Bound to Accept (20 page)

“
Get used to it, bitch.
I'm about to hurt you a whole lot more.” He pulls out the knife,
and my eyes go wide. “Hurry up and come. I don't have all fucking
day.”

My breathing hitches as he
lays the knife against my skin. The coldness of the blade seems to
suck all the warmth out of my body. “Tristan,
what—
” He squeezes his fingers, and
keeps them like that. “
Ahh
.”

“
Don't call me that.” His
voice is a threat in my ear.

I nod weakly. Tristan keeps his eyes
on mine for a moment, and lets the blade trace a path down my
clammy skin. He's still got my clit pinched between his fingers,
and I feel like I'm about to explode. And then the knife slips,
nicking the base of my nipple, and when I scream, he releases my
clit.

For a moment, my vision goes black.
Something hits my knees. It's the floor. He let me fall. Liquid is
weeping out from between my legs, and I can't breathe, and my right
breast stings as a bead of sweat rolls down my chest and seeps into
the cut. And then I remember.

“
You
cut
me.”

He yanks me up by the hair, so I'm on
my knees. “Want me to do it again?”

“
You said you didn't cut
people. You said—”

But I can't remember what else Tristan
said. He unzips his fly, and his erect cock slides out. “I'm saying
open your mouth.”

It's already open. I cannot believe
what is going on. Tristan takes that as acquiescence, and slides
his cock into my mouth, in swift, hard strokes that leave the back
of my throat feeling bruised. My nose is all snotty from crying,
and I can barely breathe, and this is just too much. But his hand
is on my head, digging into my skull.

He comes in my mouth, and thick clots
of it coat my tongue and the back of my throat. I gag wetly, and he
slaps my breast. “Swallow it,” he says. “Whores
swallow.”

I try to spit his own junk back at
him, but my aim is not so good, so it kind of just dribbles on the
floor. Tristan makes a noise of impatience and shoves my face down.
I try to get back up, but his boot is on the back of my neck,
keeping me down. “Lick it up from the floor.”

Is he fucking kidding me? “No! I won't
do that!”

“
Lick it up,” he repeats,
“or I'll rub your face in it.”

I lower my head to the floor and lick.
A shudder of revulsion ripples through me. I can't remember when I
last cleaned it. I can see bits of Garfield's hair, and dust
bunnies the size of marbles under the fridge. “Please—”

“
All of it,” he says,
resting an elbow on the counter. His other hand is down his pants,
stroking slowly.

Is he getting turned on by
this?

So I lick up his come from the floor,
sobbing because it is so disgusting. When I'm finished, Tristan
takes his boot from my neck and pulls me up by my necktie, choking
me a little. “How did it taste?”

“
Like I hate
you.”

He laughs, not nicely, and tugs my
blazer down my arms. “Tits don't get that hard when you hate
someone.”

To my complete and utter
mortification, my nipples are flushed and fully erect, announcing
my arousal like little exclamation points.

He laughs when I look away, ashamed,
and uses his pelvis to pin me against the counter, bumping me up so
his erection is pressed right against my core. “And when you were
bent over, down there on the floor, I could see how pink you were,
how you were leaking all over the floor as you licked up my
come.”

He pulls me back by the hair so I'm
arched over the counter, and my breasts are jutting towards his
face. He suckles at my nipples, roughing them with his tongue,
biting hard enough to make me cry. The place where he cut me sears
like a brand, making me wet for him.

Pretty soon, I'm wheezing,
short of breath, caught between lightheaded agony and bleak
arousal. Every movement increases the pressure of his cock against
my clit, and oh my God,
I want him inside
of me
.

And he knows. I can see he knows as he
lifts his head and squeezes my jaw in his hands, resting his
forehead against mine so he can look into my eyes.

“
You've stopped
struggling,” he says. “What's the matter? Don't you want to keep me
primed for the main event?” He grinds his hips into me, roughly,
and I slip dangerously as my knees give out. Even though I made him
come earlier, he's already hard again. “You wouldn't want to
disappoint that wet pussy of yours.”

“
No,” I say
faintly.

“
That's right,” he says.
“No. Might as well enjoy it. Nothing you can do or say will make me
stop.”

Which isn't quite true. We both know
there's one thing I can say that will make him stop. Which begs the
question: why didn't I use my safeword the moment he used his knife
on me? Or when he made me lick come off the dirty floor?

“
Although
enjoyment
hasn't really
been an issue for you, has it?” He swipes his fingers over his
crotch and holds them up. The leather is shiny and wet.

Is Tristan trying to force me to use
my safeword? I'm furious—and scared. Scared that he'd push the
lines so far to make me do what he wants. Scared that I'd let him.
Scared that part of me wants to see how far I can push
him.

Far enough to make him lose
control?

I stare him right in the eyes. Those
beautiful green eyes that can look so warm, but are now absolutely
freezing. How can this Tristan exist alongside my Tristan? Is a
dichotomy of being that great even possible without a total
fracturing of self?

“
Stop looking at me like
that,” he says coldly—but I think I hear a catch in his voice. A
snag of human emotion.

“
No.”

But Tristan has a solution for that,
too. He spins me around, and bends me over the counter so we're no
longer making eye contact. I can't even look at him now. Can't see
what he's doing.

A few seconds later he
frees himself from his unzipped fly and his cock rubs between my
legs. The counter in front of me blurs. Regardless of what thoughts
might be going through his head, he's enjoying this. His erection
is proof enough of that

But then, I'm not exactly hating this
myself.

