Page 11 of Fear Me, Love Me

“Oh, fuck yes, angel,” Tyrant moans, his eyes half closed. He’s barely pulling back before thrusting hard and deep again. “That’s. My. Good.Girl.” He emphasizes each word with another thrust.

He finishes with a luxurious groan and shoves himself so deep inside me that he’s pressed tight against my cervix. There’s a heavy, liquid feeling inside me, and I wonder if he’s been saving himself up and not jerking off just for this moment.

The car windows are steamed up around us. The air smells like sex. Tyrant wraps his arms tightly around me and squeezes me. Then he half sits up and grins at me lazily. “What kind of diamond do you want on your finger?”

I glare at him.

“Pink? Yellow? How about an emerald? One that matches your eyes. You know what the hottest fucking thing is? Women in long white wedding dresses with a baby bump.”

“Get off me.”

Tyrant gazes at my nipples. They look like little pink invitations peeking up over my bra like that. He must think so as well because he gets down on his elbows and sucks one of them into his mouth. “Give it a minute.”

“Give what a minute?”

Tyrant drags his hips back an inch and pushes his cock into me again. With my nipple still in his mouth, he says, “I want to be sure you’re knocked up.”

Panic and desire thrill through me.

“I’m a second-year student. I’m nineteen,” I tell him.

Tyrant sucks on my nipple again. “Mm. Nice and fertile.”

“And you’re…wait, I don’t even know how old you are.”

“Thirty-four.”

Jesus. Fifteen years older than me, a hardened criminal, and his cock is still lodged inside me. I’m making great life choices.

“You’ve probably already got a family tucked away somewhere,” I accuse. “Is that right? Am I your bit on the side?”

He shakes his head and laves my breasts with his tongue. “I never wanted a family until I saw you with a baby in your arms. Fuck, that did something to me,” he breathes, moving up my body to capture my mouth with his.

I soften beneath his hungry kiss, wondering if it’s true. I made this dangerous man suddenly want a family? My stomach flutters at the idea.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Common Sense snaps,So you’re just going to have his baby? Someone who’s a bouquet of red flags living a life made from red flags?

Slowly, Tyrant eases out of me, admiring the sight of his still-hard cock dripping with my wetness and his cum. He gathers all the liquid from his length with his thumb and forefinger, all the wetness that’s dripping down my pussy, and slowly and carefully pushes it back inside me. I watch his face in astonishment. His expression is hard and resolute. He tucks himself back into his pants and does them up and lounges comfortably on the leather seat, still holding me down with his hand. “Stay on your back, angel. I want you filled with my cum for a few more minutes.”

My cheeks heat, and I’m hyperconscious of Tyrant’s eyes on my naked body. His fingers stroke idly through my hair, and he pulls my legs over his thighs and comfortably clasps both my ankles in one of his big hands.

Resigning myself to giving Tyrant what he wants for now and fixing this mess later, I let my head fall back on the leather seat. How did my life become so crazy?

Shame has wandered in after Common Sense to add her two cents.How could a man like him want a hopeless mess like you forever? You’re just a cum dumpster to him. He says he’s going to blow his load into you, and you just spread your legs.

I pull the cups of my bra up over my nipples and feel around for my torn and bloodied blouse. Holding it up, I see that it’s completely ruined.

“It was special to you, wasn’t it?” Tyrant asks.

I nod but feel pathetic that I’m sad about a blouse. A child who’s upset that someone trod on her art project.

“I’m sorry, angel.” Tyrant sounds like he really means it.

He reaches behind the seat, unzips a bag, and pulls out a black singlet of the kind ripped men usually wear to the gym. He pulls it on, and it does an excellent job showing off his muscles and the tattoos on his shoulders and biceps. Tyrant is definitely one of those ripped men.

“I’ll wear this. You can wear my shirt home.”

He fishes it out of his suit jacket and hands it to me. My curious fingers stroke the fabric, parsing the thread count. The materials. It feels very new and expensive. Tyrant keeps stroking my hair as I study the garment. His thumb caresses my ankle.

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