Page 12 of Blood Ties
I shouldn’t let him talk to me like that. I shouldn’t be turned on by it. Before I can form a word, he slaps me across the face. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but plenty enough to shock me. I turn slowly to look at him, my eyes wide.
I certainly shouldn’t let him do that. But I am wet and throbbing for more of what he gave me in the kitchen — that floating feeling of lost control, pleasure intense enough to quiet my thoughts.
“Answer me,” he says, all stern command, his eyes burning into mine.
I swallow hard, thighs clenching. “Yes,” I whisper.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he says, and sits back on his heels, undoing his belt buckle. “Take off your clothes.”
I pull my shirt over my head and toss it aside, along with my bra, then shimmy out of my panties and the shorts still hanging around my ankles. Goosebumps prickle my skin as I sit bare before him on the bed. His dark gaze slides slowly down, over my small breasts and pebbled nipples, to the dark patch of stubble between my legs. I try not to feel self-conscious; I wasn’t exactly planning on hooking up tonight.
“Turn around. Get on your hands and knees.”
I do so, trembling slightly and wetter than I’ve ever been as I spread my knees to expose myself to him.This is a mistake, I think. But then he grabs me by the back of the neck and shoves my face down into the mattress a moment before he pushes into me from behind.
He slams down to the hilt in one brutal thrust. I let out a muffled cry against his pillow, helpless to do anything but take him as he drives into me again and again and again. The bed creaks beneath us with each slam of his hips. I dig my fingers into the sheets, tears in my eyes as the hot knot of pleasure in my belly tightens, sending me rocketing forcefully toward another peak.
Music begins to play next door, drowning out the sounds of the squeaky bed and the slap of flesh and Knox’s low grunts and my own helpless cries of pleasure. When I recognize the haunting sound of Radiohead, shame rushes through me — but it’s not enough to stop the orgasm that comes hot on its heels.
Knox finishes in hot spurts all over my back. When he releases me, I sag into the sheets. As the pleasure recedes, I am left with only disgust at myself.
Knox has no such qualms. He rolls over without a word, facing away from me, and is snoring within minutes.
I wipe myself off on his sheets and pull on my shirt and underwear. My shorts are lost somewhere on his messy floor. Sighing, I stare up at the ceiling and wrangle with my guilt. I want to go downstairs, check on my friends before I sleep and make sure everyone has a glass of water, but I’m too ashamed to face them.
Why do I always do this? I spend so much time being good. A good daughter, a good student, a good friend. Then things like this happen and it’s like this hole opens up inside of me, this darkness craving hurt and punishment and dirty things I’m ashamed to name.
Everyone thinks I micromanage things because I enjoy being in control, but I don’t. I feel like Ihaveto be in control in order for things to go smoothly. What I really want is what Knox just granted me: someone to take charge. A relief from the pressure of overthinking. Yet it always leaves me feeling hollow.
At least he was a stranger. In the morning, we’ll drive away, and I’ll forget all about this night and the Duvall brothers. I fall asleep comforted by that thought.
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