this for fucking eternity, until I’m desperate enough to do it myself.

So I do.

I touch myself while he watches, while I shiver and moan and try not to let him see all of me. I fucking hate it. Where did my self-control go? Where did my will? But his gaze combats the cold, and I know just how to take myself there.

In seconds, I’m floating.

He thrusts two fingers inside me, and I gasp at the additional sensation. I clench around him, startled, but my orgasm keeps coming. He strokes deep inside me. I shudder. I keep shuddering. My vision flickers.

“Your cunt looks like it was made to hold my cum,” he says eventually.

He hauls me up before I’m fully ready, setting me on my feet. He slides my jeans back up my legs, making sure to touch my cold, red skin on the way.

Did we really just fuck on the ice?

My face heats with shame.

I’m close enough to the wall that I make it there on my own, sliding and fumbling until I reach the opening. Once I’m back on solid footing, I pick my way past the benches and into the hallway that leads to the locker rooms.

Yeah, not going back there.

Greyson is behind me.

He catches my wrist. I haven’t made it very far, spinning me around. It’s a little lighter out here, emergency lights on the wall giving us a yellowed glow.

His gaze roams my body again. “Forgot to say earlier, but I enjoy your school spirit. I’ll see you soon, Vi.”

And then he releases me and steps back. I stand there until he disappears around the corner.





29





VIOLET





I hurry back to the room and change my clothes. I need to get the smell of him off my skin. I need a hot shower, too, but that isn’t happening.

My phone has blown up with texts from Willow, Jess, and Amanda. They’re getting progressively drunker.

I comb out my hair and paint on a new line of mascara, winging it out. It’s a slightly edgier look than I’m used to, but I feel like I’m ready to just… let go.

Who do I have to impress anyway?

All my life, I’ve been the happy one. I loved ballet, I loved dance class, I loved my friends. My mom was good enough for me to get by. My dad… well, whatever. Growing up without a dad wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened to me.

Although sometimes I do think about him and what he would say if he could see me now. He’d either be proud or disappointed, and I can’t figure out which one. Mom was no help when I wanted answers about him. What kind of person he was. What kind of father he was.

He died when I was seven.

Seven is a weird age.

I can remember him in the vaguest of memories. Like my mind has taken those days, those weeks, those years, and turned them into watercolor paintings. The edges are blurry, the colors run together.

Beautiful, nonetheless.

I sit heavily on one of the beds. My leg is on fucking fire, with pain shooting up into my hip. Tears fill my eyes, and I have to stare at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, to get them to recede.

It’s okay, I tell myself. I just need to get out of here.

Willow sent me the address of the bar that the team and half the party bus has found. She sent a picture of a stage with two pianos on it, the floor in front of it packed with people. I grab my coat and get down to the first floor, asking for directions to get there.

The front desk agent guides me the right way with a smirk. I find it relatively easy and pay the cover, then step inside. Immediately, my senses are assaulted.

It’s dark and loud. Bright flashes of colored lights sweep over the room from the stage, which is lit up with two glittering pianos. Dueling pianos, I guess, judging from the way the two performers are going back and forth.

I wiggle my way toward the oval bar in the center of the large room, then decide to bypass it in favor of finding Willow. Or Jess. Or anyone with blue-and-silver clothing.

I do find Miles and Jacob in the corner, holding their version of court. Paris’ friend, Madison, is sitting almost on top of Jacob. He sees me and raises his cup in a silent cheers.