I grit my teeth when the head of his
cock slides partway inside of me. “Still not quite wet enough,” he
says. “Making me do all the work.” He slides his fingers between my
legs, and remembering how rough he was last time, I buck, trying to
throw him off. “Fucking eager, aren't you?”

“
Stop that, you
bastard.”

“
It's your fault it
hurts,” he says. “You know you want it. You just can't let yourself
enjoy it.”

He knows exactly where to squeeze, how
hard to touch, when to ease down and when to speed up. He knows my
body better than I do in that regard. So it doesn't take him long
to get me as wet as he wants me to be. He sticks his finger in my
mouth and says, “Clean yourself off me.”

Salty come. Sour leather. It's all I
can taste and smell. When I've sucked his finger, he pulls his hand
out of my mouth and puts it on my hips. Each thrust causes the
counter to dig painfully into my abdomen, and my breathing picks
up, and I can feel that telltale sign that I'm close. There must be
something wrong with me, because no normal person would get
pleasure from this.

This is wrong. This is so
wrong.

I feel disgusting. Lower than
low.

But I don't say my
safeword.

I don't say anything at
all.

I can feel Tristan's breath on my bare
shoulders. The mask is forcing him to breathe through his mouth,
and not his nose. He's panting angrily, and his fingers are digging
into my butt hard enough to hurt.

“
You have a tight little
snatch.” He runs his finger down the strap of my thong, moving it
aside. I tense as his finger circles my anus, causing a tickling,
tingling feeling. “But I bet I know what's even
tighter.”

“
No!” The alarm in my
voice is not feigned. “Don't you dare,” I say hoarsely.

“
What are you going to
do?” He teases the puckered skin, and my hips jerk against the
counter as he thrusts into me hard. “How are you going to stop
me?”

Twilight. Say
Twilight.

I say nothing.

“
Out of ideas?” His
mocking voice burns my ear. “Too bad.” He slides off his glove,
then, and sticks his bare finger into my mouth. “Bite me, and I'll
use your nipple like a twist-tie. Now suck. Get my finger nice and
wet. Suck it like a cock.”

When I do, coating his finger with a
thick layer of saliva, he slides his finger out of my mouth, and
begins to ease it inside my ass. His thrusting grows shallower as
he leans back to allow himself better access.

I whimper.

“
Such a sweet ass.” He
rubs between my legs. My breathing hitches, and his finger slides
in further. “It clenches so tight. Maybe when I'm tired of fucking
that pussy of yours, I'll have some fun with your ass
instead.”

I feel like I'm flying apart. Like my
body is turning into a mosaic of contrasting sensations, and I
don't know what to feel.

His finger slides out, and then back
in, keeping time with his cock. I am weeping openly, my soft cries
interspersed with gasps, and moans, because he is also massaging my
clitoris. His other hand is bare now, and the sensation is more
than I can bear.

“
I can't take anymore. I
can't. Please—”

“
You're awfully wet. Are
you sure you don't want this?”

I'm not sure of anything
anymore.

He crooks the finger in my asshole and
my hip bangs sharply against the corner of the table.

“
Tell me the truth,” he
says. “You do want this. You wanted all this. That's why you were
waiting for me on that bed, in that schoolgirl getup. You were
waiting for
me
,
ripe and ready, like low-hanging fruit, wanting to be plucked—” he
slides his finger back in “—and
fucked
.”

My mind is like a hive of angry wasps,
each sting injecting a heady rush of pleasure. It buzzes through my
veins like poison, and I cannot get enough.

“
Yes,” I sob. “I want you
to fuck me.”

“
And you'll do anything I
want.”

“
Yes,” I say hoarsely.
“Anything.”

“
Then fucking take me to
the hilt.” And his final thrust pins me up against the counter like
an insect to a corkboard, and as he pulls his finger out of me, I
come with a cry, and Tristan growls,
“Now
I own you forever.”

And then—

And
then—

A crescendo into silence.

Chapter Thirteen

I wake up and feel as if I have just
run—and lost—ten marathons. Everything is so sore: a deep-fried
ache that seems to penetrate my very muscles. It's like I've
contracted an exotic flu.

Something bats at my nose.
I feel the tickle of whiskers in my face and turn away.
Garfield?
For some
reason, his presence here surprises me.

Didn't I lock him in the
bathroom?

“
Shoo, you pest,” a low,
male voice rumbles. “Let her sleep. What do you want?
Food?”

…
Tristan?

Garfield's meow cuts off into a
hiccuping squawk. Tristan must have picked him up. I hear the
rattle of kitty kibble being poured into a bowl, the sounds of
contented crunching.

“
Dumb cat,” he mutters
softly. The mattress depresses behind me, and a hard, warm body
presses up against me from behind. Lips brush against my cheek, and
a hand runs up and down my bare thigh.

And I remember—

I remember Tristan threatening me with
a knife—tying me up with my knee socks—making me suck him off and
lick up his come from the floor when I spat it out—fucking me from
behind as if we were little better than two animals in the
woods—thrusting a finger into my ass—

Oh my God. He's still here.

I shoot up in bed, and all my bruises
from last night start aching at once. I let out a raw
sob.

Tristan is sitting up, and he is the
very picture of concern. My eyes drop to his bare chest and then
away. He's shirtless—because I'm wearing the black shirt he was
wearing last light. The one he wore while he did those things to
me. Terrible things, things that I enjoyed far, far too much. I bet
if I lower my head, I'll even smell like him.

He cups my chin in his hand. “Are you
all right?”

I pull away. How can he
even ask me that? How can he be so kind after what he did to me?
How can he be feeding my cat and stroking my hair after pinning me
down by the back of my neck with his boot and making me
lick the floor
? And why
does thinking about that incident make me feel so hot?