Page 135 of Brutal Obsession

I can’t come again.

But it seems he has other plans, because he doesn’t let up. He circles his hips, and my eyes roll back. He pounds into me with wild abandon.

“So fucking tight.” He slides his hand between my chest, down to my abdomen, and holds it there. “You don’t know what taking your last virgin hole is doing to me.”

He comes with a roar, slamming into me a final time.

It’s too much.Again.

I let go, and I think I black out as my orgasm overtakes me. My body relaxes all at once, and Greyson grabs me before I take a header into the wall. Still, my eyes close.

When my eyes open, I’m flat on my back. Somehow, we went from there to here, my wrists now untied and resting at my sides. I flex my fingers to get blood circulating in them again, and I move to sit up.

Greyson stops me. “Tell me what my father told you.”

I stiffen.

He shakes his head and winds his hand to the back of my neck, helping me rise a little. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Vi. What’s he giving you in exchange for… avoiding me?” He narrows his eyes. “For having nothing to do with me?”

He knows.

Somehow, he knows.

Dread laces through me, and I grab his wrist. I keep it on my neck. I don’t know what to feel—part of me is too exhausted to feel anything at all. But I know that I like Greyson far more than I should.

I know this last month of avoiding him has been hell.

“It’s a long story,” I hedge.

He sits beside me. His brows furrow. “Then tell it.”

I shiver.

He pauses, then goes to get his sweatshirt. He helps me slide my arms through the sleeves, briefly touching my wrists. I put it over my head and immediately sigh. It’s not cold in here, but when you’re naked…

It smells like him, too.

“I went to Vermont to meet with a specialist, at the behest of Crown Point Ballet’s artistic director,” I start.

“Mia Germain.”

“Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs. “I saw your texting thread with her.”

Oh, great. I should really password protect my stupid phone. Willow calls me out for being too trusting, too.

“Anyway.” I shift and try to ignore the soreness in my ass. Ugh. “Dr. Michaels said my leg healed okay, and it was physically able to support my dancing, but the nerve pain was holding me back.”

“Nerve pain.” His gaze drops to my leg, then back up. “How long has that been going on?”

“Since the accident?” I shrug.

“You touch it sometimes. Your leg, I mean. Like it hurts. I just thought it was something that you did as a habit.” He winces. “And you’ve been running—”

“Dr. Michaels ordered an MRI to check for stress fractures and then suggested aquatic therapy for the nerve pain,” I say in a rush. “But I wouldn’t have been able to afford any of it. My mom and I… I don’t know what happened, really, but we don’t have a relationship anymore.”

Is it her fault or mine that we fell apart?

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