Page 27 of Breaking Ophelia
After a while, she lies down, curling into a tight ball, white skirt bunched at her thighs, the rose still cradled in one palm. She’s asleep in two minutes, mouth open, hair fanned across the cheap pillow.
I watch her chest rise and fall. The pulse at her throat, fluttering like a caught bird.
It’s time.
I head to the kitchen first, grabbing her a plate of food to put in her fridge, along with some fruit and vegetables. If she refuses to eat in the dining hall, at least she will have something.
The witching hour is when this place comes alive. Doors click shut, footsteps fade, but the walls themselves seem to lean in, eager to see what happens when the lights go out.
Hands full, I head towards the North Tower, climbing the steps two at a time before heading to her room.
I run a finger down the grain of her door. It’s cheap wood, soft and unfinished, nothing like the armored portals guarding the rooms in my own wing. It smells faintly of bleach and the citrus oil they use to mask the damp. My hand covers the lock—second-rate, designed to keep only the honest out before it clicks and swings open.
She’s sleeping like the dead. I can hear her through the panel: slow, even, the kind of exhaustion that comes only after a day of fighting and failing. She talks in her sleep. Something about me, which only serves to turn me on.
Putting the food in the fridge, I look around. They really did give her the shittiest room possible, which enrages me.
Soon, baby girl, you’ll be in my bed.
The moon’s out, filtered through a curtain so thin it might as well not exist. It casts the whole living room in silver, but the hallway is dark as I head towards her bedroom. She’s a mess as Istand in the open doorway: hair splayed over the pillow, one arm draped across her eyes, the other bent up, hand clutched near her mouth. The shirt rides high on her thigh, the hem twisted, bunched around her hips. Her bare leg is marked with the indent of the desk chair, a red line that won’t fade until morning.
She snores, a thin line of drool down her mouth, wetting her pillow.
I don’t move for a long time. I just stand in the doorway, filling the space, letting the chill seep into my bones. My blood’s hot enough to keep me from freezing, but I like the feel of it—the contrast between the room and what I’m about to do.
I close the door, slow, deliberate. My shoes are off before I hit the edge of her carpet. I step over the pile of discarded clothes, the whiskey bottle now empty and on its side. She barely stirs as I approach.
She smells like sweat and the sour from the bottle. It’s animal, and it drives me nearly fucking feral.
I kneel next to the bed, hands braced on the mattress. She mutters something and shifts, exposing her neck, the curve of her shoulder. Her skin’s pale, but warm where it dips into the hollow at her neck.
I place my palm there, feel her pulse. She’s dreaming. I wonder if she knows, even in her sleep, that I’m here.
I slide my hand up, along her throat, thumb at her jawline. Her lips part, a sigh escaping. I want to crush her, but I make myself gentle.
This isn’t for her. This is for me.
I take hold of her shirt, gather it in my fist, and hike it up. Her thighs are soft, the flesh giving under my touch. I run my hand up her leg, slow, savoring the goosebumps that follow my touch.
She mumbles, rolls, almost wakes. I freeze, heart pounding. She settles again, the tension gone.
I lean in, mouth to her ear. “My girl,” I whisper, so soft even I can barely hear it. “I own you and I’ll worship you even as you hold tight to hating me.”
She doesn’t wake. But her body reacts—hips shifting, breath catching.
I grip the inside of her thigh and push them open, just wide enough. No panties. I stifle a groan. She’s wet, already, and I know it’s not for me, but I don’t care. I press my fingers in, slow, then faster, curling to find the spot that makes her twitch. She groans, a low, animal sound.
When I’m satisfied she’s ready, I pull my cock free. It’s hard as iron, the tip leaking against her inner thigh.
I line up, press in. She resists at first—her cunt’s tight, unyielding, but I push harder, and the ring of muscle gives. I cover her mouth with my palm, muffling the soft grunt that escapes as I slide home.
She wakes then, just barely. Her eyes flutter, unfocused, maybe seeing the shape of me but not the face. I keep my hand on her mouth, forcing the sound back down her throat. I fuck her slow, measured, each thrust a statement. Her body recognizes me before her mind does. She goes soft, then rigid, then soft again.
I watch her face the whole time. The line of her jaw. The twitch of her brow. When she comes, I feel it—her pussy clamps down, tries to throw me out, but I only fuck her harder. She shakes, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. I lick them away, savor the salt.
I come in her, deep. I don’t pull out. I want her to wake with it still inside her, a reminder.
I stay there, buried in her, for a long minute. I brush her hair back from her face, kiss her cheek, the corner of her mouth. She’s unconscious again, breath ragged, but she doesn’t fight.
