Page 153 of Degradation
I throw my head back, I let out a feral growl.This woman is mine. Every piece of her is mine.
I slide myself out, before working myself back in again. I know I need to take this slowly, that this is all part of the plan but it’s so god damn hard.
“Fuck,” I gasp in equal frustration and bliss. I want to destroy her, a part of me wants to make her scream, and yet she’s been so broken already I don’t want to push more than she can take.
Only, she’s raising her hips, I swear she is. She’s rocking back and forth, meeting each thrust like she’s trying to encourage me. Is she an idiot, does she not realise she’s tempting the very devil?
“You want me to ruin you?” I snarl.
“You already have.” She retorts. “Besides, you think I can’t take the pain, is that it? You think I can’t handle it? You really think your cock is as big as that?”
No, - no, no, she didn’t just say that, she didn’t just… but she did. She did.
I slam into her, losing all that careful concern in an instant. She screams out and the sound is electrifying, sending goosebumps up my arms.
“You really are a whore.” I gasp. “A filthy, dirty little whore.”
We’re grunting, groaning, both of us bucking together, hate fucking each other. What started off as force has become something else entirely. I reach around, grabbing her breast, grabbing her nipple and I pinch so hard she screams.
“Thought you said you could take the pain?” I sneer.
She somehow manages to slam a fist into my side. It’s not hard but I love that her response right now is violence.
I slap her arse, slap her hard, then do it again, leaving a livid mark on both her cheeks.
As I come, it feels like my entire world shifts, like my entire axis has tilted. I growl out, burying myself one final time.
She lays there, her head turned to the side, her face flushed, panting like she can’t quite get enough air in. A bead of sweat trickles down her spine and I stay where I am watching it trail over her beautiful skin.
She doesn’t move. She lays there, still, like she’s in some sort of trance.
“Let’s get you washed.” I murmur, scooping her up, carrying her back to the shower again.
I’ve never cared for after-care. I’ve never bothered with that shit before, but this is different. She is different. I may not have admitted it fully to her when she was questioning me earlier. I may not have admitted it fully to myself but even when I hated her, even when I wanted her dead, a part of me still yearned for her, a part of me still loved her.
I shake my head, not truly understanding it, understanding me. I turn the shower on, washing her quickly and then seeing to myself. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t make a sound. I wonder if she’s in shock, if she’s somehow got herself lost in the memories, in the past.
I turn the water off, grab a fresh towel and dry her off.
Once she’s in the bed, I yank the knife free and place it on the cabinet beside her. She hears the sound of it and looks over at me questioningly while I slip into the bed beside her.
And to my surprise her hands reach for me, she reaches for me. Her nails drag up my chest, leaving faint scratch lines behind. I feel like there’s something she wants to say and yet she doesn’t say a word. She just rolls over, lets out a deep sigh and slowly falls asleep.
The first bitof sunlight streams in through the open window.
It’s only just risen, and yet, it’s impossibly bright already.
Paitlyn is lying beside me, looking almost ethereal as the light paints her skin in decadent shades of gold and amber.
I’ve been awake for hours, just watching her breathe, studying every line and curve of her face in the growing light, seeing how she’s changed, how she’s aged, how her body has altered. My heart is still pounding against my ribs after anothernightmare, another flashback to that godforsaken cell where they kept me chained like an animal. The phantom ache of iron shackles burns around my wrists, and I flex my fingers to remind myself I’m free.
But it’s her presence that truly pulls me back from that dark place. I don’t understand it fully, but I like this, I like the effect she has on me. I like the way she calms me without doing or saying a thing at all.
The bruises covering her skin tell stories I helped write. I should feel guilt. I should feel shame. Instead, there’s something else entirely, something that makes my chest tight and my breathing shallow.
She’s perfect. Too fucking perfect.
The thought hits me like a physical blow, and I have to close my eyes against the intensity of it. I’ve never had anything worth keeping in my entire miserable existence. Yes, I’ve had everything I ever wanted, but what then is anything truly worth when you can simple buy it?
