Page 62 of Dirty Roxie
Roxie
I’m relatively sure I know where this story of Ronan’s is headed, and I don’t want to hear it. At the same time, I want to share in his pain, take some off his shoulders to ease his burden. Even though I know he will not let me.
My eyes search his face, trying to find a way into his heart to let him know I’m here with him, for him. But he’s gone, lost in a story he doesn’t want to relive.
“They made me watch while they beat her. Mentioning in between every strike how my father was at fault. They didn’t want to do this to her, but he had forced their hand.”
Ronan’s voice turns cold and monotone. “And my father watched it all. He did nothing to stop them. Nothing at all. When she was nearly unconscious, the third man handed me off to the man who’d been beating my mother and took his place. Only instead of beating her, he raped her. They all did. Repeatedly.”
Bile rises in my throat, and I choke behind the handkerchief in my mouth.
“I begged the men to take me instead. They laughed at that. Saying even though I was pretty for a boy, I lacked the hardware to please them. When I got the chance to strike out at the man holding me, I did. He cut me from end to end in return.” Ronan gestures to the jagged scar I’d seen earlier when he first took off his shirt.
“He tossed me to the floor like trash, to bleed out until I died. They shot my mother in the head and took my father with them. Days later, they found his body strung up in the middle of the red-light district, naked, beaten, and tortured. And all I could think was how much I hope he suffered.”
He takes a seat again, in the armchair by the bed, and leans in to brush my hair back from my face. “Somehow, in the middle of all that, something skewed my mindset where sex is concerned.”
His voice softens, and he runs his hand over my shoulder and down my back. Stopping at my bra strap, lightly running his fingers along the edge, touching without touching.
“Watching my mother raped and murdered as an eight-year-old fucked me in the head, Roxie. Have I had this psychoanalyzed? Yes. Do I think it did any good? No.”
His hand slides down my spine to my tied hands at the small of my back. He rests his cheek along my back and allows his fingers to continue their exploration. Dipping along the muscle indentations to travel beyond the T-strap of my thong, drawing circles and designs on my butt cheek.
“I don’t want to fuck my mother. I’m not into rape fantasies. I just got an unhealthy dose of an unspeakably violent act against someone that I love at an early age that damaged me irreparably. To where sex will often sicken me at the same time as I crave it. The human psyche is not to be taken lightly, I suppose. When you can have warring compulsions in equal measures of good and bad.”
His voice hollows further, something I would not have thought possible if I hadn’t heard it. Like he’s detaching himself from the words completely. Practicing rote memorization without interaction. I want so badly to hug him, touch him somehow, to let him know that it’s okay. I want to pull the little boy into my arms and promise nothing bad will ever happen to him again.
“My guess is it’s something like the worst kind of withdrawal symptoms during detox. Here’s this thing, and you want it so bad you’re willing to kill for it. But it’s not good for you. So, at the same time, you are almost willing to kill yourself as a preventative measure from taking it.”
His fingers roam from my ass to descend my thighs. Straddling the line between tickling and touch. As heartbroken as I am from his tale, I can’t deny the eroticism from his caress and how good it feels.
“That’s how I feel about sex,” he continues. “I want it and avoid it in equal measures. And you complicate that for me, Roxie. A small part of me enjoys watching a woman suffer during sex. And by suffer, I mean that I like to hurt her. Physically. Maybe even watch her bleed. But at the same time, I don’t believe in violence against women.” He scoffs at himself.
“Problematic? Absolutely. It’s why I prefer a woman to be a fighter. So if that monster inside of me pokes his ugly head into our coupling, she’s had time to protect herself.” He surprises me by kicking off his pants and moving to the bed, seating himself on my ass with his knees resting on the bed at my sides.
He leans down, the heat of his bare chest covering my back, “You’re a fighter, aren’t you Roxie?” he whispers in my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
I gulp. Then nod. My heart races, equal parts nervous and excited over this new side of him he’d not let me see before.
His cock pushes against my ass, and he moves his lips along the back of my neck, pushing my hair aside as he goes. “It’s confusing, isn’t it? Getting turned on in the shadow of such a horrific story?”
I nod again, grinding my hips against the mattress, trying to scratch an itch I shouldn’t even have.
“Therein the dilemma lies. Make no mistake how much I want to fuck you, Roxie.” He nips at my earlobe, and I shiver in response. Arching my back slightly so I can feel more of him.
“I want to fuck you. Hurt you. Hear you scream my name.” He sits up, pushing to his knees, his fingers tugging at the bindings around my wrists. “But it will all be at your expense.”
The next thing I know, he’s off the bed and my hands are free. I push myself to sit and watch his bare back as he retreats, rubbing at my sore wrists.
When he’s cleared the doorway, he pauses and calls back to me, “And I just can’t handle causing your demise. Not yet, anyway.”
