Page 7 of Requiem & Reverie

Setting one of my arms loose, he snakes a free hand up to my throat, gripping just enough to make me still against him. The weight of his body pressing into me forces me to keep both hands braced against the wall. “Aren’t you, Nola?”

Squirming again, I fight to get away from him, before his hand skates down my hip, and up under the hem of my uniform.

“The trick I taught him is only self-defense. He didn’t kill anyone.”

“He could’ve.”

“He didn’t. He got away from an attack,” he says, rubbing his hand over my ass, where he gives a hearty squeeze that only heightens my frustration.

“Well, maybe I should’ve had him show me before I came up here.”

“Is that what you want, Nola?” Fingers rubbing against my nylons, he kisses the shell of my ear. “You want to get away from me?”

My body responds with a surge of wetness I know he can feel through the cotton panties.

His fingers curl around the sheer thin fabric of my stockings, and the tearing sound tells me he’s broken through.

Still holding my throat, he fumbles around at my back, and the click of metal I hear is a warning that he’s undoing his slacks one-handedly.

I should tell him to stop and end this, because my anger from before hasn’t waned, but I don’t. I can’t. Part of me is enthralled by the act, the other half horrified that I’d let him take what he wants so forcefully. It’s a confusion that keeps me still against him as he pushes aside my panties and guides his tip inside of me.

“Fight me, Nola.”

“Is that how you get off? Pretending to take it by force?”

“It’s the only way I get off.”

I lick my lips, trying to decide if I’m a sick masochist for wanting this as much as I do. Wriggling against him, I do as he says, trying to fend him off.

He presses harder against my throat and thrusts up into me, so deep, I cry out and have to brace myself against the wall again.

“That’s it.” The shaky quality of his voice carries an air of excitement that wasn’t there last night. Like a wolf that’s finally been given steak instead of kibble. “I’ll be honest, Nola. I’ve never made love to a woman, until last night. But fucking you like this is everything I dreamed it would be.”

In and out, he pumps into me, keeping me pinned against the wall. He’s rough, and my body jostles with his hard and abrupt movements. But the slick sounds and wet trickle down my legs reveals a horrifying truth about me. Something I’ve always fantasized about, but never dreamed I’d actually enjoy. Excitement that mingles with a small bit of fear.

The wall smashes against my face, as he presses his cheek against mine, the scent of warm cinnamon and tobacco on his breath where it heats my skin. I writhe against him, flexing my shoulder to put room between my body and the wall, but he crushes himself against me.

“Let me go!” My words are feigned for the sake of whatever this is, and whatever this is, I’m not sure.

“You tell me to stop, and I will, but I’m not letting you go.”

He’s flipped some survival trigger, sending an intoxicating rush of adrenaline through my blood. All I have to do is say stop, and he will.

But I don’t. I can’t.

With tears in my eyes, I remain silent while he takes me so viciously, because surely there’s something wrong with me. Surely, a woman like me—who would never stand for violence against another woman, who’s disgusted by men like Harvey and, apparently, Voss, men who get off on power—would find such an act repulsive. I try to imagine how we look: raw and filthy, as he keeps me pinned against the wall with my nylons torn, skirt hiked up, and him, throttling my neck as he fucks me from behind.

I don’t feel powerless, but powerful—that I brought him to such a primitive state of mind.

With one hard shove against the wall, I manage to slip from his grip, before tumbling to the floor. Crawling on hands and knees, I scramble toward the door.

At the grip of my ankle, my arms buckle beneath me, and a hard yank drags me backward. Voss straddles my back, pinning my arms to the floor, and with the weight of him pressing into my back, he nudges my thighs wide with his knees and enters me again.

“You love this, don’t you? You and me? We’re the same breed.” He groans on one hard thrust, and at the fullness of his erection slamming into me, I cry out. “I was right about you,” he says raggedly.

With my cheek smashed into the floor, all I can do is squirm, as he ruts against me, fucking me in every sense of the word.

I tell myself to find wrong in this, but I can’t. It’s the carnality, the ravaging I’ve always craved, without the pain of being harmed in the process. Nothing hurts, in fact, everything he’s doing feels good. So good, I want to cry as he curls his fingers into mine and ups his pace. And when the first twinge of orgasm strikes me, rippling up my spine and crashing in the back of my head, I’m so fucking wet, I can’t tell if it’s from him or me, until warm fluids leak from my entrance and dribble down my thighs.