Page 31 of Soul to Possess

"I will move my hand, but only if you promise not to scream. Nobody can hear you, so scream if you must, but if you do, be aware that I will punish you, and you will not enjoy it. I do not like screeching, and I will not have it in my house," he warned, his eyes never leaving mine.

I nodded, fear coursing through my veins. He slowly removed his hand, and I took a deep, shaky breath. "There now, that's better," he said, a sickeningly sweet smile spreading across his face.

I shoved against his chest, panicking. "Go away! How did you even get in here? Get out of here!" I balled up my fist and hit him as hard as I could, landing a punch on his rock-hard abs. He barely flinched, grabbing both of my wrists in one hand and pinning them above my head.

"That’s no way to treat the man who came in here to show you how sexy you are," Atticus stated calmly, his otherhand drawing the quilt away from my body. The morning sun streamed in through the window, casting a golden glow over his face, highlighting the cruel twist of his lips. "You know, Bluebell, I've been thinking about you all night. About how you tasted, how you felt. It was a shame you weren't thinking about me when you were touching yourself."

His words sent a shiver down my spine, a mix of horror and unwanted arousal. I could feel the heat of his body against mine, the hardness of his muscles, and the undeniable proof of his desire pressing against my thigh. He leaned down, his breath hot on my ear. "I want to keep you, Gennie. You're mine now."

I struggled against his grip, but it was futile. He was a predator, and I was his prey. The room was filled with the scent of him, a heady mix of pine and something darker, more primal. I could feel the dampness between my legs, a betraying response to his proximity and the memories of my earlier fantasies.

Freed from his grasp, I kicked out with all my might, aiming for his groin. He chuckled, a low, mocking sound that sent a wave of anger and humiliation crashing over me. A tear escaped the corner of my eye, betraying my emotions.

"I need to be free," I whispered, my voice hoarse with desperation. "Let me go."

But my body betrayed me, arching into his touch as if craving more. His thick, muscular thigh slid between my legs, pinning me down, and I could feel the rough fabric of his pants against my sensitive skin. I tried to move, to kick him again, but his grip was like a vice, holding me in place. He knew exactly how to restrain me, how to control me without risking injury. The realization sent a spike of fear through me.

"How did you get in here?" I demanded, my voice shaking. "The door was locked, the window was shut tight. Letme go, you fucking asshole!" I shove against his hand with all my strength. "Let me up!"

"Just calm down," he said, his voice deceptively soft.

I fought harder, refusing to give him the satisfaction of thinking I would comply. I could feel the panic rising, the terror of being at his mercy. I wasn't sure what he planned to do with me, but I knew it would lead to my destruction. A sob escaped my throat, and I fought with renewed vigor, trying to break free from his iron grip.

Suddenly, I heard a ripping sound, and a gust of cold air hit my legs as my pajama pants were torn from my body. He had ripped them off with one hand, the fabric tearing like tissue paper. I shuddered, the cold air hitting my exposed skin, mingling with the fear coursing through my veins. I could feel the dampness between my legs, a betraying response to the adrenaline and the sheer primal power he exerted over me. His touch was rough, demanding, and I could feel the callouses on his hands as he gripped my wrists, holding me in place. I could feel every hard plane of his body against mine, the sheer strength and power he possessed.

“Leave me the fuck alone! Get off of me!” I screamed, my voice hoarse with desperation and fear.

“Go ahead, yell at me if you must, pretty Bluebell, but I assure you, I will not leave you alone, and I will not get off of you,” he replied, his voice firm and unyielding. I looked at him in horror, tears streaming down my face as I struggled futilely against his grip. He pushed his hand between my thighs, his fingers rough and demanding as they ran over my seam over my panties. Despite myself, an unwanted wave of need pulsed through my clit, betraying me.

“I hate you, I fucking hate you. Let me up. Stop touching me. Leave me alone,” I begged, my voice breaking as I shoved athis chest. He chuckled, a low, mocking sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

“You scream ‘no’ a lot for someone who’s so fucking horny,” he taunted, his fingers dancing skillfully across my sensitive flesh, applying just the right amount of pressure before sliding down. I could feel the dampness between my legs, the traitorous evidence of my arousal seeping through my panties. His touch was electric, sparking a symphony of sensations that left me breathless and confused. I hated him, but my body craved more.

“Please stop, please I’m begging you, Atticus, please don’t do this to me,” I sobbed, my voice filled with agony and fear. His green eyes filled with heat, his pupils dilating as he watched me squirm and plead. He was enjoying this, enjoying the power he held over me.

“God, Bluebell, you are so beautiful when you beg,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. I screamed again, a mix of fear and unwanted desire coursing through my veins. He grabbed the side of my panties, and I screamed again, “NO, stop.”

Ignoring my pleas, he stood up, forcing me to struggle to free my wrists from his grasp. I shot straight up and made a run for the door, but he was too quick. With a short laugh, he grabbed me and pushed me back down on the bed, his strength overpowering me. Using one hand, he took his belt off and wrapped it around my wrists, securing me tightly to the headboard. I tried to wriggle free, but it was no use; the leather dug into my skin, holding me in place.

Struggling only seemed to ignite an inferno within me. My body was on fire, every nerve ending sparking to life. I could feel the slickness between my legs, the evidence of my arousal coating my thighs. I was horrified by my body's response, by the way it betrayed me. I didn't understand it, didn't understandwhy I was so turned on by his dominance, by the way he held me captive.

With my wrists secured, I watched through tear-framed lashes as he climbed back onto the bed, his movements predatory and sure. He loomed over me, his eyes never leaving mine as he leaned down, his breath hot on my ear.

“You’re mine, Gennie. Every fucking inch of you,” he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

“There now, I have both of my hands free to show you what a sexy woman you are,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down my spine. I moaned despite myself, and he grinned, a knowing, predatory smile that sent a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through me. He didn't comment on my moan, and for that, I was grateful. He didn't know how much this was turning me on… right? He couldn’t possibly know that I was a twisted mess of desire and fear.

Of course, he does, you idiot. Why else is he grinning at you like that? He knows you want him to force you. He’s fulfilling all those naughty fantasies you won’t even admit you have. The ones where a man takes what he wants, where he dominates and controls. Where he ignores your protests and takes you anyway.

Shoving my knees to the side, Atticus leaned over me, his face inches from mine. I stared into his green eyes, drowning in the heat and passion that burned there. An answering need filled me, and I arched my back, silently begging him to touch me, to take me, to make me his.

“Do you want me to touch you, pretty Bluebell?” he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous purr that sent waves of desire crashing through me. His tone was deep, dark, and full of every naughty promise imaginable. It was a tone that said he knew exactly what he was doing to me, that he knew the effect he was having on my body and my mind.

Did I want him to touch me?

Yes.But I couldn’t say that. To say that would be admitting that I liked a strange man breaking into my room and forcing me. Taking what he wanted and ignoring my screams to stop. Begging, pleading, crying for him to let me go. To admit his touches were okay aloud, was to admit I was broken. That my fantasies were fucked ten ways to hell and back, and I had no prayer of ever being normal. If I admitted that, I would betray myself. So, I shook my head no.

“No, no I don’t,” I lied, my voice barely a whisper.

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