The lone word is little more than warm breath against my skin, fanning the flames of my desire, kindling the fire deep inside of me. I exhale shakily, but before I can speak, he shoves me away from him and spins me around. I gasp as he picks me up and throws me on the bed on my stomach, straddling my legs and pinning me there.
"Wait," I say, my heart racing. His weight presses on me as he pulls on my panties, tearing them off. "Wait just a second, Naz."
"I don't have a pause button, sweetheart." His voice is chilling, a sense of detachment to it. "If you don't want to play, you know how to stop me. All you have to do is say the word."
"Stop."
"That's not it."
He doesn't stop, and I'm not at all surprised. I knew that wasn't the right word, but I can't say it. I can't use a safe word. Not now, not for this. I can't shout "red" or even "yellow" when all I want is green. When all I want is to feel him inside of me, to have him consume me, to be the air he breathes and the only thing he needs.
My head is foggy and his body is constricting, his weight welcoming as it presses upon me, one hand heavily on the center of my back as I hear him fumble with his belt buckle with the other.
I try to look, try to see, my cheek flat against the bed as I crane my neck to get just a peek, but it's barely a glimpse, a flash of dark suit in the dim lighting. He doesn't undress, doesn't even take off his shoes, merely unbuckling his pants enough to free himself from his restraints.
He's between my legs, forcing them apart and shoving against me, pushing roughly inside of me. I cry out as he fills me, stretching me to form around him. It doesn't hurt, my body reacting the second he laid a finger on me.
"Fuck, you're so wet," he says, laying down on me, his heavy suit rubbing against my bare skin. The buttons are cold against my back. "You like it like this, don't you?"
He thrusts a few times, hard, and I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from crying out, but he doesn't accept my silence.
"I asked you a question," he growls.
"Yes," I gasp, closing my eyes. "I love it."
"I know you do." His voice is a lust-fueled murmur in my ear as his hand snakes around my stomach, slipping below, his fingertips seeking out my clit as his strong arm forces me back against him tighter, angling my ass so he can pound into me deeper. "You're a little ragdoll, aren't you? You want to be tossed around; you want me to use you any way I see fit. Because you know … you fucking know … " He thrusts so hard pain stabs my stomach. "You're my favorite toy."
I shouldn't find his words as hot as I do, but they spark something inside of me, tingles engulfing my entire body, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. It's emotional, an overwhelming honesty, that I can't restrain from tumbling from my lips. "I want to be."
"You are," he says, stroking my clit as he fucks me harder … and harder … and harder with each thrust of his hips. "I knew it the first time I saw that timid smile and those wide, innocent eyes. It was wrong … fuck, it was so wrong of me to want it, to want you, but I couldn't resist."
His voice is strained, the words coming out like breathless panting.
"I thought I could play with you a bit, and let you go, but once I had you, Karissa, I had to keep you. I couldn't walk away."
"Then don't," I whisper, not sure if it's loud enough for him to even hear, but he squeezes me tighter to him, stroking my clit faster, fucking me deeper, as he whispers back in my ear.
"I won't," he says. "I can't. You're mine now."
His fingers work their magic. I come apart in his arms, locked in his embrace, captive beneath him, but I've never felt so free before as I do in that moment, when the pleasure sweeps through me, taking every speck of anxiety, every worry and insecurity I've ever had, and wiping them away. He bottoms me out and then makes me whole, filling me up with everything he says, and does, making me feel what he believes.
I'm beautiful.
I'm special.
I'm his.
He says nothing else, slowing his movements, letting the orgasm wash over me and fade away before the switch in him flips again.
All at once he turns from man to beast, pawing me, clawing me, ravaging every inch of my body that he can reach. He fucks me mercilessly, to the point I can't think. I can do nothing but take it, absorb the impact, my voice nothing but incoherent noises conjured up from his animalistic feats.
The words are there the entire time; "yellow" is on the tip of my tongue, so close to springing forward whenever he gets so rough I can't breathe, but I swallow it back again and again with a gasp of air. I don't want him to stop; I don't want him to slow down. I don't want him to restrain himself with me. I want everything he'll give me. His hands are strong, his body like steel, but as he pounds into me, I think maybe it's what's inside that's heaviest.
He's purging his soul, and as scary as I think the deepest parts of him might be, I want it all.
I want to see it.
He pulls out to finish and sits there on his knees, catching his breath, before moving off of me. I can't move, can do nothing but lay there. I think I'm now a part of the bed, nothing more than thread that has started to unravel. He's quiet as he sits there, and despite my eyes being closed, I know he's watching me. I can sense his gaze.
After a moment, he reaches over, his touch feather-light as he runs his fingertips along my back. Freckles dot my skin, an inheritance from my father … the only thing that man ever gave me.
Naz traces them, much like I once did the scars on his chest, like he's connecting the dots to form a picture. My eyes open, but I don't move, not wanting to disrupt what he's doing.
It's soothing.
"What are you drawing?" I ask quietly.
"The future."
I smile to myself. "What does it look like?"
"I'm not sure yet," he says. "It's still coming together for me."
He looks passive, relaxed, still fully dressed and now tucked away, not at all like someone who just fucked me ruthlessly. He's a gentle giant, harmless and soft, like a teddy bear.
Except deep down, I know he's not.
And when his eyes cut my way, and I see the darkness on the surface, I'm reminded that this man hangs out with monsters.
And one might even exist inside of him.
I'm pouting.
Full on puppy dog eyes, lips puckered and pulled down into a frown kind of pout.
Ugh, pathetic.
So much for the strong woman I felt like last night, owning her sexuality and taking what she wants from the world. I've reverted about a decade, to the pouty, moody pre-teen who gave her mother a fit for refusing to let her to stay out past dark so she could go to a school dance.
"So unfair," I mutter, slouching in the cool leather seat. The gaudy evening gown feels absurd this morning, big and showy and heavy against my skin.
Naz chuckles beside me. He's got his feet kicked up with his suit half fixed, the tie knotted loosely, the jacket and vest resting beside him on the seat. His eyes are on his phone, doing whatever it is he does. I don't know.
"You have nobody to blame but yourself," he says. "I told you, you're welcome to come home with me."
"But you have stuff to do, and I'm still wearing this dress, and I really need to shower, and I have class in the morning anyway, so I should just head back to the dorm, you know, because of all that."
"So I've heard."
It's the third time I've ran through all of my excuses on why I need to go, but I don't sound any more certain than I did the first time. Every bit of it is true, sure, but I'm dreading saying goodbye to this man.
So I pout some more.
"You know I have hot water," he says, "and clean clothes."
"Women's clothes?"
He laughs again. "I'm afraid not, but I'm sure I have something you can fit."
"I bet I'd look great in one of your suits."
That draws his attention. His eyes scan me for a second as he raises an eyebrow, a look of curiosity on his face. "Huh."
Huh. That's all he says before turning right back to his phone.
"I still have school tomorrow," I point out.
"I can drop you off in the morning," he says.
"But don't you have stuff to do?" I ask. "I wouldn't want to bother you."
"Yes, but you wouldn't be bothering me."
He has an answer for everything, but still, I just sit in the back of the car and pout as the driver heads through Greenwich Village, straight toward NYU. The car pulls up to the curb when we arrive, the driver getting out. Naz puts his phone down, his hand covering my cheek as he leans over to kiss me.