Unorthodox (Sick Love Book 1) Page 16

  He doesn’t look away from me. Doesn’t stop touching me. But after a moment, he presses his brow to mine and groans, “Goddammit, Addison,” in such a tortured, defeated way, I almost forget what he is.

  I almost forget he’s Satan incarnate.

  But the moment passes, and he pulls away, reaches between us, angling his cock toward me again, bumping the head of it against my slit.

  “Do you really hate me that much?” he asks me quietly, running the tip of himself over my clit. His grip on my wrists tightens, a furrow between his brow as he circles my clit with his thick head, and I hate that my body responds to him.

  I hate that my nipples peak, and I feel myself grow wet despite the way my mind tries to protect me. To remind me.

  “Has it really been so bad here, love?” There’s a sort of desperation to his voice that I don’t understand. It throws me off, because the question seems genuine. “I let you…roam. I…killed Ben for his unfairness toward you. I feed you, three meals a day that you don’t have to beg for. Until today, I hadn’t once hurt you.”

  My chin quivers with his words, with his icy gaze on me as he continues circling my clit as he speaks. And even though I want to, I can’t look away from him.

  “So, tell me, baby girl,” he leans closer, his lips pressed against my cheekbone. I realize when a flash of sharp pain lights up there that he’s kissing where he slapped me. “Tell me why you hate this so much.”

  He nudges my face to the side, trails his mouth over my jaw, down toward my neck. And I feel it again. Warmth flushing my body. My thighs spreading wider, as if on their own. As if I’m losing my mind.

  And the way he’s rubbing his cock against me, the way he’s lighting my body on fire when I should feel nothing but coldness, and the way his words are slipping past my defenses…I realize with no small amount of horror that I want him.

  He sucks my skin between his teeth, right above my collarbone. The sensation is gentle, pleasurable. “Tell me why you hate me, beautiful girl. Tell me why you let him inside of you.” He runs his tongue up my throat, the side of my face, toward my ear, still rubbing himself over my swollen clit. “Tell me why you gave him something that doesn’t belong to him.”

  No. It definitely didn’t belong to Dante. My father got there first.

  I swallow those words. That confession. Max won’t sympathize. Max won’t care. He’ll only use that twisted secret to hurt me more.

  “W-who?” I ask, staring at the wall, wishing I couldn’t feel him. Wishing I wasn’t here. That I could slip away, hide inside my own mind. That my body wouldn’t betray me, and that Max wasn’t so damn good at fucking my head. “Who does it belong to?”

  He lets go of my wrists, grabs my face and turns my head so I’m forced to face him.

  “Me,” he says quietly. “I fucking own you. Now, tell me just that, and I’ll play nicely.”

  I bite my trembling lip, feel another tear roll down my cheek. He’s propped up on his elbow, one hand still bumping his head against my clit. My legs are trembling, and I don’t know if it’s just from fear anymore.

  “I-I’m yours,” I tell him softly, knowing if I don’t, he won’t be nice. If this is inevitable, I want it this way. Nicely.

  But his lips tug up into a cruel smile. “Try again, love.”

  I swallow down my pride, my fear, my trepidation. “Y-you own me, Max.”

  He groans, slides his cock down my slit, and pushes into me, never taking his eyes off of me or his hand away from my face as he does.

  I bite my lip, close my eyes as he stretches me further than Dante did, pain dancing on the edge of promised pleasure.

  “Open your eyes,” he whispers, gripping my face tighter as he moves slowly inside of me. “Look at me, baby girl.”

  I do as he asks, holding his gaze.

  With every thrust into me, he speaks, each one becoming harsher with every word he says. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.” He kisses me possessively, still holding my face, one hand pressed into the mattress beside my head. “I’m sorry that I made you think he was your only option.” His hand slides down my face, to my throat.

  His fingers curl around me, and without warning, he pulls out of me, moves off of me. He lets go of my throat, yanks me up by my arm. Moving his hand to my shoulder, he shoves me down to my hands and knees, his fingers threading in my hair as he moves my stunned body like a ragdoll.

