Page 43 of Tortured Eyes
“I hate you,” she spits.
Another blow lands on my shoulder, and then a slap comes hard and fast to my face. I swipe all the shit behind her to the floor, my fucking laptop included, and push her hard onto her back. One hand goes straight for her throat, holding her in place, the other trying to grab for one of hers. Still, her fists and nails try coming for me, both of them throwing all kinds of hatred my way until eventually, I’ve got her pinned exactly where I want her.
She pants and grunts, trying to find her way out of the hold I’ve got her in.
“You’re going to reach through us and put my dick inside you,” I growl, staring straight at those eyes. “And you’re gonna do it in the hope I won’t choke you.” My fingers squeeze the delicate bones, letting her feel that sensation. Both her eyes widen, her whole body instantly stopping her fight. I flick a look at her lips, watching them part and blow out a small, sharp breath. “And you might as well keep showing me you’re enjoying it, Red. It’s not like you’re not. Your body doesn’t lie.”
It might be a minute before she relaxes a little in my hold, starts enjoying this again. I lower my mouth to hers, barely running my lips across the fullness of hers, and ease my weight off her arm. It flinches sharply, making me look up at her again. “Try it, Red. I don’t mind fucking a corpse to get what I want. I'll take you whichever way you choose.”
Her tongue runs over her lips in thought, some part of her weighing up her odds. There aren’t any odds here to think about, and the small quiet movement she begins making with her arm proves it. It slides between us, reaching for my belt. Seconds it takes her to get on with it, and then my dick's out, and she grips it tightly. I grunt at the feel of it, the damn thing pulsing in her grasp, and let her pull me closer until the tip is sluiced with wet pussy. The groan that comes out of me is as explosive as the come that wants to bury inside her.
I shift, getting myself up close and personal, and lower my lips to her chest again, dragging them over her skin so I can taste something when she puts me inside her.
“Do it, Red. Prove how much you hate me,” I mutter over her flesh, my teeth nipping down to her breast again. I sink them in hard, enjoying the way she bitches and grabs hold of my dick tighter until I feel her legs wrap around me of their own accord and she pushes me inside her. “Fuck.”
Everything in the room, everything in the goddamn world, turns to nothing. I’m just here, inside her, and feeling the only thing that makes any fucking sense—hate. I pull out slowly and then slam back in, loathing fuelling me. It’s so violent and so hard, she squeals. I pin her throat tighter to keep her still, my other hand wrapping under her to keep her right on the edge of the desk, and drive in again and again until she’s squealing and bitching at me so loudly I revel in the sound of it. All I can hear is hate. Every word that comes out of her is laced with venom and detestation.
I hate you. I hate you.
Good, I fucking hate her, too.
Another slam in, another drive so malicious she screams, and I think about squeezing my fingers even tighter to end the bitch now this is done. I should, but the feeling she’s giving me here, the tightness of her wrapped around me and the endless chants of hatred make me feel something other than pain. I want her voice, want her hands on me, too.
I let go of everything I’m pinning her down with and smother her lips with mine, driving my tongue into her. She bites at me and clings on instantly, her hands wrapping over my ass to keep me forging in relentlessly. It’s a fucking blur of movement, all of it managing to keep an underscore of spiteful intent and vicious reasoning. Everything barges and crashes, the desk creaking under the force it’s taking, and yet it all seems to glide so fucking seamlessly.
I end up lifting her and shoving her back against the bookshelves, enjoying the sound of her screams and groans with each shunt inwards. Eventually, I feel the pull in my lower back, feel the come clawing to release. She shudders and grips onto my neck like the bitch she is, her teeth ripping at my skin as if she needs to kill, and then I feel myself still under her orgasm. It ricochets over my body at the same time as everything fucking erupts inside me. Come travels straight to the guts of someone I fucking detest, all of it belligerently bedding in to prove something that isn’t true or honest. She’s nothing but a goddamned murderer. The same as me. She just does it with a fucking badge attached.
I grunt, sensing some balance in that. Some damned attachment I either can't, or won't, process. Gentle lips start kissing my neck, nibbling quietly as she breathes out my name. I frown and brace one hand on the bookshelves, the other hand under her ass, keeping her on my dick. Close. Tight.
“Logan,” she muses, lips still dragging. I scowl at the sound of it again and try getting my breath back, wondering what the fuck she’s trying to do. This is nothing but a fuck. A good fuck, granted, but…
The lips travel closer, more soft kisses pushed over my cheek, my jaw, until they land on my lips and start getting involved in kissing again. I can’t stop my own from returning the interest. Softer this time, less intent on causing pain. We roll around the feeling, her hands holding me close, trailing gently over my back and arms. I push off the wall of books and take her over to the couch, lowering her to it and then resting myself between her thighs. Fuck knows why, but it feels good—like it does with Samuel. Soft words, soft lips.
My fingers run through her hair, hooking behind her head to keep her close to me so I can devour some of the sensation for a while longer. I shouldn’t be doing, though. Shouldn’t be enjoying a goddamn thing about her. I should be killing her. Avenging a dead uncle.
“Fuck,” I grunt, my hands releasing her.
My dick slides out, and I get up to back the fuck off. She immediately scurries into the corner of the couch, hard features all over her face again as she stares at me. I tuck myself away, straighten my shirt, and head for the drinks. My mind's all over the goddamn place. What the fuck was that?
I haven’t got time for feelings or considerations over what I’m doing here. Revenge. That’s all. Nothing more than that. Hard-soled shoes ring on the wooden floor in the hall outside. I glower at them, irritated with Carter for being anywhere near me in this mind frame.
My face swings back to look at her, nodding at the blanket she tossed earlier. “Cover yourself.”
She scrambles to get hold of it and shrug it over her skin. “Logan, you have to let me go. This can’t go on.” That causes me to laugh out loud and gulp a large scotch down my neck. Let her go? She’s not going anywhere, certainly not until I work out what the fuck just happened here. “I don’t even know why I’m here. I didn’t kill him. It wasn’t me, and you know it.”
I stare at the wood panelling in the room, away from her and everything she’s become in the last hour. Didn’t kill him. She didn’t kill him.
“I don’t have to do anything you want,” I mutter, making myself another drink. I sigh and gulp it down, not sure what the hell I want to do with her now. I should have ended her, got this over and done with, a clean sweep for the funeral that's coming in a few days. I'll be able to stand there then,honour his body the right way.
Carter’s footfalls get to just outside and stop, the closed door barring him from entering. Good. He’s no more welcome in this space than he is in the entire house. Shame I’m getting used to hearing him about the place, getting comfortable with it again. I glower at the thought and think back on our youth, remember him waiting up for me until I got home in the early hours on my bike. Chastising me for another round of stupidity.
"You're better than this," he'd say.
Better.
“That bike of yours? Ducati?" I ask, turning back to look at her. "How's it handle?"
“What?” She looks bemused.
