Page 62 of Fragile Twisted Vows

I nod and I feel his groan as it leaves his lips.

He likes it. He likes that I’ve touched myself to him for years. He doesn’t find it immature or laughable or ridiculous, he finds it hot.

I want to ask him too, but I know he won’t answer. I don’t bother wasting the words.

He presses the blade to my bottom lip and I feel the blood pool out, only slightly. My breath catches in my throat when he leans forward, his hazel eyes locked with mine as he licks the blood from my lip and swallows it down.

I don’t have to ask him if he’s thought of me too, if he stroked himself to the image of me. I don’t have to because I can see it on his face. Right there, I see it.

I’ve thought of you too, Lucy.

You’ve plagued me too,

Maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe I’m so caught up in the moment or so fucking delusional that I’m imagining his need for me, but I don’t want to face this very probable truth.

I want to live in this fantasy world with him. Where I feel seen, where I feel wanted.

He brings the knife down to my throat again, resting the tip of the blade near my pulse. I don’t move. I just let him kneel on the bed and drag my knees open so that I’m open and bare to him. The cool air hits my wetness and I sigh. He bites down on his lip as he watches me.

“You’re mine, you know,” he growls, his cock touching my inner thigh. It’s wet too. He’s wet for me too.

“You have been. Well before you signed that contract. You’ve been mine since the first night you touched this pussy to the thought of me, Lucille Fairchild,” he growls, and I gasp.

He’s right.

He’s so fucking right and it hurts.

“You keep ruining my clothes,” I say as he snaps my thong in half.

He shakes his head with a smirk, his knife still at my throat as he settles between my bent legs.

“I’ll buy you new clothes,” he says.

He sinks into me with one big thrust. I’m so wet that he slides effortlessly. He grabs my knee and wraps it around his pumping waist with one hand while he continues to press the knife to my throat with the other.

I’m going to come hard and fast, and that should make me feel sick.

This kind of thing should terrify me. It should be flaring my PTSD from that awful night he saved me from years ago, but it doesn’t. Instead, it frees me.

Because Damien is the one tempting me, pushing me, pleasing me. He brings the ache just enough to soothe it. And he will not do anything to injure me or cause me physical harm.

Because even though he’s got a knife pressed to my throat, even though he’s threatened to kill me, I know I’m safe. I know he won’t hurt me.

Because he beat a man to death for me. He killed a man for me. He licks me to completion every night before I fall asleep and he fucks me like I’m the last woman on Earth.

This man would never do anything to harm me. Not physically.

No, Damien Reed is going to kill me by heartbreak. And that’s the only thing that I have to worry about.

“I’m going to come,” I whisper, my breath shaky as it comes out in puffs.

He fucks me harder.

“Come all over this cock, baby,” he growls, his hips stuttering. I know he’s seconds away from coming too.

“Tell me it’s mine. Tell me I fucking own it,” he growls out and I start to shake uncontrollably as I cry out.

“It’s yours!” I say as I start to gush all over him, my heart pounding in my ears as I come with an intensity I’ve yet to discover. “It’s always been yours,” I sob.

---