Heartbreak Me by T.L. Smith Page 0,27

like a puzzle piece with a flower on his collarbone and women up and down his arms. There’s a gun on his left, with a devil on his right arm.

Who the fuck is this man?

His whole chest and arms are covered, and not one of the tattoos is cheery. They are all dark, and each one represents something I more than likely do not want to know about.

“No,” he says, referring to what I just said.

His chest is hard, I can tell just by looking at it, and his arms are all muscle. If he lifted me and pressed me against him, I bet I would feel all his hard edges.

No, can’t have those thoughts.

I blame the alcohol.

“How do I leave? Get me out of this place. Why did you even bring me here?” I scream the last part at him. My hands lift in fists as I step closer to him, not even caring about the blood beneath my shoes anymore. “Why did you bring me here?”

His lips, soft and hard, come down on me. In one swift and fast movement, he claims me as his without my permission. His arm circles my waist, pulling my body flush with his while the other cradles my head, keeping my lips to his.

I go to push away my hands banging on his chest, but he bites my lip until I open my mouth, then he tastes me. I freeze, liking the way he has me, and the way he feels against my lips, so I close my eyes.

Just for a second.

A second is all it takes for me to think this man isn’t bad and he wants me for normal reasons, not reasons that involve blackmail or using me.

But I’m wrong, so I bite his lip until I taste blood, expecting him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He simply cackles between my lips and presses his harder to mine, all the while pulling my body even closer.

Feeling him against me doesn’t help my resolve in wanting him to go away. No, it does anything but, and soon I’m pushing myself against him as my body starts to crave him and has a mind of its own, moving to get as much friction as possible.

My breathing becomes harder, and my chest rises and falls at the same time my hips do, my head spins, and I’m lost, until someone coughs, and it breaks the haze he has me under. Pulling away, he lets me until I back up and end up slipping, my hands landing in blood and a dress I once loved is now covered in it.

Looking up at him, I more than likely look like that girl in the movie Carrie, but I don’t care, as long as I am not losing my own sense of worth and rubbing myself all over him like a two-bit hooker.

“Clean yourself up,” he says as someone passes him a shirt, which he easily throws on.

I look down at my stained shoes and dress and know every item will have to be burned. So when I stand, I start to remove them. Stepping out of the blood, I begin with my shoes first, one at a time undoing the straps he did up so delicately, and dropping them until they are both off, followed by my dress. Now, I am standing in front of him in nothing but panties and a lame excuse for a bra.

His eyes devour me, lust apparent in their depths. It’s the first real emotion I have seen from him apart from his evil laughter. When he catches me staring at him, he shuts his facial expressions down and walks over to one of his guys and clicks his fingers. The guy removes his shirt and hands it over, which Atlas then hands to me.

“Put this on and leave your shit including your panties, they have blood on them. It will all be burned.”

I have no reason to trust him.

For all I know he could use my clothes as evidence, and say it was me who put a bullet in the politician’s brain. After all, I am covered in the man’s blood. But I’m too tired to argue, and I do as he says and get in his car, leaving my favorite dress and shoes behind at a crime scene.

The car ride is uncomfortable, there’s no other word to describe it. Stopping out the front of my house, I go to get out when his hand touches my thigh,