Cynda and the City Doctor - Theodora Taylor Page 0,46
with me. I should have been a shrug in his universe too.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask him, something ugly and mean rising up inside of me. I’m three years older now but that angry defense instinct hasn’t aged a day. “That you got under my skin, the way I got under yours? That no way are you a psycho for firing me from my job over a fling that happened three years ago?”
I know I’m being mean. Like, everything he’s made me out to be. But there’s some vicious in me that won’t let me stop. “Maybe you want me to say I left my Dansko at your apartment on purpose. Because deep down inside where no one but you can see it, I’m really just one of those basic girls who wants to worship at the altar of your dick.”
There’s a moment of dangerous silence.
And then comes the rip of the foil package he took out of the nightstand.
“Turn over,” he commands, his voice clipped.
I do as he says and the sight of him stops my heart. He’s stroking his dick and looking down at me, his gaze heavy-lidded. And intense.
“Do you like what you do to me?” he asks, his voice flat and cold.
Sounds like a trick question, but I’m feeling brave. And reckless.
“I don’t dislike it,” I confess in that cheeky tone he didn’t miss. I glance down at his arousal. Then back up at him.
He lets go of himself and grabs a hold of the shorts I’m wearing. One yank. That’s all it takes and I’m naked from the bottom down.
He steps closer to the bed, and I brace myself to receive him. I’m not wet yet, but I know my body will adjust. Especially for The Real Prince.
But instead of thrusting into me, he rests a hand heavy on my thigh and rubs the hood of his erection into my slit. And I draw in a sharp breath when The Real Prince finds my clit…and begins a slow circular massage. Deliberate and not at all playful. Every time the shiny head of his cock touched my clit a little jolt went through me. Soon I’m moaning and working my hips up and down as we both watch my core go from dry to wet under his manipulations. His expression stays calm and unaffected. But I start breathing harder, then moaning.
What’s he’s doing is both torture and pleasure.
“Do you like how hard you still make me? How crazy you make me?”
That’s two questions. “Yes, and I’m not trying to.”
“So when you dumped me and blocked my number….”
I can’t decide what’s more disturbing. This conversation or the fact that I’m close to coming, just from the way his dick is massaging my clit.
“I’m sorry!” I cry out either way.
“What are you sorry for?” he demands. “Are you sorry for how coldly you cut me loose? Are you sorry for all the pathetic messages I left you, begging for another chance before I realized you had blocked me? Are you sorry that crossing me cost you your job?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for all of it.”
He abruptly stops manipulating my clit. And then there’s nothing but silence.
The silence goes on for so long, I open my eyes to look at him.
And immediately wish I hadn’t.
His jaw is tight and unforgiving, and his eyes are a cold blank, devoid of any emotion whatsoever.
“Wrong answer,” he says.
Then he crashes down on top of me and thrust himself into me at the same time.
He bands my wrists together over my head with one hand. There should be fear. There should be denial and resentment of my own.
But my body sighs with relief when he starts moving on top of me. His expression…it’s no longer vacant. And there’s nothing cold about the way he takes me with savage thrusts. Like an animal, wounded and enraged.
I crave this. Crave his punishment. If I’m the witch he’s put on trial, he’s the fire set underneath me. And I’m happy to burn.
I cry out when the orgasm overtakes me. It’s as brutal and unforgiving as his thrusts. And all I can do is gasp and hold on to him as it does what it wants with me.
He shoves his face into my neck, his hips hammering between my thighs. Until suddenly his entire body goes rigid and he buries himself deep.
The anger seems to fade out of him. And then it’s just the two of us, exhaling fast as we