Fingertips drag up my thigh, before he jams his hand roughly between my legs.
His breath tickles my ear. “When the fuck are you going to start being wet for me, you fucking whore?”
When the fuck are you going to give me a reason to be? Despite the rage burning inside, I say nothing.
The spine-chilling sound of him spitting on his hand echoes between us, and I wince. He rams his hand back down there, and rubs his saliva over me with enough vigor to start a damn fire.
He isn’t far from succeeding, given the burn that creeps into the junction of my thighs. A cry slips from my lips, and he sighs. Shit.
“Jane, Jane, Jane,” he tuts. “You know, I’ve had about as much of your complaining as I can take this week.” A calloused hand clamps down over my mouth, and nose. “How about we have a nice, quiet fuck for a change?”
The fumes from his breath have my head spinning. Or is that the lack of oxygen?
He crushes my leg in his drunken attempt to roll over the top of me and pin me to the bed. Somehow he manages enough coordination to position himself between my legs without removing his hand from my face.
Panic constricts in my chest, and I wage a war with my head not to give in. If I panic, I’ll only burn through the small amount of oxygen remaining in my lungs faster. I need to stay calm. I need to win this time.
Pressure builds in my temples as he thrusts inside of me, and the burn of his dry entry is only matched by the burn of my eyes as the ache in my head intensifies. I suck at his palm, desperate for the smallest ounce of air, but all I manage to do is create a greater vacuum.
He laughs.
“You wanna breathe, darling?”
I nod furiously.
“Not yet.” He pummels into me with disturbing precision, given his inebriated state.
Tears form in the corners of my eyes, and I curse at myself for enabling my emotions. Pity won’t help me out of this situation. Determination will at least help. I blink my tears away, and force my air-starved brain to find any scrap of hope. The calculations run in a foggy haze through my mind, and right as I come to the conclusion that I’m fucked—salvation.
Air, sweet yet toxic, rips into my lungs. It burns at the soft tissue, pushing into my chest with unrelenting force as my body instinctually gasps for as much of the sweet stuff as I can get … in case he covers my mouth again.
He roars with laughter, still pounding away, like a butcher, tenderizing meat. I feel beaten to within half an inch by the time he stills and pulls free.
Did I miss it? Has he come already? The absence of sticky mess between my legs indicates no. Damn.
“Suck the rest out of me,” he barks, and flops onto his back.
Not that. God, not that.
Last time we tried this, I gagged, and he pushed back so hard I actually vomited. He made me clean it up. After I finished him off, of course.
“No,” I whimper. The word is as pathetic as I am at that moment. I married this man? I literally signed my name away on a contract to this devil?
The lamp snaps on, and I blink at the intrusive light. “Now, Jane. Or I’ll fucking start all over again.”
My lowest point comes somewhere between the moment when I nod at his threat, and the moment when I find myself on all fours, kneeling before him. Tentatively I take his greatest weapon into my mouth, and start to suck.
Not enough to keep him satisfied, it seems.
Rough hands force my arms behind my back, and without anything to anchor myself on, I fall face first, mouth open, onto him. His wet head slams into the back of my throat, and I gag violently as I right myself.
He hisses. Not out of anger, but arousal.
Then I do something I haven’t done for years. Something I swore never to do again in his presence. I cry.
Hot, salty tears drip down past my lips, and over his groin. The added moisture assists his glide into my mouth, and he takes both my wrists in one hand to grab a fistful of hair with the other.
Moans come from above me as he guides himself in, and all I can do is cry harder. Pained groans push past the intrusion in my mouth, and he increases in pace. The sick fuck gets off on my suffering, and as much as I know it, and as much as I don’t want to allow it, I’ve opened a floodgate that’s been sealed shut too long.
I cry so hard my lips balloon around him with each sob that wracks my body. The sounds mingle: my crying, his moans. The only two stirrings in the night.
Until Rocco barks.
My eyes shoot open. No, baby. Not tonight. Not tonight, Rocco. Oddly enough my ESP has no effect on him, and before I know it, my head is wrenched violently backward, and Dylan is cursing at the dog which now has its jaws wrapped around his arm.
What a sight: a tear-streaked woman, a ferocious dog, and an enraged drunk man, all wrestling, jostling, fighting each other in a strange triangle on the king-sized bed. My head whips around in Dylan’s grasp as he shakes his arm violently from side-to-side, trying to shirk Rocco. His other fist collects me on the way off the bed, and I reel back as he drops my hair. A crack precedes a whimper, and I open my eyes to see Rocco’s tail vanish out the bedroom door, followed by Dylan.