Page 65 of Broken by my Bully
I shift closer, close enough that she has nowhere to retreat unless she wants to climb over the back of the couch. Close enough that she can smell my cologne, feel my heat.
“Whose pain are you embracing, Haven? Yours or theirs?”
The way she shrinks into the couch cushions, the way her pulse hammers in her throat, makes my cock harden even more.
I can smell her fear now. Its sweetness mingles with the bourbon on her breath. Her pupils are dilated, whether from alcohol or adrenaline, I can’t tell. Don’t particularly care.
Forget her curves. Her soft lips. How she’d sound, moaning my name.
Thisis what I’ve been craving.
I used to collect butterflies, but that grew old fast.
Now I collect broken things.
And the first step of trapping something as flighty as Haven Lee is building trust.
I pull out my phone, making a show of checking the time. In reality, I begin recording.
For my research.
For my shrine.
For myself.
“Tell me about him, Haven.” I lay my hand on her knee, and the stunned girl doesn’t even try to shake me off. “Tell me about the boy who hurt you.”
The way she flinches tells me everything.
My cock throbs, imagining all the ways that boy must have broken her.
The waysI’mgoing to break her.
Haven
Bastian stares at me with a mix of concern, determination, and something else. Not pity—I’m hypersensitive to that.
Curiosity?
Hunger?
I take a nervous sip of my cocoa. “What are you talk?—“
Irritation narrows his dark eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, turning to the fire, shaking his head. He snaps his head back to look at me. “I know who you’re protecting. If you don’t speak to me, I can’t help you.”
The change in him is instant, and almost as unsettling as the way he was just comparing pain and pleasure. I already have way too many inappropriate thoughts in my head about my professor.
Like how his hands would feel around my throat. Whether he’d be respectful like a true gentleman, or rough like I secretly want. Whether a thirty-four-year-old man would know exactly how to make a nineteen-year-old girl fall apart.
Answer is yes.
Fuck.
There’s a flush of heat on my cheeks that’s steadily creepingdownward. I press my thighs together under the blanket, but that only makes things worse. I shouldn’t find his frustration attractive, but something about seeing Professor Rooke lose his composure is doing things to me.
He leans closer, cradling his mug in both hands, voice calm and collected again. “I want all my students to be safe. It’s obvious you’re not. Whatever you’re dealing with, I can help.”
He’s gentle with his cup. I’m not. I throttle it like I want the ceramic to shatter and slice my palms into ribbons.
