Page 5 of Desperate Measures
I’ll be damned before I join them.
I struggle, fighting to turn over. When he keeps me pinned, words fly free. “You do this, you better look me in the fucking eyes.”
Jafar, the bastard, laughs. “Did you think you had a say? You don’t.” He uses his thighs to spread my legs obscenely, and then he palms me again, spearing me with one finger and then two. “What a treacherous daughter you are, wet and panting on the floor of your father’s house, riding the fingers of the man who took everything from him.”
He’s right, but I can’t quite gain control of my hips. His fingers feel so incredible inside me, but he doesn’t drive them deep like I crave. He’s cruel in his gentleness, in the slow touch while he holds me in this vulgar position so effortlessly.
“I hate you,” I gasp. “I don’t want this.” Pleasure coils through me, tighter and tighter, centering on my clit and the slow circling of his thumb there. I press my fingers hard against the tile, desperate for more leverage to force him to finish this. So close.
His hand drops away, and then his voice is in my ear, low and rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “Repeat it enough, and it might even be true.”
He lost his cultured facade somewhere along the way, and I’d give anything to be able to see the look on his face right now. The sound of his zipper dragging down seems to echo unnaturally loud against our harsh breathing. And then his cock is there, pressing at my entrance.
I tense, waiting, hoping, that he’ll drive it deep. Nothing. Nothing but the threat of him. The promise of him.
He’s giving me one last chance, I realize. One last chance to change my mind, to be anything other than what I am. Easier to pretend I fought this, to say over and over again that I didn’t want it. My body knows the truth. My mind does, too.
I was never that good at lying to myself.
I can’t move my hips in my current position, my legs spread and ass lifted. I don’t have to. I have the best weapon in the world. “What are you waiting for, Jafar? Lost your nerve?” I swallow hard, but my voice still comes out just as ragged as his. “We both know I can’t make you stop. I won’t make you stop.”
He goes still for one eternal moment. I have the hysterical thought that he’s going to make me beg, to put my betrayal into words the same way I’ve put it into action.
And then he grips my hip and shoves deep. I scream. I can’t help it. I might be a virgin only in the most technical sense—that I’ve never had another person inside me—but any physical evidence of it is long gone thanks to the illicit sex toys I secreted into my room years ago. It doesn’t seem to matter. He’s big, bigger than anything I’ve played with to date, and he’s not giving me time to adjust.
Jafar pulls out and shoves back in, hard enough to move me several inches up the hallway despite his hold on my neck. The tile bites my knees, and my hands slap the floor, sounds slipping from my lips that are more animal than woman. It hurts. Everything hurts. But I can’t stop arching back against him as much as I’m able, the pain twining indescribably with pleasure.
The earlier denied orgasm rolls over me, and my breathless cries morph into a single word. His name. A benediction and a curse. Over and over and over again. “Jafar, Jafar, Jafar.”
He keeps thrusting, his low sounds just as animallike as mine. At the last moment, he pulls out of me, and something hot and thick lands across my ass and upper thighs.
My body morphs into something less solid than muscle and bone. I drop to the ground. I can do nothing but lie there and relearn how to breathe with my lower half exposed, his come cooling on my bare skin.
He just… That bastard just…
“Say it, Yasmina.”
I blink rapidly, mind gone hazy and indistinct with the shocking combination of pleasure and pain he delivered, the dose of humiliation and possession that he cultivated like fine wine. I lick my lips, and it takes me two tries to form the words. “Say what?”
“Say ‘Thank you, Jafar.’”
Over my dead body. “The hell I will.”
“Disobedient to the very end.” His chuckle has my body clenching despite my rage. “We’ll work on it.” He moves off me, and a few moments later, he catches me under my arms and pulls me to my feet and turns me to face him.
My knees buckle, the traitors. I’m forced to grab his shoulders to stay upright.
It’s right around then that I get my first good look at him. There’s no evidence of what we just did on his face. It might be there in the extra growl in his voice, but he appears as composed and distant as ever. It makes me want to strike him. My world just came crashing down around me, and even without access to a mirror, I know that I look a mess.
Jafar skims off my robe, ignoring my weak attempt to cover my breasts. He uses the wadded-up fabric to clean the evidence of himself from my ass and thighs, and somehow that’s the most humiliating part of this whole experience. “I can do it.”
“No.” Just that. Nothing more. He tosses the ruined fabric to join my panties on the floor, and only then does he look at my face. At the bruise darkening my skin, courtesy of my father’s hand. Storm clouds gather in his dark eyes. He touches my chin, tilting my face to the side. “Did he do this?”?3
“You’re going to have to be more specific.” When he just waits, I relent. I’m too tired for this ridiculous argument. Too confused and exhilarated and depressed all at once. “My father doesn’t like it when I talk back.”
“You always talk back. He’s never hit you before.”
“Hasn’t he?”
