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“No.”
“Do not lie to me.” His fingers press in, constricting my airway. I fight but can’t move much.
This is it. He’s going to kill me. He knows just where to squeeze, to choke me, and I’m helpless, dangling in his arms.
“Admit it,” he growls into my ear. “You wanted me.”
“No.”
“You wanted to return to me.”
“No. . .” My voice is growing fainter, my brain screaming for air. I claw at the tile, but I’m getting weaker and weaker. The air is gone from my lungs and, with it, my strength.
“You need to be claimed like this, to be owned.” His voice comes from far away.
I’m dying. He’s killing me. I’m at the end.
“Lula. . .”
I open my mouth and croak with the ghost of my last breath. “Do it.”
“Fuck,” he snarls and releases his grip. Sweet, precious air rushes in, and I rise with it like a freed balloon floating into the sky. I’m weightless as Victor lifts me, hitching me up the wall so he can part my legs and slam his cock into my cunt. It feels so good, so right. I’d never taken a man bare before Victor, and it’s wrong but perfect.
He fucks me higher and higher, and I come with my head somewhere in the stratosphere, my cheek sliding against the tile.
CHAPTER 11
lula
“Lula, stay with me.”
There is no Lula. She’s gone, eaten up by ecstasy. I don’t recognize myself. I barely recognize my own name. There are no boundaries between me and the outside world. Nothing left of my defenses. Victor fucked them away.
A small, primitive part of me recognizes that I’m being dried and carried out of the shower. He fucked me there, choked me, and I welcomed it. I welcomed death.
But he didn’t kill me. He shattered me in pieces, and it’s fine because I’m not myself anymore.
“Speak to me, little one.”
I snort. I’m not that little. I have a slender torso but ample breasts and an even bigger backside. Leah’s muffins go straight to my hips. Only hours of rowing keep them off my thighs.
I must say all this out loud because Victor replies, “Noted.” He sounds amused. “But you are little to me.”
He lays me down, and I sink into the soft, cloud-like surface. He leans over me, a shadowy shape. Victor. The victor in our little game. In our fight to the death.
I should’ve known it would end like this. With him standing over me, a bloodied knife. . .
Something prods my lips. A straw. “Drink, beautiful.”
I do, and when I’m done, I say, “I’m not beautiful.”
He sighs from somewhere overhead. “Must you argue?”
“Yes. I was born to argue. I might as well die doing it.”
I’m rolled and wrapped in something fuzzy and warm. A blanket. There are words for so many things, words I already know, but everything’s floating just out of reach.
“Enough, sweetheart.”
