Page 46 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
I’d thought about confessing all to Colin, but it wouldn’t be like this. I couldn’t possibly bare all my sins, all my shame in this room full of strangers. A room full of men. I was already the gold digger, the slut, the problem. I wouldn’t also be the victim.
Besides, violence had already been discussed once tonight. I didn’t want Andrew hurt, though I wouldn’t let myself think too hard on that. And I certainly didn’t want Colin picking a fight, possibly injuring himself, possibly in trouble with the law. Hurting himself in the process because he thought he needed to fight to keep the people he cared about near him.
“No,” I said.
And then stronger, turning to look at Colin. “No. He didn’t hurt me.”
The lie was a small stab to my stomach, which was good. I deserved no less for deceiving Colin, even if it was for his own good. Or maybe it wasn’t a lie, if I thought of all my date nights. Asking for sex, for pain, in a sick bid for control, but that was an illusion. I’d never had control, and this farce of a consultation only underscored it. Those men hadn’t hurt me, Andrew hadn’t hurt me, not nearly so much as I’d hurt myself.
Chapter Eighteen
Colin’s house was quiet. After I shut the door behind a groggy Shelly, Colin reached back behind my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. He backed me up right there, the cool wall against my shoulders a contrast from his hot hands gripping my hips and his tongue invading my mouth.
My mind reeled from the earlier conversation. Like the flashing pictures in a slot machine, my emotions ran from guilt to fear to anger. And then frustration with myself. I was getting what I wanted; I should be happy. He pressed his mouth down the side of my neck. Should be happy.
“God,” he muttered. “This dress.”
Pride sparked in me, a welcomed respite. His arousal was thick, insistent. I struggled to catch up as we all but mated in the hallway, minus the intercourse.
Colin’s hand parted my legs and stroked me.
I shut my eyes tight as if I could lock out my thoughts and just feel. His fingers were thick at my entrance, the calluses providing a delicious friction. His body loomed larg
e around me, shielding me from the outside world. His lips on mine were hot and hungry.
I slickened below, just a bit. Thank God. I could do this.
I wasn’t quite ready. Not physically. I was barely wet; nothing close to what Colin could bring me to, drenched and supple. Not mentally. My mind was still running replays from earlier. I wasn’t in the mood right now, and my body had only begun to recognize what Colin wanted.
Colin shook with his arousal. He intimidated me with it, looking angry and intense, though I knew by now that was eagerness. I tugged him up the stairs, past the room where Bailey slept, and into his bedroom—our bedroom—and shut the door. I slipped off my panties and kicked them aside, then bent over the bed and looked back. He understood. With quick, jerky movements, he lifted my skirt and entered me.
I gasped as his cock stretched me. He paused. I wanted to do this for him. I needed to. I tilted my hips back to allow him deeper access, accepting the sharp pain without further sound.
He pulled out, almost completely, and then rammed back in. My teeth gritted together and my fingers whitened on the bedspread, but I would take it. He grabbed my shoulders and set up a rhythm of deep, punishing thrusts. He seemed lost in his pleasure, unable to notice my confusion, which I was grateful for. The air was too thick to breathe. My thoughts too murky to pierce. I didn’t think I could talk—or orgasm, for that matter—if he had wanted something more than my compliance.
Colin flipped me over. I spread my legs wide, and he entered me again with deep, rooting thrusts. He slammed into me, pushing me up the bed. His wrists were beside my shoulders, and I reached up to grasp them, to anchor myself.
The pillow smashed between my head and the headboard. It was just a pillow. A soft pressure, especially considering the force of Colin’s thrusts. But it triggered something in me, something hard.
Cold washed over my body. My skin prickled into goose bumps. My nipples were oversensitive, abraded against his chest. My cunt felt sore, like pulverized meat. My clit felt smashed under the thrusts of his pubic bone.
I made no move to stop the sex. This was just a way for my body to service his. My discomfort was small and well earned.
He noticed, though, and reached down to touch my clit. I jumped. “No. Don’t,” slipped out.
His hand stilled, and he slowed his hips to a gentle rocking. “What’s wrong?”
“Just keep going.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Something’s wrong.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just…just finish.”
Damned if the man wasn’t as contrary as I was. He froze, still inside.
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“It’s nothing.” As if we could have an actual conversation while his stiff cock was still lodged deep inside me. “Just do it.” I put a challenge in my voice and my eyes. “Fuck me.”
