Page 120 of Unorthodox
Not this again.Not fucking this.
His knee comes to my back, pinning me down. He yanks harder against my hair, causing my throat to arch. “If you fight me, I’ll make sure you hate every second of this.” He moves his knee, lets go of my hair, throws me flat on the bed, then climbs over me.
I feel his cock against my ass as he pins me down with one hand on the side of my face.
He nudges my legs apart roughly, his finger going into me just as rough.
I try again, my palms flat on the mattress as I do my best to push up, but it’s fucking useless.
It’s useless, and he’s really going to do it.
I feel bile running up my throat, feel tears pricking behind my eyes as he leans his weight against my face, aching under the pressure of his hand.
He’s going to do this all over again.
He pulls his finger from me, then I feel something much bigger nudging against my entrance.
He grabs my hair, twisting my head so I see him in the dim light of the room, his eyes dark as he smiles at me, guiding himself against me.
“You’ve been to hell?”
“Max,” I try, tears pouring down my face. “You don’t want to—”
“I’ll take you back, Addison. I’ll make sure when I’m done with you, you don’t feel a fucking thing.”
“Max.” His name is strangled from my throat, and I feel every second tick by painfully slow as I wait for him to do it, even as I pray he doesn’t. “Don’t do this.”
“You say that to Dante?” he asks me, his voice a growl, but he doesn’t push further against me. He stops.
And when he does, I can breathe a little easier.
“Or maybe fuckingZeke.Maybe youwanted itin that fucking stairwell.”
“Max,” I breathe out, “I didn’t want—”
“So long as it wasn’tme again, huh, Addison?”
I don’t speak, fear seizing up my throat.
“You should’ve trusted me. You should’ve fuckingtrusted me.”His voice breaks on the last words, and I don’t say anything. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.
“Fuck!”He nearly screams the word as he pulls away from me, and I feel relief flooding through my veins, like I can take an inhale again. Exhale.
I feel the bed shift, I hear his zipper. His belt. Then he says, close to my ear, “Look at me.”
I swallow, closing my eyes for a second. Trying to think, my heart hammering in my chest.
I don’t want to look.
I don’t want to see him.
But I do it.
I pick my head up, turn it to the side, so I can face him.
See his steel-blue eyes searching mine as he’s on his knees beside my bed. His gaze roams over my face, and his brows pull together, and I don’t know what he’s thinking.
“Fuck, Addison.” He pulls the gun from his hip, sinks to the floor, draws his knees up. He has his head in his hands, his gun tapping against his temple. There’s tension in his body, his shoulders hunched. And as tall as he is, as strong as he is...in this moment, he’s weak.
