Page 33 of Wild Angel

Savage laughs at my futile attempts and uses my motion to wrap both his legs around mine. Which is perfect, because that means he doesn’t have access to my pussy.

At least, that’s what I assume. But I’m wrong.

He mocks me on with a whispered, “That’s it, my girl,” as his hand creeps lower and lower. His fingers skip over my hip bone, start tugging at the band of my yoga pants. “Fight me harder, Angel.”

He couldn’t get me to shower or change. I’m still in the same blood-stained, cum-soaked clothing I was when herescuedme from Sergio’s room. The smell of that nauseating cocktail has been with me forever.

It’s the least I deserve, for being too fuckingweakto stop Sergio from putting his dick in me.

Savage’s hand slides into my pants, cupping my ass. His fingers are an inch away from my center, gliding closer.

“Get off!” I yell.

I buck hard, but all that does is grind his dick harder against me. And of course my fucked-up body starts responding to him. It doesn’t seem to matter that I’m still hurting—physically, emotionally. Not a single bit.

Savage has some kind of hold over me. Like he cursed me with some type of bond that allows him to control me when he’s close enough.

The arm he wrapped around my chest tightens, his hand grasping roughly at my breast. I bite back a whimper of pain. He’s touching at least three bruises, applying pressure to those tender spots of healing flesh, reminding me just how much Sergio damaged me.

“P-please.” The word slips out before I can stop it.

He really doesn’t like me begging. The growl that rumbles out of him makes my hackles rise in panic. I start squirming again, desperate to save myself from his wrath.

When he pinches my nipple between his fingers, I gasp and go rigid.

“Why did you run?” he grates out.

He brushes my pussy, teases my folds. His hot breath warms the side of my neck, his lips making contact with my skin as I try grabbing his arm and wrenching it away from my chest.

Bite him.

The thought barely enters my mind before Savage puts me in a chokehold.

“You should have stayed where I put you,” he says. “Then none of this would have happened.”

Where heputme?

I bluster out a protest, but I’m more concerned with trying to dig my nails into his arm, leaving long, angry marks in his skin, than answering his pathetic questions.

Why didn’t I stay where I was? Because he’d fucking drugged me.

Why did I run? Because he fucking expected me to stay like a dog.

Why did I come here? Because I had no fucking choice.

I try and elbow him, but a debilitating jolt hits me when he shoves two fingers inside my pussy. No fucking clue if it’s good or bad, but it’s all I can do to remember why I’m fighting him.

I reach behind, try to grab his wrist, try to pull him out of me.

He applies more pressure to my bruised neck, now starting to cut off my oxygen.

No air, no fire.

I hiss at him, sink my nails into his wrist. But I stop twisting and writhing, aware that he could make me blackout with just a touch more pressure on my neck.

“Next time I put you somewhere, you’ll fucking stay.” He punctuates the threat with a hard pump of his fingers. “Do you hear me?”

In answer, I dig my nails deeper into his skin. He jerks away from my touch like I stung him, and bites my earlobe. I gasp—not from the pain, but from the unexpected tingle of pleasure that spreads through me from that tiny, painful nip.

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