Twisted Love (Twisted #1)(51)

An unbidden yelp erupted from my throat when he hit a spot that caused my back to bow.

Alex fisted my hair and tugged my head back until I was half-upright again while his other hand closed around my throat. A warning and a reminder rolled into one. Don’t make a sound.

I tried my best. I really did. But I was a mess—I could see it in the window, my tear-streaked face and glazed eyes, my mouth hanging slack as orgasm after orgasm crashed over me in an endless, white-hot wave of sensation. Was it possible to die from too much pleasure? If so, that was what was happening. I was dying a million tiny deaths, each one ripping me apart and piecing me back together only for the next to destroy me again.

Another sob of pleasure, one that had Alex releasing my hair so he could cover my mouth and muffle my whines.

One hand over my mouth, one hand around my throat.

I came again, my entire body shuddering with the force of my explosion.

Alex fucked me harder, deeper, the couch screaming with protest—it had slid halfway across the floor by now, its progress impeded only by the wall—and I realized it was otherwise quiet.

The call was over.

“I thought you were better at following directions, Sunshine,” he said silkily. “Didn’t I tell you not to make a sound?”

I responded with an incoherent mumble—my failed attempt at apologizing.

“No words?” Alex slid his hand down from my throat to my nipples. He pinched them hard, one after the other, eliciting another jumbled moan. “Did I fuck your brains out, my gorgeous slut?”

Considering I couldn’t even remember my name, probably.

And as the minutes—hours—rolled into each other, I lost myself in him. In us.

In sweet, filthy, depraved oblivion.





25





Ava





My friends had mixed reactions to Alex’s and my new relationship status. Jules was ecstatic, claiming she knew Alex had a thing for me and demanding to know what he was like in bed. I refused to answer but flushed a deep crimson, and that had told her all she needed to know. I think Jules would have died of disappointment had Alex’s bedroom skills not lived up to the promise of his devastating looks and intimidating presence. Luckily for me, they did.

Stella, meanwhile, was worried. Happy for me, but worried. She warned me to take things slow and not fall too hard, too fast. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that train had left the station ages ago. Maybe not the “too fast” part, as Alex Volkov had stolen my heart, bit by bit, over the years, even before I thought I liked him, but the “too hard?” Heart, meet freefall .

Bridget was neutral. I supposed princesses were inherently more diplomatic, which was why she said nothing other than if I was happy, she was happy.

The specter of Josh lingered in the background, and I’d acted so jumpy during our last call he’d demanded to know what was wrong. I told him I had period cramps, which shut him up. Periods sucked, but they were a useful weapon for shutting down questions from men.

Today though, I had another family member on my mind.

I waved goodbye to Bridget and Booth, who’d driven me to my father’s house—an hour and a half from Hazelburg—so I didn’t have to take the train or bus, and unlocked the front door. The house smelled like pine-scented air freshener, and my sneakers squeaked against the polished floors as I searched for my father.

It was his birthday on Tuesday. Since I had class, work, and a photoshoot that day, I’d decided to surprise him today with his favorite cake from Crumble & Bake.

I heard sounds coming from the den, and when I entered the room, I found my dad poring over papers at the table in the corner.

“Hey, Dad.” I slid my bag strap off my shoulder and let the leather tote thump on the ground.

He glanced up, surprise scrawled over his face when he saw me standing there. “Ava. I didn’t know you were coming home this weekend.”

Michael Chen was not a conventionally good-looking man, but I’d always considered him handsome the way all little girls thought their fathers were handsome. Black hair peppered with gray at the temples, broad shoulders, and a dusting of stubble on his chin. He wore a striped polo shirt and jeans, his casual outfit of choice, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not. Well, not the whole weekend.” I flashed an awkward smile. “I wanted to drop by and wish you a happy early birthday.” I placed the cake box on the table. “I’m sorry Josh and I can’t be here on your actual birthday, but I brought your favorite cheesecake from C&B.”

“Ah. Thank you.” He stared at the box but didn’t touch it.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, restless in the silence.

We had never been good at talking to each other. Luckily, we’d had Josh to fill our conversations with chatter about med school, sports, and his latest adrenaline-inducing adventure. Skydiving, bungee jumping, ziplining—he did it all.

But now Josh was in Central America, and I realized how little my dad and I had to say to each other. When was the last time we’d had a real, one-on-one conversation?

Probably not since he sat my fourteen-year-old self down and explained what happened with my mother.

“I don’t understand.” My face twisted with confusion. “You told me Mom died of a heart condition.”