Page 16 of Crawl
It wasn’t until I broke up with him, knowing that he’d never be able to give me what I needed, that he convinced me to go to the sex addicts recovery program. As if that would save us.
In reality, he wanted to fix me.
Fingernails pinch my nipple then twist my skin until I gulp on dry air. I gasp, holding my tits.
“What the hell?” I ask.
“Where did you go?” he asks. His brows pinch together. “That vacancy in your eyes. Your mind went somewhere else.” He swivels his chair and fixates on me, then palms both of my breasts, forcing my hands out of the way. His fingernails turn into clamps, sucking the blood from my nipples. A sharp sensation curls through me and I hold my breath. “If pain is the only way I can keep you tethered to this earth, then, by all means, let’s keep you here.”
With his pinched fingers, he twists, my skin bunching up around his fingers, the pain shooting through my chest. A scream builds inside of me, but I keep it inside. He grins. The bastardlikesthe reaction. And I don’t want to give in to him.
“You,” I breathe instead, “are a sick, sick man.”
“Tell me why I can smell your cunt, then,” he snickers. My cheeks burn and my mouth opens. He licks his thick bottom lip. He gives some slack to my breasts, a hot wave of relief washing over me. “Your nipples are hard,” he says as he rubs my pebbled peaks between his fingers. He takes a handful of each breast, then crushes them like a stress ball, like he’s going to use my body to get every ounce of his relief. “How wet are you, Remedy?”
I bite my inner lip. No. No. No. No matter what he says, he doesn’t care about my enjoyment. I’m a fuck doll to him, an object he can toss aside once he’s lost interest.
My pussy clenches; those thoughts aren’t helping either. I’ve never had sex with someone who doesn’t care about how I feel in the end. And it feels like coming home.
No.This is only about doing what he wants, so that in the end, I can getwhat I want.And I want him in jail, or dead.
If I happen to like getting there, that’s unimportant. I suck in a long, hard breath.
“Screw you,” I snarl.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? You realize you owe me, right, Remedy?” he asks, dust clouds swirling in his brown freckled eyes, narrowing in on me. Helikesholding the blackmail over me. The way it makes me squirm. And that proves that he’s a sick bastard. Someone who doesn’t deserve his life of luxury. “From the hatred in your eyes to the sweet taste of your pussy: I own you now, Remedy Basset.”
My belly swirls at those possessive words, but I refuse to react. He locks eyes with me, not letting me flinch, then he twists my nipples again, my breath hissing through my teeth as I stare back at him, trying not to make a sound. But the more I struggle, the harder he twists, and my breasts are on fire, the pain coursing through me like shocks of electricity. Cash doesn’t care about how much it hurts. The more I fight it, the more it fuels him. Hunger burns in his eyes. My face flushes with heat as the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
He’s the first person to do this. And I didn’t have to beg him for it.
It’s almost like he listened. Like he believes me.
He presses his palms flat to my breast, a dull ache rippling through me. He breathes onto my ear, each breath hot and lingering.
“This isn’t enough, is it?” he murmurs. “Do you wish I would fuck you over my desk, ramming into you so hard that I bruise your cunt? So that every time you move, you’d remember exactly who owns your body?” His thumbs brush the peaks of my nipples, the skin so tender now that everything hurts, even a touch like this. My mouth drops open. “Tell me what you want, Remedy. Tell me how badly you want me to hurt you.”
“You stupid perv,” I mumble. “I don’t want you to hurt me.”
His teeth click together, his eyes roving over my body. A smirk draws the corners of his mouth up, like he knows that I’m lying.
“Then lie to me,” he says, “or I will email that video to the police right now.”
Keeping one hand on my breast, his fingers pinching my raw nipple, he types with his other hand, pulling up his email on the monitor. He even enlarges the text so that I can read everything. I pant. He’s messing with me. He won’t actually do it.
He reads aloud: “Dear Key West Police Department—”
He’s bluffing. He’s freaking bluffing. He won’t do it. Once he does, he won’t have anything over me.
He continues: “This video contains footage of Remedy Basset attempting to murder me—”
“Does it make you feel strong to make a woman beg?” I interrupt. I raise my nose higher, looking down on him, even as my legs shake with desire, knowing that he’s right: I do want him to hurt me. But I can’t let him win. “Nothing is going to cure your perverted—”
“You are a terrible liar,” he says. He finishes typing, then attaches a file.
“I’m not lying,” I say.
He hovers the pointer over the wordSend.His finger lifts up, about to tap the button—
