Page 7 of The Invite
“Don’t cut me,” I whimper, closing my eyes. “Please.”
He trails it down the slope of my neck. “Don’t move.”
“Please… no.”
Vicious memories try to claw their way back to the surface.
The blade draws a path to my pounding pulse and presses. I instinctively turn my head and it nicks my skin, not enough todraw blood. It’s demonic how calm and collected the men are. While I’m seconds away from passing out.
I squeeze my eyes shut harder, as if it’ll make me vanish or forget this is happening. But my mind doesn’t cooperate and focuses intently on the knife tracing between my breasts, down to my flat belly, and then it’s gone.
Terror darker than earlier seizes me when the weapon returns, touching right below the short hem of my skirt. The sound of the stocking on my right leg tearing under the spiked tip pierces the air.
The fear of accidentally cutting my skin forces me to keep still.
It becomes ten times tougher to not move when he pushes his hand underneath my skirt, climbing higher and higher.
“Stop!” I sob, panting. “Don’t.”
“Look at me.” His voice is a seductive lullaby that’ll haunt me for an eternity.
I don’t obey, shaking my head.
“Open.” The knife traces my inner thigh. “Your.” Ascending closer. “Eyes.” It stops right against my heat. “Now.”
Flinching, my eyelids flash open just as he hooks the tip into the waistband of my panties against my hip bone and slices it in two. The shock of it elicits a terrifying scream from my throat.
It abruptly cuts off when his palm covers my mouth.
“I didn’t tell you to scream,” he admonishes, slicing the other side of my panties and ripping the fabric clean off me.
I close my legs to protect my bare sex.
He slaps the flat side of the blade on my outer leg, commanding, “Spread.”
“No.” My voice is a distorted mess. My vision swims between black and white as vivid memories strike my mind.
Looking to his right, he flicks his chin at his friend, who I completely forgot about. I struggle when he steps forward and shakes his head at me before wrenching my thighs apart.
“Don’t touch me,” I warn angrily when my mouth is freed.
My protest is met with his hand boldly cupping my pussy. However, momentary relief washes over when the knife is gone.
I squirm, rising on my toes to get away when he dips one finger through my slit. Like the manipulative monster he is, he coerces my body’s naivety against my rational brain.
Watching my face through hooded eyes, he teasingly caresses my sex up and down. His thumb joins, circling my clit. Coaxing it from its hood until it’s swollen and hard, he flicks it. Repeatedly. All the while, his other finger strokes every crevice and nudges against my opening.
I don’t want to enjoy it.
Repulsion should crawl out of every pore in my body.
The opposite happens.
I become…wet.
“How is she?” rasps his friend in a husky note.
“Soaked,” he replies. I stifle a moan when he thrusts his finger into my entrance without warning. “Tight.”
