Page 123 of Filthy Little Fix
I let go of his shirt. I take his hand from my hips and guide it over my abdomen to the exact spot where the pain is sharpest. Where the rib is broken.
"Here," I whisper. "Squeeze."
He stiffens. It's a line he doesn't want to cross.
I press his hand down. Force it against the place that hurts the most. "Please," I beg. "I need it to be you."
"You're a fucking sick son of a bitch," he snarls through his teeth, and he does it. He squeezes.
Fuck.Fuck. I can't think. His hand presses down on the goddamn bone as if he wants to shatter it all over again. The world disappears. The pain is so violent it undoes me—itburnsme,explodesinside me. It's too much, it'sperfect, it'sthis. This. It hurts, so it's real. It'shis.
He fucks me hard. The pain echoes through my entire body, from every direction. I don't know where the suffering begins and the ecstasy ends. Maybe there's no difference.
"You're no good," he mutters, as if he hates what he's doing. As if he hates how much he wants this too. "You like it. You motherfucker. You like this."
I love it when he curses at me. It gives me chills. The combination makes my head spin, and nothing but the feeling of him, thetouchof him, clouds my mind. My muscles clench, letting him know exactly what his voice does to me, what his hands do, pressingright there. He grunts and pulls my thigh, drawing me closer. He leans against my neck.
"You have no idea how much I've wanted you these last few days," he whispers. "How many times I had to stop myself from breaking down that door and fucking that filthy mouth of yours, you miserable slut."
I moan against his shoulder. "You should have."
"Shut up."
His hand moves up to my face. He pulls back just enough to force me to look at him. His eyes bore into mine, hard, torn.
"Look what you make me do," he spits the words, low, threatening. "Look at the fucking animal you create."
Yes.
The sound of our skin slapping together. The scent of his expensive cologne. The sight of his sculpted body. The sharp pain in my rib.
The world dissolves. The room disappears. Only he exists.
It's a short circuit. A blue screen. For a second, I don't exist. I come, feeling the sticky threads spread across my abdomen. My muscles, my whole body contracts, and I hear a deep growl. Him, being squeezed by my body. He grips my thigh hard, slides his thumb over my rib.
He spills into me, as deep as he can go. I feel it—warm, he vibrates, spasms, and soaks my insides. I clutch his shirt until he has flooded me, until the sounds become wetter, until he slides out with an obscene slickness.
He lies down beside me. The white fog that took over my senses slowly fades, and I'm back in bed, listening to his breathing. Smelling his cologne.
I turn to look at him. He's calmer, but that face is threatening from any angle. I love it. He's watching me, analyzing me.
I move, forcing my torso up. I want him closer, but a sharp sting stops me. This isn't like when he squeezes. This is just annoying.
"Ah, fuck," I curse unintentionally.
Dante frowns. The irritation is back in his eyes. He props himself up on an elbow, his gaze falling to my torso. "The rib?"
I nod. A deep breath only makes the stabbing pain worse.
"It's inflamed again, I think."
He touches it. Not like before; this time, it's careful, almost clinical.
"I squeezed too hard."
He's alarmed. Worried. The man who broke my molar because I pissed him off, who fucked me against a shower wall, and who just used me like I was his private property, is now worried that our fucking might have worsened a rib someone else broke. I can't get used to this.
I laugh. It hurts, but I laugh anyway.
