Page 66 of Reclaimed

Something about the way he says my name sends waves of warm static prickling beneath my skin, tightening my throat and my chest.

I spent years as A311. Each time I was called by that fucking number, it felt like another piece of me was being torn off and discarded– like Jersey Ellis was edging closer to being completely wiped from the world, converted to property. Sometimes, it felt like it was only a matter of time before I forgot who I was before they took me. Before I forgot my own name.

But Talon uses it constantly.

Every time he says it, I feel this little tug somewhere in my chest, like he’s stitching all those tattered pieces together and reminding me that I'm still in here; still me.

I hate how much I like hearing my name on his lips.

“Stick out your tongue,” he commands.

I arch an eyebrow, lips pursing defiantly.

“Fine,” he huffs, still stroking himself as he draws back. “I’ve got no problem tearing into this sweet little cunt dry.”

My belly swoops, eyes widening. I’m not sure whether I’m more turned on by his words, or the promise of him being inside me again.

I open my mouth to comply with his directive, tongue jutting out.

He just smirks. “Too late,” he growls, jaw flexing before a glob of spit lands on my tongue.

My eyes narrow, and I spit it right back, my saliva hitting his cheek. “Get off.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, hands gripping the collar of the t-shirt I’m wearing. “I plan to.”

Fabric shreds as he rips the shirt straight down the middle, cool air rushing over my exposed skin. He grins in satisfaction, then shoves a hand down between us, cupping my mound. “You like being chased, don’t you?” he muses, teasing a finger along my seam. “You’re fucking soaked.”

A needy moan slips from my throat before I can swallow it down, heat flooding my cheeks as embarrassment crawls in right behind the pleasure. My teeth sink into my bottom lip before another sound can escape.

“Hey,” Talon barks, his other hand sliding up the column of my neck to grip my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I pant.

“This,” he says, the pad of his thumb tugging on my bottom lip and pulling it free. “Don’t fucking hide.”

My heart stutters a beat.

“If you like it, then fucking own it, Jersey.” The intensity in his blue-eyed stare steals my breath, his fingers flexing around my throat. “There’s no shame in wanting to feel good.”

My mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

What am I supposed to say to that?

That I’ve never truly enjoyed sex before? That I didn’t even know it could feel good, even when it hurts?

That I like the chase, the fight? Being overpowered and fucked hard, so long as it’s Talon doing it?

The thought of admitting that feels vile. Because if I like this, what does that mean about everything Commander Martin did? If my body can crave the same things with Talon that used to make me want to crawl out of my own skin in disgust, does that somehow make what happened back then okay?

No.

My body picks up on the distinction quicker than my brain, responding to Talon in ways it never has before. Some damaged part of me still wants to turn it into something shameful, but it isn’t. Not if I want it. Not if I’m choosing it.

His fingers pinch my clit, my back arching as he pulls me back into the moment.

“That’s right, show me,” he coaxes, fingers rubbing rough circles as his other hand slides up my stomach, grabbing the edge of the medical tape and ripping the bandage off my stomach. “Show me whose pussy this really is.”

My head tilts, eyes peering down at the raised scabs on my stomach. After remembering what Harris had carved into me, I was glad for the bandage so I didn’t have to look at it. But seeing it now, it’s not an H anymore, it’s…