Monster in His Eyes(14)

The thrust is so hard, so deep, that pain stabs my stomach. It feels  like I've been impaled. I gasp, clawing his back, my nails digging into  his skin. He pauses when I cry out but only stills for a few seconds  before thrusting again.

And again.

And again.

It doesn't hurt as much as the first, but it isn't gentle, not in the  least. His body is heavy, his grip strong, his hands rough as they  fondle my flesh. He's smothering me, covering me, as I feel nothing, see  nothing, live nothing except for him, existing only in the moment as he  buries himself inside of me. I barely even register that the light is  on anymore. The man is a wrecking ball, pounding me, and I come to  pieces almost instantly.

He pulls out to finish, coming near my navel, just inches from where I yearn for him to stay.

"I'm on the pill." The words are strained as they come from my lips. I'm  breathing heavily. My heart is racing. He's sitting back on his knees,  and I suddenly feel exposed. "I've been on it for a while."

He stares down at me, nodding once in acknowledgement as he grips his  cock, stroking it. My eyes are drawn down to it, and I'm mesmerized,  watching him touch himself. My fingertips tingle with the urge to reach  out and touch him, to feel him, to give him the pleasure he's giving  himself, but I don't get the chance.

In a blink, he's back between my legs, slowly pushing inside of me  again. My eyes flutter closed as he once more covers my body with his,  picking right back up where he left off moments ago.

He goes longer this time, every few thrusts bordering on ruthless, that  agony stabbing me again and again. I let out small yelps, unable to help  myself, strangled cries of pleasurable pain echoing through the room.  It seems to do something to him, rousing something inside of Naz. Every  time I cry out, he lets out a throaty groan, the sound prickling my  skin.                       
       
           



       

He's enjoying it.

He pulls out again when he's done. I don't know if it's intentional, or  if it's instinctual, but he comes on my stomach instead of inside of me.

My body is a ball of tingles, my legs weak, like he's knocked the bones  right out of me. Naz wraps his arms around me as he shifts us around in  the bed, squeezing in behind me. There isn't room for him to move away  from me here, not enough space to feel any distance between us. It  doesn't seem to bother him, though, as he nuzzles into my neck, his hand  resting on my bare stomach.

And just like that, I go to sleep.





The room is dark when I come around much later, the light turned off at  some point while I was asleep. I'm still naked, but a blanket covers  me... one I rarely use... one that's kept stored in the cabinet.

The bed feels empty, no body beside mine. I instantly feel the void. I  sit up, clutching the blanket around me, and jump when I catch sight of  the form in the shadows.

Naz is still here.

He's standing in front of my dresser, fully dressed, holding a picture  frame he picked up from it. It's a photo of my mother and me the day I  graduated high school. It's hard to believe it was less than a year ago.

His head turns my way as he sets the frame back down on the dresser. "You're awake."

"You are, too," I say. "What are you doing?"

"What I shouldn't."

"What's that?"

"Thinking."

I laugh lightly, wrapping the blanket tighter around me as I survey his face in the darkness. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I like you, and that's a problem for me."

His serious tone startles me. "Why's it a problem?"

"Because I don't like people," he says bluntly. "I deal with people.  That's what I do. But rarely do I particularly like anyone... like them  enough to want to deal with them in ways that aren't work to me."

"I don't get why that's a problem."

"Because I wasn't supposed to like you, Karissa."

I'm baffled, unsure what to make of that. "When you say you like me, you mean...?"

"I like you," he says again, as if that answers my question. He pauses  for a moment, glancing back at the frame on my dresser. "There's  something about you... something I've sought for a very long time.  Something I've always wanted. And now that I've found it, I don't know  if I can let it go."

"Then don't," I say.

"You don't know what you're asking," he responds. "I'm not a man who  just gives up in the middle of something. If I go any further, if I  don't walk away now, I won't be able to."

"I don't want you to walk away," I say. "I like you, too."

"You don't even know me."

His voice has a hint of anger behind it, a bit of bitterness that makes my stomach knot.

"You don't know me either," I say. "You don't even know my favorite color."

"Pink," he says. "You've had on something pink every time I've seen you …  your phone case is pink …  so are your sheets."

Maybe that was too easy. "My favorite food."

"You'd probably say Ramen. You accept what you think you deserve, but  you deserve so much more, whether you admit it or not. You want to  indulge. You like to give in to cravings. That's why your real favorite  is chocolate."

"What kind of chocolate?"

"Whatever kind of chocolate you can get your hands on."

Okay, he's right …  I do like chocolate. "How about my favorite movie?"

"Peter Pan."

He answers without an ounce of hesitation. I just stare at him, stunned. "How can you possibly know that?"

"Easily. You still see yourself as a child, and not an adult, like you  believe you'll never grow up." He pauses, eyeing me peculiarly. "Not to  mention you let a strange guy whisk you away with promises of magic, and  he had you floating on cloud 9 all night long."

"I, uh..." What the fuck? "How...?"

Before I can get out a coherent thought, he laughs and continues. "You  have a copy of the cartoon on your shelf. There's a Tinker Bell poster  beside your bed. It wasn't a hard guess."

I feel silly and am immediately grateful the room is so dark so he can't see my blush. "Well what about my-"

"It doesn't matter." He cuts me off as he steps forward, closer to the  bed. "We could play this game all night long, Karissa, but those things  mean nothing. My favorite color's black, my favorite food is steak, and  if I had to pick a movie, it would be Twelve Angry Men, but that doesn't  tell you who I am."

"Who are you then?"

He takes another step forward, so close that I can see the blue in his  eyes now. He stares down at me on the bed, his expression serious.  "Someone you should stay far away from."                       
       
           



       

Those words make me tremble. I believe it-he has a way of making someone  believe whatever he says-but still, they don't stop the traitorous  feelings inside of me. Maybe I should stay away from him, but I don't  want to.

I don't think I can.

Instead of responding, I reach out toward him, running my hand along his  thigh. The yearning to touch him still lingers in me. His reflex is  startling fast as he snatches ahold of my hand, stilling it on his leg,  his grip strong.

"I'm telling you," he says, his voice strained. "I'm warning you. I'm  not a good man, Karissa, and I never will be. So don't think you can fix  me, or that I'll ever change, because I won't. I can't. You have to  know, if this goes any further, if you ask me to stay, I'm not going to  be able to let you walk away."

He lets go of my hand. I hesitate. It's only a few seconds-seconds of  thinking, something I've spent my whole life doing, before I concede to  feeling, the one thing that's brought me more pleasure than before. The  seconds feel like an eternity as he stares down at me, our eyes locked,  as if he's challenging me. He's waiting for my decision, waiting to hear  the outcome, like I'm those twelve angry men with his life in my hands.

My hand, which inches up his thigh again and grazes over his crotch,  delivering the final verdict-he's not condemned, but maybe I am.

His eyes drift closed, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips, and I know  then, as I feel his cock through the material of his pants, hardening  against my palm, that I signed on the dotted line. I'm in.

It's needless, but I say it anyway. "Stay."

His eyes reopen, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips. "Red."

My eyes widen. "What?"

"If you ever need me to stop, you just say red."

"Red," I whisper, goose bumps coating my arms.

His smile fades at the sound of it. "Don't say it unless you mean it. If  you just need me to back off, to slow down, to take it easier on you,  say yellow. It works like a stoplight. Understand?"