  The wood is cold and hard against my palms, my knees. Confusion makes my mind race. I try to turn to look at him, but he doesn’t let me go, his grip in my hair tightening.

  He’s behind me, and he pushes his cock back into me as I gasp. He lets go of my hair, wraps his forearm around my throat instead, dragging me back against his chest.

  His words are whispered in my ear as he chokes me, fucking me harshly. “I’m sorry you’re a fucking whore.” He hits deeper inside of me, and I can barely breathe, his forearm against my throat constricting my airway. But I can only grasp at his arm for seconds at a time as I try to keep my balance, panic stealing through me. “I’m sorry you can’t keep your fucking legs closed.” My breasts bounce as he fucks me, his hips meeting my ass with every thrust. “I’m sorry you actually thought fucking him would let you get away from me.” He kisses the side of my face, still choking me, spots popping in front of my eyes. “I’m sorry you’re a dumb fucking cunt.” He shifts his arm, grabs my hair again, jerking my head back so I’m looking at him upside down, my mouth forced open with the angle he has me at.

  “But goddamn, Addison, you’re fucking beautiful.” And as he slams into me again, pain and pleasure tearing through me, he drips spit into my open mouth, the taste of him like peppermint on my tongue. “You’re fucking perfect,” he says, groaning the last word, “and you’re fucking mine.”

  He shoves my head down as I swallow the taste of him.

  But giving me more whiplash, he pulls out of me. My mind reels until he spreads my ass apart, and I hear him spit on me. It’s warm, and wet, and uncomfortable. There.

  I stiffen, and he laughs.

  “Yeah,” he says softly, as if to himself, “Dante might’ve fucked your pussy, but no one has been here, have they?” And they haven’t. Not anyone. Ever.

  Before I can move, before I can answer him, he drives his cock into my ass, a burning sting bringing tears to my eyes, a scream lodged somewhere in my throat.

  The pain is harsh, and it takes force to get himself in, my body tense and fighting him all the way.

  “At least something of yours belongs to me,” he growls, threading his fingers back through my hair.

  He isn’t gentle, and I barely have time to breathe, let alone adjust to him, when he pulls out of me again, then pushes back into my pussy.

  Revulsion and pleasure both steal through me as I close my eyes, on my hands and knees as he uses me.

  “Strictly speaking,” he says, his voice hoarse as he pulls out again, gripping my ass with one hand, spreading me enough for him to push back into me there, “this shouldn’t be done.” His fingers tighten in my hair, yanking down, my throat pulled taut as I stare at the ceiling, eyes burning with unshed tears. He pulls out of my ass again, pushes back into my pussy, groaning as he does. “But you’re nothing but a toy for me to use now, beautiful girl. All of your holes are fucking mine.”

  He switches back and forth, and I feel dirty and disgusting and hot. My entire body is warm, the sensation of him pushing into my ass, then alternating to my pussy is overwhelming, leaving me little room to think.

  I can only feel.

  And I realize, as I do, that I don’t want him to stop.

  “I’m not sure what feels better,” he says, sounding breathless despite his arrogant tone, “Dante didn’t do too much damage, did he?” He comes down on me, his chest against my spine. “You want to say his name?” he whispers in my ear, still gripping me tight as he pulls out of my pussy, drives back into my ass. “You want to call for him now, love?”

  The floor is cold bene
ath my sweaty palms, but with his question, my body flushes hotter. Anger and pleasure battle within me, and I can’t stop the words from my mouth as I moan, “Fuck, Dante.”

  He laughs, changing each thrust now, one into my pussy, one into my ass, his pace punishing. He lets go of me, his hand coming under my chin, his cheek next to mine. “Say it again,” he whispers, his tone menacing. “I fucking dare you.”

  I open my mouth to do just that, but before I can say the word, he slaps the side of my face, cutting me off. And as I blink, trying to breathe, trying to think, I know he’s coming as he starts to fuck my pussy so hard I collapse down on my elbows, my chest against the floor.

  He says my name, groans it as he comes inside of me, his chest heaving against my back.

  For a moment, he rests his head on my spine, and I don’t move, my fingers clasped as I press my own head against my fists, feeling nothing but…numbness.

