Page 115 of Texting Dr. Stalker

So,soclose to detonation.

“Please…” I moaned, needing a final push.

His fingers drove deep, deep inside me, unapologetically possessive.

Sudden pain wrenched over my scalp from Milton pulling my hair out. My jaw ached from his punch. My shoulder blades and spine and ribs and wrists and legs. His every kick and throw repeated in horrifying precision. Discomfort and despair added awful layers to my rabidly popping pleasure. A cyclone of the past and the present howled through me, doing its best to blow away the future I needed to claim.

No.

Don’t.

He’s not here.

You’re safe.

My forehead furrowed as I clung to happiness, not agony. I willed my body to remember the peace X gave me all while exterminating the memories of Milton.

It didn’t work.

Pain built and built.

The crack of my cheekbone, the burn of my hip, the throb of my knee—

Fight-or-flight kicked in.

Adrenaline and terror and—

No!

The tingling coils of my orgasm dissolved. Milton cackled in my mind. All I could see was his sneering face. His taunts calling me a slut. His punches decorating me with bruises.

It happened again.

I hadn’t been able to get past this part on my own.

I’d forced myself through it.

I’d screamed in resentment as that bastard prevented me from coming. I’d touched myself all while sobbing in defeat and failure because I’d let a monster into my life. It’d made me feel sick to my stomach—like I violated myself. He’d stolen my freedom, self-worth, and power and left me with frustration, irritation and bone-deep shame that I would always be tainted. Always be the stupid girl who trusted the wrong person. Always be the broken survivor who could no longer touch her own body.

“It’s okay,” X murmured, pressing his mask-covered lips to my cheek. “You’re with me. No one else.”

His fingers kept stroking me, tugging me back from the black nightmares. With each rock, he eradicated another pain, soothed another strike, deleted another kick.

Fresh tears streamed down my cheek that he was so patient, so understanding.

He touched me so worshippingly, all while reminding me that he did this forme. He touched me because I’d practically forced him to. He serviced me like someone I’d bribed or hired—obeying me despite his own reservations.

Guilt swarmed.

New shame drowned me.

I was so selfish. So greedy. Just as narcissistic as Milton.

It can’t just be about me.

I can’t use him like this.

My right hand dropped from his arm. Angling my hips a little, I put a little space between us and wrapped my fingers around his throbbing hard-on.

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