You Don't Own Me(175)

I flush bright red. I cannot admit to it but I cannot help being violently turned on by the feeling of being overpowered. There is a certain amount of shame to being overpowered but at that moment the path of acceptance seems more hospitable. I gasp as the pleasure between my legs mounts and mounts. His fierce fingers strike the wet, throbbing flesh.

‘Oooooo…’ I sob as the waves come. The sobs are a delicious release for the warm pain. Moisture trickles out of me and runs down the crack of my buttocks. He smiles and using that slick wetness inserts his finger straight into my ass.





Seventeen


I get out of the shower and feel slightly fresher but my head is still throbbing. I slip on my bikini bottoms and go into the kitchen. I know exactly what will cure my hangover. The hair of the dog. Jaron is bent over something at the kitchen table. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m repairing your watch. It was running late.’

‘You can repair watches?’

‘Sure. I’m very handy with anything that is full of tiny springs or precision machined to close tolerances. When I was young I spent hours completely dismantling watches and locks and putting them back together.’

‘Great.’

I open the cupboard and reach for the vodka bottle. A large hand covered in golden hairs curls around my wrist. I jump. I didn’t hear him come up.

‘Don’t,’ he says softly.

‘What?’

‘You drink too much, Billie.’

‘What?’ I repeat in disbelief.

‘You heard me.’

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘How old are you now?’

‘Fucking none of your business.’

‘Let’s say you’re twenty-two or three. You’ll be an alcoholic by the time you are thirty-three.’

‘Fuck you,’ I say angrily, but some part of my brain is recoiling in fear as I lash out. I yank my hand out of his grip and deliberately take the bottle and pour myself a huge measure. I gulp it all down very quickly while he watches me expressionlessly.

I put the glass down with a ‘take that and put it where the sun don’t shine’ thump, but in fact, I have drunk it too fast and I feel downright queasy.

He stares at me. ‘What’s the matter?’

I turn around and run to the bathroom where I am violently sick in the toilet.

When I put my head up Jaron is holding a wet towel. I don’t look at him. I take the towel from him silently and wipe my face. He goes out and I brush my teeth before I follow him.

‘I’ve made coffee,’ he says, holding out a mug.

‘I’m sorry I was so rude,’ I say.

‘It doesn’t change anything. You drink too much.’

I put my head down. I know he is right. It feels like fun, but I’ve seen enough alcoholics on the council estate to know where I am heading.

‘You don’t need it, Billie.’

‘Sometimes I do.’

‘Sometimes we all do. But you even drink in the morning. It’s not cool, Billie.’

I take a sip of coffee and make a face. I hate coffee.

‘Can I have some orange juice please?’

He pours me a glass and hands it to me with two painkiller tablets. I take the pills and drink the whole thing down. I realize how awfully dehydrated I must have been.

‘How about we agree that you’ll drink when you need to and when you’re out having fun, but no more vodka bottles in your bedside cabinet.’

I glower at him and every fiber in my body rejects being told what to do. That is my MO. No one, and absolutely no one in the past has told me what to do. I do what I want. Period. I don’t buy the ‘do it for your own good bullshit’ from anybody. And to be honest, if it had been anyone else other than him I would already have decimated them to an insecure blob of jelly by now. And yet I can’t with him. Some secret part of me is craving for him to take control, to care enough to make me do it.

I nod. ‘OK.’

He grins. ‘You made that too easy. I was prepared for a huge fight.’

‘You don’t know when to stop, do you?’

He raises both hands as if to ward me off in mock alarm.

And it is impossible not to laugh. He takes me into his arms. His face is so tender it makes me feel quite strange. Our relationship seems to have suddenly become really serious. For some reason that makes me fearful. ‘I want something back from you in return.’

He stiffens imperceptibly. ‘What?’

‘Let me drive your car?’

I feel it then, that great big wave of relief that washes over him. I wonder what he thought I was going to ask of him.

‘I’m making breakfast,’ I say.

‘You are?’ His eyebrows are in his hairline. A bit irritating, that.