Page 52 of Driving My Obsession

Full and stuffed, I pant against his skin, but I don’t want it to end quite yet. I look up at him and bask in the remnants of my orgasm. His head lolls to the side, and my eyes focus on the soft pout of his lower lip.

“I like you, Ambrose,” I whisper, “but Ireallylike your dick.” I grip his hair and turn his face toward me. “You’re my little plaything now, aren’t you? Useful for nothing more than my pleasure. You can’t talk or move, but you can lie there and let me fuck myself with your cock, huh?”

I grip his chin, open his mouth, and gather spit beneath my tongue. Leaning over him, I drip the spit into his mouth. It’s my turn to have control and do what has been done to me. He gets to be blissfully unaware of the degrading piece of me I left inside his mouth, but that’s okay. This is enough.

Now I know why he did this to me. It’s like I own his body. His cock. Like I can use him without having to worry about getting him off or pleasing him. It’s intoxicating, and I’m drunk off his helplessness.

But now the fun is over and I have no idea what will happen once he wakes up. I wish he could see this as a fair trade. I wish we could come to some kind of fucked-up truce. You assaulted me. I assaulted you. The playing field is leveled now. Maybe we can play a new sort of game?

I sigh and turn my head toward the door. The only game he’ll play is one where he makes the rules. If I knew what was good for me, I’d grab my shit and never look back.

I return my attention to his face. Will he really kill me? Am I the only one who feels this magnetism pulling us together?

Probably yes on both counts.

I close my eyes and drop my head to his shoulder. He’ll be out for several hours at least. I still have time to decide what I’ll do.

ChapterThirty

Ambrose

Iwake up on the couch, confused as fuck. My heavy lids struggle to rise enough for my glassy eyes to focus on the room. I don’t know where I am or what day it is. I feel as if I’ve slept beneath a two-hundred-pound blanket for a week.

After a quick survey of my body, concern wraps a twine around my heart and squeezes. Wrinkles and stretched fabric mar my sleeveless t-shirt, as if someone gripped the fabric between clenched fists. Was I in some kind of fight? I rub my hand over the front of my pants to make sure I didn’t piss myself or anything. My jeans are buttoned but not zipped. Well, they’re half zipped. I sit up and look around.

Oaklyn! Shit.

I rise from the couch, then drop back to the cushions. My head spins and the floor rolls beneath my feet. She fucking drugged me.

The empty mug stares up at me from the coffee table, and I curse under my breath. I struggle to remember what happened. I made her a drink in the kitchen, then she asked me to drink with her. She fuckinginsisted. This bitch. She probably drugged me so she could escape.

I reach for the knife on my hip, but it’s missing. Glancing around, I spot it on the coffee table and snatch it up. She must have thought about killing me but chickened out before she could go through with it. After everything I’ve done to her, she still couldn’t do what anyone else would have done in her situation. Now she’ll pay for her mistake. My fingers curl around the weighted handle, and visions of what I’ll do to her flash through my mind.

But first, I have to find her.

I storm toward my bedroom, eager to change into some fresh clothes. As I barrel through the doorway, my feet refuse to take another step. Red hair drapes over the white pillowcase, and the thin sheet rises and falls in a slow pattern. She’s right in front of me, asleep on my bed.

Okay, now I’m really fucking confused.

She turns over, still fast asleep, and the sheet falls and wraps around her waist.

“What’d you do, tragedy?” I whisper as I step toward the bed.

Nothing makes any sense. Why drug me if she didn’t plan to kill me and escape? Even if she couldn’t kill me, she still had a golden opportunity to get away from me, at least for a little while. But she stayed.

I step closer and study her face. Memories flicker in my mind like a strobe light, only granting brief flashes of what happened last night. Her hand on my cock. The weight of her on my lap. She slipped me inside her. She drugged me and rode me like a madwoman.

I rub my hand against my crotch, and a deep ache burrows through my pelvis. She rode me hard enough to leave bruises.

More memories flicker through the haze. She lay on my chest with my cock still buried inside her. I bet she’d come by then. I vaguely remember a few of the words as her tits pressed against me.

“I like you, Ambrose, but Ireallylike your dick...You can’t talk or move, but you can lie there and let me fuck myself with your cock, huh?”

Jesus Christ in hell. I wish I could remember more. I wish I could have felt that whole scene play out. Did I even get off? I undo my jeans and pull out my cock. Remnants of dried come cling to my skin, but I don’t think any of it belongs to me. Two bruises mark my junk, probably from her banging up and down on my lap like I was a fucking Hopper Ball.

For a fleeting moment, I feel used. It’s just a drop of water in the ocean compared to how I’ve made her feel, though. It’s not even the same, really. Knowing she fucked herself with my cock turns me on to the point of being painful, and I worry I’ll bust while just thinking about it.

I grip my hard cock, unable to deny the urge clawing through me. Stroking my dick, I step closer to the bed and ease her head around so she’s facing me. My mind clings to those fleeting memories of how she used me, and my balls throb with an ache I need to quell. My erection aims toward her mouth. I stroke harder and faster, keeping my eyes on those full lips that released such hate-filled words as she came on my cock. It’s enough to push me over the edge, and I come, shooting ropes of pleasure across her lips and cheeks.

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