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Not bothering to question my actions, I walk straight into her room. Encroaching on her personal space, I close the distance between us until I’m so close there’s only a hair’s breadth of space between my chest and hers, forcing her to tip her head back to look at me unless she wants to bury her face in my chest.
My dick gets impossibly harder from being close enough to watch her pupils dilate. The pulse in her neck flutters furiously and I see the exact moment she feels my arousal. Her lips part, and a barely audible “Oh” bursts from her. The fear that flashes in her eyes should revolt me, but instead it excites me.
“Osc…Oz,” she corrects herself, whimpering my name as she tries to step back, but finds herself pinned in between me and the bed.
“I’ll be gone before you wake up in the morning. Make yourself at home and help yourself to anything in the kitchen, there’s plenty of food in the refrigerator.”
“I could—” she starts to whisper.
I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but before I can even consider my actions, I curl my fingers around her throat, collaring her with my hand. “Be a good girl and behave yourself while I’m gone,” I drawl, gripping her cheeks with my forefinger and thumb. Reaching up, I grab a handful of cotton candy pink hair in my fist and hold her in place while I dip my face down and press my lips to hers in a hard, closed-mouth kiss.
3
ETTA
He’s kissing me. His lips are on mine, and he’s kissing me. It’s not the best kiss. Both of our mouths are closed and there’s no tongue. But he is kissing me.
Oh, my god.
Why is he kissing me? We’re not people who kiss. We’re basically strangers, but he’s still kissing me, and his very big, very hard cock is pressed against my stomach.
What the hell is happening?
The rational, brave part of my brain knows I should push him away. The fearless Etta inside of me should be screaming and fighting his touch, or arguing and saying no, but I’m not doing any of those things.
Oscar Malik is my enemy. I absolutely don’t want to kiss him. I don’t think I want to kiss him. I definitely shouldn’t want to kiss him. But I’m not saying no. I’m not doing anything to tell him that I don’t want this. I’m just standing here, letting him kiss me like my lips are his to use.
I’m scared; my limbs are numb, and the fear in my stomach is making me feel a little nauseous, but that’s not why I’m not pushing him away. Seeing him again hasn’t been what I expected. I’ve imagined it a million times before, but in my fantasy, I called him out for the way he treated me when we were kids. I told him that he was a bully and that I felt sorry for him because tormenting me was the only way he could make himself feel better when we were kids. Sometimes I even imagine telling him I hope he rots in hell, alone and miserable and lonely and scared.
But I haven’t said any of those things, because although he’s twice the size he was fifteen years ago and has been cold and kind of scary, when he said good girl to me, my brain melted.
I’m not a virgin, I’ve dated. I even had a long-term relationship with a guy I met in college, but I have never felt the way I felt when he called me a good girl before. The moment the words, combined with his rumbling, gruff voice registered in my brain, something inside of me broke, or maybe it snapped back into place. I don’t know. But what I do know is that those two words of praise changed me.
I don’t think anyone has ever called me a good girl before. Maybe when I was very little, but I doubt it. Before Bruce, my mom wasn’t exactly a nurturing parent. She got knocked up with me when she was a teenager. My dad stuck around until I was about five, then he left and never came back. I’ve always known my conception was an accident, and even though I wouldn’t call me and my mom close, I don’t hate her. She didn’t abuse me, she just got on with her life, and I was just there. When she met Bruce and he wanted both me and Mom, she changed. I know she’s been a good mom to my half siblings. But she definitely wasn’t the type of mom who parented with reassuring words and constant praise.
I’ve never had a boyfriend say it before, either. I’ve only dated a handful of guys and only had sex with three of them. I know that’s pretty low for a twenty-six-year-old, but I’m not a hookup kind of girl.
My last boyfriend, Eric, was taller than me but still kind of short and skinny. He was nerdy in an adorable way, with action figures on shelves in his bedroom and Spider-Man sheets that weren’t a throwback to his childhood.
We dated for six months and never argued once. It was perfectly nice and thoroughly boring. When we broke up, it was because I couldn’t stand to watch another Marvel movie, and he didn’t want to watch anything else. We’re actually still friends on Facebook, and he sends me a greeting card on my birthday and at Christmas each year. He’s still single, only now he has two dog babies called Thor and Loki.
Eric never once uttered the words good girl. Honestly, I think he’d have curled up and died from embarrassment if he’d tried to say anything that…sexy. In the six months we were together, we had very quiet, very mediocre missionary sex that resulted in one orgasm per session for him and usually zero for me. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make me come, he just had no idea how.
He never made my breasts feel swollen or my nipples hard. He never once made my pussy pulse with confusing need or my panties wet with arousal. But Oz has, with two simple words. Good girl.
The kiss goes on longer than any closed-mouth kiss should without becoming more carnal, but neither of us tries to push for more. The kiss isn’t invasive, it’s almost chaste in a spectacularly decadent way. If his hand wasn’t wrapped around my throat and his massive, hard cock wasn’t pressing into my stomach, it could almost be described as innocent. But instead, his grip on my throat, cheeks, and jaw is firm and unyielding, and his fingers that are buried into my hair, holding me in place, are just shy of painful. We’re not kissing each other, he’s kissing me, and I’m accepting it because that’s what he’s demanding I do.
He could so easily hurt me like this, he’s so big and I’m so tiny in comparison, but even when we were kids, his abuse was never physical, and I’m not scared that he’s going to hit me or bruise me.
But the way he’s holding me—controlling me—isn’t accidental. He’s deliberately using his size to direct me, to show me that he’s in charge, that he needs me to…behave.
After what feels like a lifetime but was probably less than three minutes, he pulls his lips from mine but doesn’t release his hold on me. Instead, he moves impossibly closer, removing all of the space between and pressing his dick farther into my stomach, forcing me to feel just how hard he is…for me.
I want to ask what this means, but I don’t dare, because I’m not sure I want to know. Clearly, he’s physically attracted to me, or at least he’s physically attracted to ordering me around and then using his size to dominate me.
Oh fuck. The moment I think the word, it feels right. Everything he’s done since he took my suitcase and ordered me into his truck has been to dominate me. Is he actually attracted to me, or is this just a power trip for him?
When we were kids, taunting and torturing me was his favorite pastime. Is this just the significantly more adult version of the same perverse games he played when we were younger?