  “I could’ve come in your ass,” he says quietly, and I tense, wondering what he’s going to say next. “But the idea of you having my child while you’re the property of another man…it was too fucking good to pass up.”

  Before I can react, he slowly pulls out of me, then jerks me toward him, so I’m against his chest even as the thing in my own cracks in two.

  He slides his arms beneath me, wrapping them around me and rolling over to his back. He pulls me with him as he breathes hard, his body warm against mine as he tangles his legs around me, as if to keep me still.

  As if I could move.

  I can barely think.

  Barely breathe.

  I try not to hear his words in my head. I try not to think of what we just did. What he just did. Of how I hurt. The ache between my thighs. Elsewhere.

  For a long moment, we do nothing but lie there.

  Eventually, when my eyes flutter closed and I stop trying to think about this, when I stop trying to analyze what happened to me, why I didn’t fight, why I’m so fucked up, why I wanted him, he picks me up, gently places me in my bed and leans over me, pressing his lips against my throat, where I know there’s going to be a bruise from his hands.

  “Don’t move from this bed, Addison. Not until someone comes for you in the morning. Then, we’ll have an outing together, and we’ll bring Dante along, since you fucking adore him.” He kisses me again, on my temple, one hand gentle against my throat, the other brushing hair from my face. “Someone will come in to clean up the mess you made. You can consider that my gift to you, for what’s going to come tomorrow.”

  He runs his nose along the side of my face and then his lips are against mine when he says, “Goodnight, love.”

  Without another word, he stands up, dresses, picks up his gun, and walks out. I can only stare at the door, numb.

  A few minutes later, Mamie enters the room without looking at me. After she’s swept up the mess I made, and after another guard came and left, carrying my broken TV with him, I stare at the ceiling.

  I don’t sleep for a long, long time.

  I let the pain reverberate through me. It helps me stop thinking.

  The ache between my thighs, around my throat, the ache there. When I used the restroom after everyone is gone, the pain as I peed… It all obliterates my thoughts. Drowns out the self-loathing. The hatred, and not just toward Max.

  He used me, and I let him.

  I didn’t even fight.

  I wanted him.

  But I focus on the pain.

  I focus on the hurt.

  It demolishes the rest, prevents the tears from falling, until, eventually, I fall into something like sleep.

  Max is in my room before the sun rises.

  I spent most of the early morning staring into the darkness, a numbness like I’ve only known once in my life taking over my body.

  My mind.

  Numbness, until Max walked into my room and obliterated it all.

  The pain has dulled.

  Now, I feel the self-loathing. The hatred of my own body.

  Max glances at me, but says nothing except for, “Get dressed. We’re going hiking.” As if nothing happened between us at all. As if I don’t want to kill us both.

  As if he didn’t… Don’t think about it.

  He pulls his phone from his pocket and waits by the door.

  Hiking?

  Rubbing my eyes with my fist, I take in what he’s wearing: black jogging pants, a black t-shirt, black sneakers.

  And of course, he’s armed.

  My eyes rake over the scars along his arms, his fingers, but before he can tell me again, I get up. I feel him watching me as I cross the room to the closet, but I don’t look at him.

  I dress quickly, in black yoga pants, a black tank top over a black sports bra. At home, my wardrobe was far more colorful, with a lot of pink, courtesy of my father’s shopper. It’s what he wanted me to wear. But as I look down at myself while I brush my teeth, I like the look of all the black.

  I feel…stronger.

  When I look up into what’s left of the mirror, though, the feeling vanishes. I can’t see much of my reflection thanks to the cracked glass, but I know I probably look exactly how I feel: broken.

  I close my eyes, dropping my hand and gripping the edge of the bathroom counter, hanging my head. I try not to think about last night, but I can’t stop it all from running through my head.

  Why did I want it?

  Does it matter?

  Max’s voice outside of the door makes me jump. “Hurry up, Addison.”

  I stare at the door, grit my teeth, and hold up my middle finger. It’s nothing, really, that act of defiance, but when I swing open the door and see Max’s fucking face, I feel marginally better for doing it.

