Page 58 of Brutal Game

“That’s it. You come onmyfucking cock,” he groaned, and then wet heat spilled into my pussy as he came, too, his cock pulsing inside of me. I trembled, overwrought and overworked from his words. I came again from the feel of him, the knowledge that he was bare, filling me up,and there was nothing I could do about it.

The second orgasm was better and worse than the first one—bigger, sharper, cutting me deep so all of my pent up emotions came out: The lust and the loathing and the incrediblerelief, not only from the physical release, but from knowing I didn’thaveto do anything right now, have to make decisions, that all I had to do was feel.

Finally, he relaxed, letting me feel his entire weight. I expected him to pull out, but he stayed where he was, even as he softened inside of me. Come spilled out, on his balls, between my thighs, all over the bed.

“I really wish wecouldstay like this forever,” he sighed. “But you should go pee so you don’t get a UTI.” Muttering to himself he said, “See, I know aftercare.”

I snorted. Making sure I peed wasn’t aftercare; cuddling me last nightalmostwas. But I wasn’t about to correct him and risk a repeat—or worse.

He untied my wrists, before taking each in his hands, rubbing them to bring life and circulation back to my hands. And completely disconcerting me when he dropped a gentle kiss on each of my pulse points. With that, he climbed off of me, releasing me.

“Where are my clothes?”

“You don’t need your clothes,” he said calmly.

My thighs clenched. “What, you want to fuck me again?”

He sighed. “I always want to fuck you, Aviva. But no, right now I’m going to hold you and we’re going to talk and then I’m going to feed you breakfast.”

Breakfast. Like we were boyfriend and girlfriend, not bully and…

…victim.

I’d become a victim. His victim. But I wasn’t a victim. Refused to be. He’d tried to break me, almost succeeded, but I was stronger than that. I wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t give in. I didn’t care how hot it was, how good sex felt with him.

“You took things too far, Jack. When you made me drug myself and took off my shirt in front of yourentire goddamned team.”

Anger felt good. Anger felt strong. Anger felthealthy.

“Where are my clothes?” I asked again.

Silently, he stood up off the bed and went to the closet, coming back with my clothes, carefully folded.

I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling my pants and top back on, twisting my knotted hair into some semblance of a bun. I’d never done a walk of shame before, and the fact that I’d have to, in broad daylight on a Saturday morning, pissed me off. Knowing my scar was visible in the daylight pissed me off. Everything about this, about him, pissed me off. Moments from last night played in my mind: the way I’d lost myself while everyone had watched, Dave Lawson noticing my scar and announcing it to the room, Jack carrying me up the stairs as I fought him. It had been degrading and devastating, and I needed to be done. I’d said that before, told myself that before, but Jack had a crossed a line last night that neither of us could come back from. If I continued with him, if Ilet this continue, then I would become someone I didn’t recognize.

Had I already become that person? I didn’t want to be a stranger to myself.

No. This was it.

I.

Was.

Done.

I’d apologize to Asher when Jack destroyed our lives. I’d find another way to get him justice and take Joshua Jensen down. But I couldn’t take any more.

Jack watched me as I dressed. I refused to turn away, to lower my gaze, to give him any satisfaction in my submissiveness or fear. No, I stared him straight in the eyes, like I had last night while I’d cried. I wouldn’t cower in front of him.

No more.

I wouldn’t let him hurt me again.

We stayed like that, me seated on the bed, him by the closet, staring at each other. Neither of us spoke, but the silence spoke for us. There was so much ugliness between us, anger on my side, something—could that be fear?—on his. But I couldn’t fall into the trap of trying to figure out what he was feeling. And the stabbing in my chest that felt like sadness, like regret? It had to be a hangover from the Vixen.

“Jack?” I asked, injecting sweetness into my voice.

“What’s up? You want to stay? I make a mean pancake.” He grinned at me, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

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