Page 41 of Cinderella and the Daddy
“Cindy.”
He’s dying. Slowly. Painfully.
“Luka.”
That’s it. He loses the fight. He’s relentless. His hips thrust up while his hands pull me onto him, burying himself balls deep. I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any deeper, but he was sure trying.
I move faster, chasing the building pressure. The fullness of him inside me is too much.
My nails dig into his shoulders. I’m certain I’m drawing blood, but I can’t stop.
"Luka," I gasp, feeling myself climbing toward another peak.
"That's it," he murmurs, his free hand tangling in my hair. "Let me see you fall apart."
When the second orgasm hits, it is different from the first. I bury my face in his neck and bite down hard. He lets out a loud roar with his arms wrapping around me as he empties himself inside me.
For a moment, we just breathe together, our foreheads touching. Then reality creeps back in, and shame washes over me in waves.
I just had sex with my captor.
Again.
In his garage.
On his car.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I try to turn my face away, to hide from his penetrating stare, but he catches my chin with gentle fingers.
I can't meet his eyes. Can't face what I've become—a woman who falls apart at the touch of the man who stole her life.
He's still inside me, still connected to me in the most intimate way possible.
“Who's the coward now?”
The crack of my palm against his cheek echoes through the garage like a gunshot. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn't move to stop me. Didn't even flinch. He just takes it like he thought he deserved it.
He does.
I hit him again, harder this time, putting all my self-loathing and confusion behind it. A red mark blooms across his cheekbone, but his eyes never leave mine. There’s something almost grateful in his expression, like my anger was easier to handle than whatever else was building between us.
"Feel better?" he asks quietly.
I want to scream. To hit him again and again until this ache in my chest goes away. Until I could stop wanting him despite everything he's done to me.
Instead, I climb off him and collect my scattered clothes. My legs are shaky, my body still humming with the aftershocks. I could feel him leaking out of me, a reminder of how completely I had given myself to him.
Again.
I yank my sports bra over my head, not bothering to look at him. He hasn’t moved.
I pull on my leggings with jerky movements, hyperaware of his eyes tracking my every motion.
I’m so fucked up. So completely, utterly broken that I crave the touch of the man who destroyed my life. What did that make me? What kind of person begged for more from their captor?
I walk out of the garage.
