Page 70 of Oblivion

“I’m a possessive man, Sammy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I swear it’ll never happen again. I’m yours.”

His eyes are dark, emotionless depths. I’ve never seen him look at me this way, and I have no idea what it means. I don’t know if me begging and pleading to save another man is making it better or worse, but I have to try.

Lifting his hand, he cups my cheek, using his thumb to drag down the bottom of my lip and force my mouth open. “This mouth,” he purrs.

Releasing my mouth, he drags the pad of his thumb down my chin and throat. Continuing a path between my breasts, he passes over my navel all the way down until he finds my clit.

Ignoring the sensitive bundle of nerves, he dips his thumb into my pussy, pushing in deep, before he pulls it out, gathering the dripping mess of his cum that’s been slowly leaking out of me, and methodically pushes it back in.

A soft, shocked gasp falls from my lips but I don’t speak, leaning into the intensity of the moment. His eyes are full of heat as he keeps stuffing his cum into me, not trying to get me off, or build a prelude to more sex, but simply filling me back up with what he fucked into me.

At the back of my mind, I wonder why it is I’ve never asked him to wear a condom. I have an IUD, I’m clean and not about to get pregnant, but even with Drew—who took my virginity—I still asked him to use protection.

Maybe it’s because most of the time, Evan doesn’t initiate sex when I’m conscious. Instead, he’s woken me up every day since I came home on the verge of an orgasm as he fucks my sleeping body. I wish I could say that I hate it, but honestly, I don’t. It’s weird and probably a little messed up, but knowing that he’s so desperate for me that he can’t wait to get inside of me until I’m awake makes me feel…wanted in a way I’ve never experienced before.

There’s something about having the choice taken away from me that turns me on in a way I’m not willing to look at too deeply. I know that lots of women have rape fantasies, but that’s not what this is. If anyone else had woken me up with their dick in me I’d have lost my mind. But Evan is different.

He’s always awakened desires in me that I had no idea I craved. I don’t want to be owned or claimed like property, but when he does crazy, unhinged things like permanently putting jewelry on me, branding all of my clothes with his initials, and even tattooing me, my body reacts and so does my brain.

I know running from him would be futile, but if I really didn’t want this, there’s a thousand other ways I could fight his control and domination, but I’m not doing any of them. Even I’m shocked at how docilely I’m behaving, and the only reason I can think of is that deep down, I like it. I want all of his crazy, and instead of fighting, I’m leaning into his insanity and waiting to see what else he’s willing to do to make me truly his.

Curling a finger beneath the necklace at my throat, he forces my chin up, our gazes clashing together while he slowly and methodically pushes his cum back into my body. Neither of us speaks or makes any sound that could break the intensity of the moment, and when he’s satisfied that all of his cum is inside of me, he slips his fingers free and pushes them between my lips.

The taste of our mixed arousal coats my tongue, and I fight the urge not to cringe. When he pulls them free, he cups my cheek and dips his face, pressing his lips against mine and kissing me with a desperation that makes goose bumps pebble my skin.

“Please, tell me how to make this better. Tell me what to do to make you stop,” I whisper.

“I won’t let you do anything to save him,” he spits, anger in his tone.

“It’s not about him. I don’t want to hate you, Evan. Don’t make me hate you or myself.”

His expression shutters and guilt fills my stomach. I don’t know why I thought I could appeal to him. I should have known that begging for another man would only make things worse, not better, but I had to try.

Silently lifting me into his arms, he carries me beneath the warm spray. Without saying a word, he places me on the floor then reaches for the soap and starts to wash me, cleaning my skin, then hair. The silence stretches until it thickens the air, making my chest tighten and my skin feel tender and raw.

The dichotomy between the frosty silence and the tender way he’s touching me only makes me feel worse, and by the time he turns off the shower and wraps me in a towel, I’m on the verge of tears again.

Instead of watching me go through my morning routine like he did yesterday, he leaves me in the bathroom and heads for the closet, coming out fully dressed moments later. Ignoring the rumpled bed, he makes a beeline for the couch, flopping down onto it with his cell in his hand.

Not having his attention on me is weird. I should be grateful for the reprieve, but I’m not. I miss being the center of his world, and it’s only been a few moments. What the hell is wrong with me?

I rush through my skincare, then dart into the closet. Opening the drawer my underwear is in, I find more new sets and pull out a pretty black set, adjusting the straps as I fasten the bra and twist it into position. The panties are a tiny thong that would normally annoy the hell out of me. Instead of abandoning them back to the drawer, an idea blooms to life in my head. I don’t like him ignoring me. He’s spent the last eighteen months watching me, and he doesn’t get to stop now that he’s claimed me, even if he is pissed at me right now.

Dragging the barely-there thong up my legs, I glance over my shoulder, taking in how my butt looks. Will Evan still ignore me if I prance into the living room wearing only the tiny underwear he picked out for me?

The more I think about it, the closer to the door I edge until I’m leaning against the frame and staring at his back. He’s notlooking. His attention is on his cell, but I wait, wondering if he’ll feel my presence and turn around.

Less than two minutes later, he does, his eyes landing on my mostly naked form.

“What are you doing?” he questions.

“How many times does this set have your initials on it?” I ask, not really caring, but needing to say something.

Shrugging, he peers over the back of the couch, running his gaze from my face down my body.

“Turn around,” he says, shifting in his seat so he can see me better.

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