Page 10 of Drowned By the Dreadnought

“Were you that desperate for attention? Your heat wouldn’t come, so you used your mouth instead? Did you like it so much you couldn’t stop? How many cocks did you suck to get this good, huh?”

Each demeaning, crude question shrivels my heart further and the slippery glide of his cock rubs my lips and throat raw. My head spins. It’s too much. Tears join the mess streaming down my face.

“Oh, quit complaining, you dirty bitch. You’re an old pro at this, aren’t you? There’s no use pretending innocence now. Take it.” His rhythm falters. He pistons in and out faster. “Take me. All of me. Oh, gods,” his growl drops in pitch as he shoves himself so deep his knot balloons against my lips.

My lungs burn. Tingling warmth fills my belly as he cums straight down my throat. It’s too much. The pain in my heart lures me toward the reprieve of unconsciousness. I close my eyes and stop fighting. Death would be easier than facing reality.

He pulls out and spurts against the back of my throat. I cough, sputter, and inhale his seed as he finishes with shallow, choppy thrusts behind my teeth. Hunger grips me as the full flavor of his release coats my tongue, but I refuse to swallow more, letting it seep from the corners of my mouth and drip off my chin.

When he pulls away, I spit it out and clamp my teeth shut despite the pain in my jaw.

Chills run down my spine as he stares at me in silence, but I bow my head and hide behind my curtain of hair. I tense and wait for the pain of his retaliation.

His mocking tsk proves worse than a backhand from my father. I flinch.

“Who taught you to be so wasteful? Looks like I need to start again.”

My heart sinks.

This can’t be real. Even my nightmares aren’t this horrible. My tears flow harder at the injustice.

All hope of reconciling with the boy of my dreams crumbles to dust. My childhood sweetheart is gone.

I’m at the mercy of The Dreadnought, but he’s exactly as the rumors say.

He has no mercy.

Chapter 4

Russt

I thought emptying my balls would clear my head, but goddamnit, she tested my control and shoved me closer to the ledge of insanity. My rage burns hotter than ever before, but the mental snapshot of her expressive, wide eyes the first time she tasted my cock softens my alpha heart.

Doubt sneaks through me.

When we were kids, she always had to have the last word. She always fought back and never once hid her natural reactions, which made sneaking gross things into her pocket extremely rewarding and hilarious to my immature self.

She hides now. With her head bowed and her hair a curtain around her face, I can’t read her expression. Her body language doesn’t give me an obvious message, either. She tucks her hands in her lap but doesn’t fidget. Curls her shoulders inward but doesn’t cower. Breathes raggedly but doesn’t cry.

Her thoughts are a mystery to me.

Which only proves she’s perfected her acting skills.

“Ready for round two, then, little mouse?” I sneer as I wrap my fist around her throat and push her onto her back.

She doesn’t fight, but she also doesn’t follow my lead willingly, providing just enough resistance to relay her reluctance without triggering my alpha instincts.

Underneath the blush staining her cheeks and the bruise marring her face, a sickly pallor steals the color from her flesh. Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t open her eyes.

My cock hardens as her wet shirt clings to her breasts.

I release her throat and rip the shirt off her shoulders, but even with the back sliced open, it proves difficult. The soaked fabric clings to her arms, so I work each long sleeve off and fling the ruined shirt into the corner of the room.

I reach for her bare breasts but freeze with my hands an inch above her. Disbelief holds me hostage as I stare at what the fabric hid.

In different stages of healing, bruises cover her arms and torso. Smaller, finger-shaped marks line her arms and shoulders while bigger, fist-sized bruises color her ribs. The line of swollen, angry flesh cutting across her midsection most likely came from the edge of her kitchen counter and probably hurt like hell when I had her flung over my shoulder, but she never complained.

A thick, jagged scar peeks over her right shoulder. I flip her over and fight a wave of nausea.

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