Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Do you want to finish this game?” he asks, rubbing harder and stroking deeper.
That, I feel. That isn’t just uncomfortable. It’s not just a scratch. It’s fucking terrifying.
The way he rubs me is wrong. It’s right too. He knows it. He knows this is the only way I can come. And as it starts, I see the shift in his eyes. I see the evil streak that makes him look like a demon. This isn’t the man I met, the one I fell in love with.
This is the man I married.
Our gazes lock. He sees it on my face, I’m sure, the confirmation that he’s won. That I’ve taken this too far. That’s it’s over, and that I come.
I don’t close my eyes. I see it as well. I see it as I unravel naked in front of the fully clothed man who calls himself my husband.
Grabbing his hand, the one that’s between my legs, I feel it. I feel his finger tightening on the trigger. I try to stop him, but it’s only my heart that stops. My pleasure explodes, the fear somehow heightening everything. I see it even through the haze of my orgasm. The end. I don’t have to look. I feel the movement of his finger when he prepares to pull the trigger.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Angelo
* * *
The naked woman on the bed has black rivulets of mascara running over her cheeks. The red lipstick bleeds over the lines of her lips and smears her face. Her dark hair is tangled, sticking to the damp skin of her forehead. A layer of sheen covers her golden skin. Her breasts heave with the effort of dragging air into her lungs, and her flat stomach quivers from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her legs are spread, and my fist is buried between her thighs, the barrel of my gun lodged in her pussy.
It’s a messy, crude, somewhat shocking picture. And fuck me if it’s not the hottest sight I’ve seen, if she’s not the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on.
Violent emotions twist her features. The ecstasy of climaxing. The uncertainty of an outcome. The fear of dying. Shame, perhaps. The most vivid is her anger. It’s more an aftereffect of the shock than a result of my actions. I saw it in her pretty, wide eyes. She wasn’t sure if I’d pull the trigger. She still isn’t. That’s why she’s watching me, frozen in this spectacular display of a well-ruined woman.
Waiting.
She learned her lesson.
The game is over.
Careful not to hurt her with the sight on the muzzle, I pull the gun from between her legs. The barrel is coated with her arousal. It’s not a game I intended on taking that far. She just doesn’t know when to fucking stop pushing me.
I’m not unaffected. Far from it. I want her too much. I hate her too much.
Putting distance between us, I leave the gun on the dresser and head for the shower. I don’t make it to the door before I sense her movement. I never quite know what to expect from Sabella, but what I see when I turn around freezes me on the spot.
She’s jumped from the bed and snatched up the gun, pointing it at me with her arms locked in front of her and the shaft clutched in both hands. The gun shakes violently in her hold. It’s not just her hands. Her whole body trembles. Her face is contorted in a mask of hatred and fury.
Her voice is as tremulous as the rest of her as she aims for my heart. “You sick fuck.”
I raise my hands. “Calm down, Sabella.”
“Calm down?” She laughs. “You could’ve fucking pulled the trigger.”
I keep my tone even. “I didn’t.”
“Your finger could’ve slipped.”
Unbuttoning my shirt, I turn back for the bathroom. “I know how to handle a gun. I’m not shooting since yesterday.”
She sounds close to hysteria. “Do not fucking take another step.”
I face her again, letting my shirt hang open. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
“I should,” she says, her teeth chattering. “You made me believe you were going to pull the trigger. You fucked with my head.” Her voice rises in volume. “Did you enjoy that sick game, huh?”
I walk back to her slowly. “Are you angry that I didn’t shoot you?”
Her nostrils flare. The gun shakes even more in her hands. She pushed me. Now, I’m pushing her. What are her limits? How far is she prepared to go?
“You should’ve just done it, you coward,” she grits out.
I step right up to her, letting her press the barrel on my chest. Lowering my lips to her ear, I caress her with soft words. “Remember, cara, your life is mine, and I decide when I pull the trigger.”
Retreating with a smile, I watch her. Faint blue bruises shaped like my fingertips mar her cheeks. I always regret the marks, but I can’t deny who I am. Yet something stirs in my chest when I take her in as she stands up to me, looking too damn fragile and brave with that weapon in her hands. I doubt she’s ever held a gun.