Page 16 of Twisted Love

Suddenly, his big hands grab my head and he pushes himself deeper. My eyes snap open as my lips are pulled up the pulsating length until I feel him jam the back of my throat; we are joined so tightly that we become one writhing animal.

A guttural cry escapes him from above me. That sound shocks me. It carries such terrible pain and aching need. I recognize and understand that pain. I feel it too. I have felt it all these years without him. The room around us vanishes, leaving just the two of us in this burning, consuming moment. All the anger, all the bitterness between us fades, eclipsed by something primal and undeniable. A connection that feels as ancient and unshakable as the rock faces of mountains. No amount of time or distance could ever sever it.

Even as he uses me so brutally, fucking my mouth like a man possessed, it’s not ugly. I don’t need to look up to know the expression in his eyes. The dam has broken. He has completely lost control. His breaths come faster, shallow and broken, each exhalation is a desperate sound that makes my thighs clench. With every involuntary thrust, his body betrays him ever more. His groans fill the room—low, guttural, feral. His hand tangles in my hair, his fingers trembling as they press against my scalp. The gesture is both commanding and pleading. All his bluster is fake. Without me, he cannot survive.

I glance up, meeting his gaze, and the raw intensity there almost shatters me. His eyes are dark, wild, a storm of need and vulnerability. I see him as he once was—the teenager who worshipped me, who offered me his heart without hesitation or reservation. He would have done anything for me. Killed for me, died for me. To watch him unraveling back to being completely mine is insanely intoxicating. A drug I can’t get enough of. I start to dread the moment when he goes over the edge. What will return? The stony-eyed stranger or the old love of my life.

But at this moment, he’s nothing but mine—lost in the sensations I’ve stirred in him.

He grips my head tightly, his fingers brutal. He’s trembling as he holds me against his body, hips jerking forward with an urgency that sends shockwaves through my whole being. I feel the tension coiling in him, his body taut like a bowstring about to snap.

His release comes suddenly, my name tearing from his throat, as he spills his seed deep into my belly. But he doesn’t let go, keeping me joined to him as he rides the waves, his grip unyielding. Three times he jerks against me and the sheer force of him is overwhelming.

When he finally releases my head and pulls back, my lips feel swollen and bruised, my breath shaky. I look up at him … my heart breaks.

His chest is still heaving, but only the stoney-eyed stranger remains. He looks rugged, chiseled, impossibly gorgeous and unimaginably unreachable. A man entirely in his element, and yet … he won’t even look at me.

“You always were the best cocksucker in town,” he murmurs cruelly.

His words sting like a whip on my skin and I stumble as I try to stand, but he doesn’t move to help. The old Earl would have fallen himself rather than let me fall. But this man, he just stands there, his hands slack at his sides as if touching me would demean him. Grabbing his thighs I push myself up and I can’t help the way my body brushes against his. My nipples harden instantly at the contact, even the thick fabric of my hoodie does nothing to dull the sensation.

Heat still radiates between us, but his eyes are cold as ice. How amazing. He’s built up this impenetrable wall in seconds. The vulnerability I glimpsed earlier is totally gone. There’s only guarded distance and dislike.

“We should talk,” I say quietly, running my palm over my saliva-smeared cheeks and mouth.

It takes him a long moment to respond, his eyes lingering somewhere over my shoulder before they finally find mine. When they do, they cut me like a knife.

“What is there to talk about?” His voice is flat and dead and the rejection is complete. He is making it clear. Those unguarded moments before, that was nothing. I am nothing to him.

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “I’m not saying we should be friends or whatever, but we can’t be enemies or strangers either. There’s a lot to say to clear the air. We need to talk about what happe?—”

He cuts me off by stepping away, his muscles taut with tension, then turns his back to me. My words trail off, left hanging in the air like a broken thread.

I watch in amazement as he moves with detached arrogance, his gloriously naked form bathed in light. There’s something brutal in the way he keeps his back to me, like I don’t deserve even the courtesy of his gaze, and I hate myself for how my eyes drink him in, despite the growing knot of anger and confusion in my chest.

Every step he takes feels like a deliberate rejection, the air between us thick with unspoken words that he won’t let me utter. He moves towards the bed without a word, climbing onto it with a casualness that borders on condescension. Sprawling on his back, he rests his hands behind his head and looks at me, his gaze daring me to challenge him.

“What I want out of this relationship,” he says, his voice emotionless, “is blind obedience. You will do as you’re told and under no circumstances do I want to ‘talk’ or know how you feel or what you think about anything. That’s what this agreement is.”

My fists clench at my sides, but before I can respond hotly, he carries on.

“For instance, right now what I want is for you to get over here and ride my dick. Ride it so hard your pussy burns and you make me forget how …” His voice trails off, and I catch the flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“Make you forget how what?” I prompt, thinking he might be about to say something real, but his lips curl into a bitter smirk.

“Your time’s wasting,” he says, his tone mocking, his gaze burning into me.

I want to scream at him, to demand answers, to ask him why—why he left, why he abandoned me, why he’s treating me like this now. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t let him see how much his cruelty cuts me.

“You’re an asshole,” I fling at him, my chest tight with suppressed emotion. “I don’t know what happened years ago to make you leave without a word and abandon me, but don’t act like I’m the sinner here.”

He doesn’t react, just watches me with that cold, detached expression that makes me want to break something. So I keep going.

“Well, I don’t care to kiss and make-up anyway,” I spit. “Fine, I need the money so I’ll do what you want. I’ll ride your dick hard and here’s hoping you forget whatever it is you want to.”

I turn my back on him and push my hands up my skirt. My fingers are trembling as I hook them under the thin band of my panties and quickly slide them down, the soft, wet fabric brushing against my thighs before they fall to the floor. I leave my skirt on. My face burns, but I hold my head high, refusing to let him see the war raging inside me.

I’m about to climb onto the bed when his voice slices through the tense air.

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