  That feeling is fleeting.

  Dante is waiting when Max leads me out of his house, past the pool, to an exit in the gate at the back of his house. The fence is guarded by two men with rifles strapped to their chests. They both nod as Max presses his thumb to the keypad of the gate, but otherwise, they ignore us.

  And Dante is standing on the other side of the fence, dressed all in black, but unarmed.

  I look to Max after the keypad emits an electronic beeping behind us, locking again.

  “What are we—”

  “Start walking,” Max says, nodding toward the tree line that’s a few dozen feet away from the fence.

  The sun is bright and hot even though it’s just beginning its slow rise, and I shield my eyes with my hand, staring into the woods. I hear a few birds, watch one soar into the cloudless blue and orange sky.

  Otherwise, I see nothing.

  Dante glances at me as I drop my hand, but I can’t read his expression. Before I can think to say anything to him, he turns, walking toward the woods. I notice he doesn’t appear harmed, and he’s still got his legs, despite Max’s threat.

  That should make me feel better.

  But it doesn’t.

  Dante keeps walking as Max stares at me.

  “Max, what are we doing?”

  He steps close to me, blocking the sun as he reaches a hand down to my face, his eyes on my throat. His fingers grip my chin so I can’t move from his hold.

  “I feel a little bad, seeing that.”

  It takes me a second to realize there must be bruises, and when I do, I stiffen, cross my arms over my chest. “Why are we out here—”

  “Bad enough, in fact, that I’m sorry.”

  My mind goes blank, my rigid posture faltering as he runs his thumb over my mouth.

  “I can’t promise you much, Addison, but I can promise you that that won’t happen again. Not while you’re with me.”

  I bite my lip, waiting for the trick in his words. For him to do exactly what he just promised he wouldn’t.

  But he doesn’t do anything for several long, confusing seconds.

  Then he drops his hand from my face and nods toward the woods, Dante nearly at the edge of the trees. “Shall we?”

  My thoughts freeze, and I hope for someone to expla
in to me what the fuck is going on. I hope for a delay that’ll prevent us from going into those woods. I hope for things that don’t come, and as Dante disappears into the trees, I have no choice but to move.

  Max offers me a small smile, but it isn’t comforting.

  Whatever is going to happen in this forest, I know that we’re not going to walk back out the same way we walked in.

  Each step brings more foreboding. Sweat drips down the back of my neck with the heat. No one says a word.

  When Max and I slip into the woods, we’re shielded by the sun from the trees overhead, and I lick my lips, glancing around for Dante.

  It doesn’t take me long to find him.

  He’s sitting with his back against a tree trunk, his head in his hands.

  Despite the heat, my blood runs cold.

  “Max.” My voice is rough. “What are we doing here?”

  Max is beside me, staring out into the woods. At nothing.

  Nothing.

  Dante is silent, head still in his hands.

  “Don’t ask questions.” Max’s reply.

  I wrap my arms around myself, rocking back and forth, trying to bite my tongue.

  Then I hear something in the distance, coming from deeper inside the woods. Maybe from a road beyond the forest?

  It sounds like the whine of an engine.

  A car?

  It’s a faint sound, but it grows louder with each passing second. Then I see it coming toward us, slowing, navigating around the trees. It’s a 4-wheeler, painted red with big black tires.

  The man atop it—in a black, full-face helmet, visor flipped up—parks in front of us, adjacent to where Max and I are standing.

  My confusion mounts as I see there’s a trailer attached to the ATV. It’s covered with a tarp, another one lining the bottom so I can’t see what’s through the mesh-like metal.

  I turn to Max, but he’s staring at the driver, who turns the ATV off. I smell gas from the vehicle and for some reason, I hug myself tighter.

  The man gets off, leans against the 4-wheeler as he nods toward Max in greeting. I can’t make anything out about his face, only his eyes are visible and even those are just two dark pits. He’s dressed in all black like we are, and his body seems fit and strong beneath his clothes, but I have no idea how old he is. With black gloves that disappear beneath his black, long-sleeved shirt, I can’t even make out his ethnicity. The skin below his eyes appears tan.