Corrupt(108)

“Why?” she cut in.

I stared into her eyes, knowing that I barely understood the answer to that question myself. Ever since I was little, I remember being angry. Angry that my father tried to mold me into someone I wasn’t. Angry that he took her out of my arms. Angry that she and Trevor were always pushed together. Angry that I had to leave for college and leave her alone with my family.

And then I was angry that she’d betrayed me. Or so I thought.

But for some reason, the anger didn’t break me. It made me my own person, someone who was defiant and knew their own mind. I stood up to my father, I made my own decisions, and I was invincible. And I became very good at finding my amusement in other ways.

Growing up, every time she walked into a room and looked at me, wanting me to look back so badly, I felt powerful when I refused to indulge her. When I left the room as if she hadn’t been there at all.

I loved that I dominated her pretty little head more than my brother ever could.

And indulging in a little self-torture, like picturing her in here with him, kept me hot and on edge. I liked that, because I liked who I was. It made me strong. Would giving in to her change me?

“I like to hurt myself,” I told her. “I need this. Now take off your clothes and get in his bed.”

“Michael,” she breathed out, trying to argue.

But I just stood there like a wall, unbending.

Her chest rose and fell hard, but she calmed her features and squared her shoulders, looking back up at me.

Her mouth twisted in anger, but her eyes turned bold as she tore off her clothes and pulled down her panties, stepping out of them and walking to the bed.

My heart started to beat faster, and I folded my arms over my chest, trying to stay hard.

She pulled back the covers, her long, blonde hair flowing down her back, and climbed in. She laid down, pulling the forest green sheet up to her waist and leaving her breasts uncovered.

Resting a hand behind her head, she looked at me, her big eyes taunting me as her other hand rested on her bare stomach. She looked so f*cking soft and warm and perfect.

He’d seen her like this. He’d laid next to her like this, and regret wracked though me, not because of the picture before me, but because it should never have been him. I could’ve had her—her first time, everything—and I let her go three years ago.

If it weren’t for me, she would never have turned to him.

What the hell was the matter with me? Was all the power I felt pretending like she didn’t exist greater than how f*cking good she felt when I had her in my arms?

No. Not even close.

She cocked her head, her eyes pooling with tears. “I’m in his bed,” she pointed out. “You’re not going to do anything about it this time? I can moan his name or….maybe tell you about the four times in our months together that I let him have me, and how I tried so hard not to picture it being you.”

The blue of her eyes glistened and shook as tears started to spill down her temples into her hair.

“Maybe you’d like more of a visual instead?” she asked.

She sat up, pulling the pillow down, and swinging her leg over it, straddling it.

Rolling her hips, she began to ride the pillow like it was Trevor underneath her, tilting her head back and moaning.

Her beautiful, round ass grinded into the fabric, her back arching as she picked up pace, while her hair swayed against her back.

Pain shot through my chest, and my fists clenched.

“Rika,” I murmured, feeling like I’d lost her.

But then she groaned and whispered, “Michael.”

And I narrowed my eyes, inching up the bed to see her face.

Her eyes were closed, and she let out a hard breath, a small smile crossing her face as she rode the pillow. “Michael.”

She picked up the pace, grinding harder and faster, her tight stomach waving in and out, and her full breasts swaying with her movements.

She grunted as her dry-f*cking grew more rigorous, and her face tightened in pain as she rode harder and harder. “Oh, God. Oh, f*ck.”

And Trevor was gone. He wasn’t in the room anymore.

She was mine.

I unfastened my belt and dropped my jeans to the floor, kneeling behind her on the bed.

I lost track of what the score was, whose move it was, or what game we were even

playing anymore.

We want what we want.

I wrapped a hand around the front of her neck and pulled her against me. Her head fell back on my shoulder, and my cock stood straight up, brushing against her ass.

“What are you doing to me?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

She was tearing me up, and I wasn’t sure I cared. I just wanted to burn.

Dipping a hand down to her *, I slid two fingers inside her and pumped them in and out, bringing out her wetness and rubbing it over her clit.

She moaned, turning her head toward me as she reached around with her hand and held the back of my neck.

“I’m not tough, Michael,” she whispered. “Not really. I can play, and I can let you f*ck me in your brother’s bed or on your father’s desk and use me as an object to get back at them, but in the end—” She paused and then continued, “In the end I’m still here, Michael. I’m still here. It’s still just you and me.”

She breathed hard against my skin, and I dropped my head, caving. I wrapped both of my arms around her and held her warm body tight as I buried my face in her neck. I couldn’t ever let her go.