Page 25 of Nemesis

I scoot to the side, and his hand on my hip stops me.

“She’s dead,” I repeat. “She’s not coming back. She’s not going to storm in through the door?—”

“God, shutup.” He covers my mouth with his other hand.

Another point of contact. His palm is warm and dry against my lips. Calloused in spots. His focus, though, is on my hip. The hand there that slowly bunches up the fabric of my dress. Until it’s all the way up, and his fingers dig into my bare skin.

“Do you like walking around in these dresses?” He hums. “They show off so much of your goddamned legs, it drives me insane.Youdrive me insane. You’re so different from her, a glowing beacon in the dark, and I just want to smother you.”

My heart hammers, but I’m caught in a moment of trying to figure out what he means. And what I want.

His touch is drawing out a fire in me, and I can’t tell if it’s a good or bad thing. Maybe that’s why, when he turns me around, I move willingly. I catch the edge of the counter, although he pushes my head down anyway. My cheek touches the cool surface.

I’ve been in this position before, a thousand times in different places, with different men groping at me and taking without asking, but this is unusual. My body is practically vibrating with the way I need someone to touch me.

The bottle of scotch is inches from my nose.

And when Saint shoves my dress up and my panties down, I don’t tell him no. If this is how he wants to cope, fine. The battle of my own will is raging in my head. That this is wrongandinevitable at the same time.

That this moment has been coming for months.

Didn’t I say I was the only one he couldn’t hate-fuck his emotions out on?

I’m a big, fat liar.

The zip of his pants opening is loud in my ears. And then something touches me—a finger between my legs?—drawing through the heat that’s been pooled there since we first started arguing.

Sue me.My relationship with sex is fucked up and twisted, and for once I’m not running away from it.

“You disgust me,” Saint whispers.

I make a noise. I don’t mean to, but one minute my throat is locked and the next a low whine comes out. I jerk,embarrassment flaming my cheeks, but there’s nowhere to go. So instead, I lean into the uncomfortable bits. The way the counter digs into my hips, my toes stretching down to remain in contact with the floor.

His finger slides into me. Just one exploratory digit, and then it’s gone. He kicks my legs wider, and then somethingbiggeris pressed to my slit.

It hurts when he pushes in. I close my eyes and breathe through the pain, but it just keeps washing over me with every millimeter. Until he’s fully seated inside me, and I don’t really know if I can breathe.

All I know is that I deserve this kind of pain. I relish it,welcomeit.

But I hope it hurts him, too. That this is the kind of agony he needs instead of fighting at Olympus—that this satisfies something more.

He barely waits for me to adjust. His hips jack, and his dick slides almost all the way out. Then he shoves back in. I grip the counter and let him punish me for this latest transgression. The fight at Olympus wasn’t enough.

Bending me over the kitchen counter might not be enough.

“Harder,” I snap.

“Slut,” he replies. “You’re a fucking whore for my cock.”

“Yeah.” My voice wobbles as he hits my G-spot. “What else?”

Rough memories grasp at me, dirty-fingered things that threaten to throw me back into Terror, but I force myself to remember who put me in this position. It’s his voice, his cold voice, that drags me back to the present.

“I hate you,” he mutters.

“You’re sure acting like it.”

He growls and pulls out. There’s an immediate ache of emptiness between my legs, but he spins me around and lifts meonto the counter. My bare ass barely makes contact before he’s right back in position, thrusting into me.

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