Page 53 of Driving My Obsession

Her eyes fly open as soon as the warm beads hit her skin. She opens her mouth, and some slides onto her tongue. “What the fuck!” she screams.

I lean over and gather the come with my fingers, then push it into her mouth. My fingertips curl at the back of her tongue and she gags, straining against my hand.

“This is for using me last night,” I say, fucking the back of her throat with my come-coated fingers. Not wanting her to puke, I pull them out and get into bed with her before she has a chance to run away. I crawl between her legs, and she kicks at me. Avoiding her flailing feet, I hook my arms around the backs of her thighs and draw her knees upward. I pull her shorts aside and expose the pretty little cunt that left the bruises on my dick.

“What are you doing?” she says while trying to pull her legs out of my steadfast grasp.

I growl in response and bury my face in her pussy. She already pleased herself plenty with my dick last night, but she deserves to come again. I like that she stooped to my level and used me the way I used her. It was beautiful. Her need for vengeance spoke to me in a language I understood very well.

Her struggle ceases as I tongue-fuck her pussy, licking upward and teasing her clit. Instead of pushing me away, her hands relax and pull me closer.

“You liked raping me, didn’t you, tragedy?” I stuff my come-coated fingers inside her, and she gasps as I sink them up to the knuckles. “You came from it, didn’t you? Tell me.” I swivel my hand so I can curl my fingers toward the front of her pelvis, dissolving her anger.

Her back arches and her thighs tremble. “I liked...using your cock...while you were asleep,” she pants.

I slam my fingers into her as she admits what she did. “Did you come?” I ask. I want to hear her say it. I want her to tell me that what I found on my dick had been left by her alone.

“I...came,” she moans, the sound amplifying as I curl my fingers inside her. “I came as I rode your dick, Ambrose, then I told you how much I hated you as I lay on your chest.”

She’s so pliable when she’s on the tip of an orgasm. So much more willing to bend to me. I don’t even mind that she’s lying about what she said.

“Do you hate me right now, when I have you hanging off the edge of an orgasm?”

“Yes,” she pants. “I fucking hate you.”

God, I love that. I think I like it more than when she said she liked me. Let her hate me if she needs to. I had no issue coming when I hated her.

Hated.

Why is that past tense? As her slick, wet pussy drips from my touch, I struggle to harness the hatred I once had for her.

I sit up on my knees, keeping my fingers inside her, as I lean over and lick my come from her cheek before kissing her. As I thrust in and out of her cunt, she slowly welcomes me into her mouth.

Kissing her is something else. I sense the need and hunger in every movement of her tongue. She doesn’t shy away from the salty taste of my come, and her throat moves as she willingly swallows me. My compliant little whore.

“Come for me, tragedy,” I growl against her lips.

She tenses as if she expects me to threaten her life with the next set of words that leave my lips, but I can’t find the desire to kill her anymore. I want to make her come for me again and again, and I can’t do that if she’s dead. Instead of a threat, I let my new truth fall from my lips.

“Be a good girl and come.”

She does. I have to pull away from her mouth as her moans grow and rise to a trembling crescendo. Her body quivers beneath me, and her eyes roll to the back of her head. My hand goes to her throat, and I put pressure on her neck as her orgasm wanes. She accepts her fate, ready to die if I don’t let her draw air. This would be the perfect moment to take her life, but whatever stayed her hand last night has chosen to affect me as well. I can’t do it.

I release her throat and brush the hair from her face as she pants. “I don’t want to be without you,” I whisper.

“Then don’t,” she breathes.

She makes it sound so simple. She doesn’t understand that I stand to lose her either way. If I kill her, she’s gone forever. If I let her live, she’ll leave.

“You won’t choose to stay with me,” I say. “You and I both know that, and I can’t be without you.”

Her eyes flutter as they rise to meet mine. “Haven’t I chosen already?”

I can’t deny the veracity of her words. She had every opportunity to take off after she drugged me. When I realized what had happened after I woke up, I expected to have to hunt her down. I was prepared to travel across the country to find her if I had to. When I found her in bed, I was too distracted by what happened while I was drugged to think about what didn’t happen. The magnitude of what it means didn’t hit me until this moment.

She could have killed me. She could have escaped. She could have turned me in to the police. And she did none of those things. She made a choice, and she chose me. My little tragedy stayed.

But what could we ever be? Enemies born from my obsession couldn’t possibly become lovers. Can’t she see that?

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