Page 34 of Exposed
Why did he do that?
Why does that upset me?
Why do I want him to like memorethan her?
Tears well in my eyes; my throat pangs. I’m so fucking confused.
His nostrils flare. “You need this more than you realize, my sweet one.”
My sweet one?
It’s like I’m really his daughter, and it leaves me breathless.
It’s derogatory, being called “sweet one,” a childish pet name when I’m in my mid-twenties, and yet my core is tender, lust sweeping across my skull, mashing every rational thought until nothing is left but his words:sweet one, sweet one, my sweet one.
I untwist the acid tube behind my back. I can’t let this happen anymore.
“Dr. Ambrose,” I whisper. The tube’s top drops into the bathtub. I hold the container upright and steady.
He braces himself against the side of the bathtub. “Yes, sweet one?”
I thrust the contents toward him. The acid splatters hisface, sizzling at the contact, and he howls, the surprised rage echoing through the basement. His nails scrape at his skin, desperate to get the liquid off. I jump out of the tub and clutch the shower head. As I ready myself behind him, raising the fixture, everything I’m losing flashes before my eyes. My father. My only deep connection. But I can’t stop now. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t do this.
I’m doing this for my mother. For other women.
I’m doing this formyself.
He cradles his face. Even in the shadows, the erection stretching his pants is obvious. And for a split second, I think about his cock in my mouth. The oozing sores. The sour stench. The ribbed purple veins. The calluses rubbing against my tongue.
I’ll never be able to think clearly again unless I kill him.
I raise the shower head again as if it’s a hammer. I straighten my shoulders. “You killed my mother, Ivy Ward.”
I smack the shower head into the back of his skull. His body dips, and he grunts. Tears stream down my cheeks.
“You were her nurse!” I scream. I whack him again, getting his shoulder blade this time. “You raped her! You killed her!”
I lift the shower head again, aiming for his head; as I swing down, he launches me off of him. I fall on my ass. I scramble for the shower head, but he stomps faster, grabbing it from the floor and throwing it to the side of the room. It ricochets off of the wall.
He lumbers toward me. I pant. Red inflamed craters mark his face. One larger burn on his cheek bubbles white, the acid burning him all the way to the fatty tissue. His eyes gleam at me, red vessels crowding his pupils.
The acid didn’t work like I wanted. He can still see me.
Maybe I want him to see me.
He leers at me, anger boiling his stare. “Go on,” he grunts. “Tell me.”
I tremble. The tendons in his neck pull taut, and I swear, he wants to kill me right now.
“Say what you have to say, you fucking bitch,” he growls.
Fear closes my throat. Somehow, I inch backward and get the words out. “H-her file says she was here because her sexually addictive behavior interfered with her daily life. But you did so much worse to her, didn’t you? You faked her issues so you could test her with your own fucked-up desires. You’re the fucking freak!”
“And you asked your pathetic, straight-laced boyfriend to piss in your mouth like a fucking toilet,” he snarls. He knocks his boot into my chest, forcing me onto my back, and I quickly prop myself up on my hands, sprawled out like a crab. He moves his boot between my legs, the rubber sole grinding into my pussy. “You’re obsessed with your need for perverted satisfaction.”
His cock twitches in his pants, and his expression contorts, the physical agony running through him. Then a smirk begins to crawl over his face.
He likes the pain.
