Page 54 of Vicarious

“I would have helped you figure something out if you’d told me.”

I feel his cock jerk under my rough ministrations. Damn. The fucking time I want him to have more control than this, he doesn’t. I take my hand off his cock and begin to undo the buttons of his shirt. I only get little more than halfway when I realize my hands are meeting the fabric of his undershirt and not hot, tanned skin. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline caused by the anger and frustration I have at him, but I do to shirt exactly what’s he’s done to many of my own clothes. I rip it right down the middle, exposing hot skin to me.

I immediately dig my nails in and drag them down his chest. He groans. Whether in pain or pleasure, I don’t really care. It probably all feels the same right now. But it’s worth it regardless to see his skin break and turn colors as I drag my nails down again and again.

He could stop me, I realize when I see him finally lift his hands. But he doesn’t. Instead, as I continue to scratch his chest, he lifts the hem of my t-shirt dress, rips apart my tights, and pushes my panties aside.

“Would you really have?” he grunts out.

“Would I have wh—” I let out a groan as he roughly shoves his cock up into me.

I’m not wet enough. Because I’m really more angry than truly aroused, but that doesn’t stop me from rotating my hips around and then down on his cock.

I try to talk again. “Would I have what?”

“You talk this game.” He thrusts up into me causing me to lose my breath before I can retort. “That you would have followed me or helped me if I had just talked to you. But would you have?” He thrusts again and fuck him for still being able to send shocks through me and make feeling so full of him feel so excruciating when I’m furious at him. “Or is just because you want me to be more of the villain in your personal little tragedy because you know fucking well you wouldn’t have? That the only reason you stay is because you have nowhere else to go and no real choice.”

“So now you’re implying I’m a liar.” I manage. “Per—”

I lose my breath as I grind down on him and he lifts to meet me with a thrust. The only reason I’m not more annoyed about that is that he lets out a grunt at the same time.

He eventually manages. “I’m not implying it.”

He tightens his grip on my hips and thrust his hips down and back up deliberate and hard and my legs quake because I’m so close to coming undone. But I won’t. If I do, he wins.

“Fuck you.”

“From where I’m standing,” he begins, and I rotate my hips on his cock again. He pauses to let out a shuddered breath. He continues, “From where I’m standing, I’ve told you on three occasions you were my love, and you won’t acknowledge it.”

“And from where I’m standing—shit,” I exclaim when his cock hits just right. “Every time you ever said that, guess who you always crawled back to?”

“So now you’re implying I’m a liar?”

“I’m not implying it.”

I grind my hips down and Viper helps me to do so and something snaps inside us both. I begin to ride his cock in earnest. I wish I could say I’m in complete control, but that’s not true. But it’s enough that even with his hands holding my hips tightly and thrusting up into me every time I grind against him, Viper’s not in control either.

I have to get it back. I have to get back control.

So I stay my hips. Press a hand onto Viper’s stomach to stay him. Then I open the drawer of his desk and take out a utility knife he uses to open packages.

He doesn’t do anything except to raise an eyebrow when he sees it. As I rip his undershirt open more and roughly expose his shoulder. I dig the tip of the knife into his skin. Viper hisses, but again doesn’t stop me as I carve letters into his shoulder with the knife. He may not be mine, but I can leave a mark. A sign to let people know, his wife included, that I was here.

When I’m done, I inspect my work of art. It’s not particularly pretty, but even with blood dripping in long lines down his arm, the letters are clear.

Dele, my carved letters read.

I toss the knife on the ground and look Viper in the eye.

“Your move,” I say.

His answer is to continue where we left off before I carved my name onto him. His cock thrusts into me, and I grind and push back against him every time. It’s pleasure. And it’s also pain. But not the good kind of pain that just leads to more pleasure. My pussy walls clamp around his cock at the same time I feel his thighs tremble and his seed spill into me. While that’s happening, I put my mouth on his and we swallow each other’s groans.

When both our orgasms are over, we pull away to stare at each other. We’re both angry. He’s glowering up at me, and I’m glowering down at him, and, fuck, this wasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough. The angry red and bleeding scars on his chest and staining his shirt aren’t enough. The carving of my name into his shoulder isn’t enough. The ache in my hips from where he gripped me so tight aren’t enough.

Why is nothing ever enough when it comes to this man?

I’m so consumed in Viper, even pissed off at him, that it takes me a while to notice that we’re no longer alone in the room.

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