Page 28 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

“You forced my hand,” I scream. “You threatened that if I didn’t come that you would do something else. What choice did I have in the matter?”

“You could have run like you always do.”

I break out into a fit of laughter. “You just think you know me so damn well, don’t you? If you really had a clue, then you would know that the only reason I’m here tonight is to destroy you.”

“You’re saying one thing with those pretty lips of yours, but you’re saying something else with your eyes.” His lips wrinkle into a sly grin. “Just admit it. The only reason you came here tonight is because you can’t stay away from me. It’s almost as if my dick is the only thing that makes you feel alive.”

I slap him in the face, leaving an instant red mark on his cheek. Hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to sting my own hand. He angles his face towards me as he massages the redness and chuckles lowly. I can’t decipher if he’s amused or enraged. He reaches forward, grabbing me by my hand. I try to put up a fight, but I’m completely outmatched. He throws me onto what I can only presume is his mother’s king-sized bed. The bedroom is huge, the size of many modern-day apartments. There’s double French doors that lead out onto a balcony that overlooks the pool. All the people just below the balcony and they’re all oblivious to what’s happening inside.

The mattress sinks behind me as Nick climbs onto the bed, He makes quick work undoing the buckle of his pants and freeing his hard cock. We don’t make love. We fuck the hate out of each other. It’s as addicting as the best drugs.

One hand shifts to the base of my throat, fingers dancing along my skin until he finds the sweet spot between his thumb and pointer finger and begins to squeeze. Adrenaline rushes through my body, heart threatening to beat out of my chest. There’s something obscene about being fucked in the bed of the mother of the boy you killed. He tightens his grip with one hand while the other climbs underneath my dress, searching for my panties.

But he soon discovers that I’m not wearing any as his wet palm shifts against my bare cunt. He drops his head to mine and whispers hot fire against my ear, “This is what you want.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a statement.

And I absolutely fucking hate that he’s right. That there’s always a little truth in the horrible things he says to me. That when he’s inside of me, I forget about all the horrible things I’ve done and that I forget that he’s somehow even worse than me. He chews into the base of my earlobe. And then traces a path with his hot tongue to the crook of my ear, and when he juts his hot warmth into the hole of my ear, I quiver beneath his body, begging him to fill me.

He somehow manages to read my mind, pulling back onto his knees. He’s feral in his movements as he shifts the dress up the length of my legs until my bare ass is exposed to the cold air. I cock my head over my shoulder and watch as he spits into an open palm. His eyes lock with mine as he drops his hand to stroke the length of his cock, preparing himself to thrust inside. He guides himself forward, pushing his cock into my hot cunt and instead of being gentle, he thrusts all the way inside, burying himself to the hilt. I scream into the pillow in a fruitless effort to muffle my gasps as he holds himself still inside me.

He reaches forward, grabbing me by the throat again, and shifting my head backwards so that the entirety of my body is tense and dependent on his control. He’s got me exactly where he wants me, exactly where I crave him to be in the deepest parts of my unspoken desires.

He steadies his free palm on my hip as he finds a rhythm. Slowly thrusting in and then pulling out, playing my insides like a violin. With every stroke, he threatens to undo me completely. He’s taking his time with intention, getting me used to the slowness. His thrusts are excruciating and calculated, just as he is. The thickness of his cock fills me wholly and then when he’s pulling outwards, I’m terrified he’s going to pull out completely and leave me wanting for more.

When removes his hand from my throat, I inhale sharply, taking in as much air as possible so that I can regain my bearings. There’s no time for that though. His hand falls onto my other hip where he holds me in place, holds me impossibly still, and then he’s thrusting into me with reckless abandon. His body claps against mine, hot and wet, sweaty and sticky.

I almost fantasize his bitch mother walking into her room right now. I would love to see the look in her eyes, see the way she looks at me with hatred in her soul as she watches her son fuck me into oblivion. God, she would fucking hate him for this and that would give me the greatest pleasure. I could never kill her myself, but if we’re playing tit-for-tat, the best I could do is to sever their relationship for good.

Especially if it means he can keep fucking me like this. I know it’s wrong, no-good, completely fucked up shit. I know this and I don’t care. I don’t care when he’s inside of me and I pretend I don’t care when he’s not. But I care. Deeply.

God he’s fucking right. It’s the only way I feel alive anymore. Feel the sweet proof of life every time he thrusts, opening up my passageways with every gasp of ecstasy from my throat. Feel the sweet sting of pain as his fingers dig into my bare flesh. It reminds me that I can feel anything at all.

Hatred. Lust. Ecstasy. All at the same fucking time.

His breath quickens, his arms tense. He’s bordering on the edge of release and I’m barreling towards the same climax. My eyes shoot open and there’s somethingdifferent.

There’s a cascade of light on the headboard in front of me. I twist my head over my shoulder to see the bedroom door is wide open and there’s a silhouette standing in the doorway. I wince my eyes to try to get a better look.

“Nick!” I scream. “Stop.”

“Shut up,” he grinds out between gritted teeth, clearly on the verge of orgasm.

I break away from him, pulling forward onto the bed and away from his touch. He drops forward, his sweaty hands reaching out for me, but I’m able to evade his grasp. I roll the dress down the length of my legs and finally see who’s standing in the doorway.

Emily Calloway.

She stands in the doorway wearing a black dress, shaking her head defiantly. As I approach, I can better make out the expression on her face, torn between disgust and confusion. Apparently she’s on too many drugs these days to remember she caught Nick and I in this exact predicament just a few short days ago.

“Emily,” I say softly. “This isn’t–”

“Stop talking,” she interrupts me. “This is exactly what it looks like.”

“Why are you even here?” It’s absolutely the wrong question to ask, but the last I knew, she was basically exiled from the family. Deflection is one of many tools in the arsenal of the manipulative.

“The real question is why can’t you stay away from my family?”

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