What's home, if not the first place you flee from? What's love, if not that blazing, unexplainable feeling born from the ashes of hate?
Reputable for her appeal, servility, and obsession with cartoons, Alaina is a workaholic immigrant doctor who's s...
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Ariana Grande - i wish i hated you.
🌼
CHRIST, I'M EXHAUSTED.
Not the kind of tired that comes from running laps or pulling a double shift in heels. No, this is that high-wire, post-orgasmic fatigue—the aftermath of a rapture so fierce, the crash feels like a slap to the ribs. My body's still humming, overworked and over-satisfied, flushed with obscene pleasure and a greed that won't rest.
A sizzling want that spreads like an infection.
Wildfire. That smoldering flame. It's back—sparking, spitting, crackling with more spite than last night, when he teased me into oblivion and denied me the ending.
The irony is I've just had the greatest high of my life, enough to feed a century of dry spells, but I'm aching like I've never been touched.
If I'd known this outfit would snap something loose in him the moment he saw me, I'd have slapped it on the instant I opened my closet.
I was annoyed at first. Furious, even, when Joan tore me out of that brown, saintly sundress and tossed it aside like it offended her vision. "You going on a date with The Pope?" She screamed, hands flailing. Now? I could kiss her feet in gratitude.
I skim my gaze across my skin—bare, welted, gleaming with aftermath—and let out a breath heavy with disbelief and dopamine. At least he spared the visible bits. No marks where the world can see.
My breasts are littered with bite marks. Red smudges blooming over my chest like wild fruit. I count four easily in the dim interior of the car. The engine's still running—thank God. The AC needles my skin, puckers my nipples into peaks again, but it's the cold I need. Something to tame the chaos still flickering under my flesh.
I don't even know how I got here.
Almost naked. Arms bound above my head. Nipples buzzing like live wires. Pussy tender. Hickeys blooming like violets in places a mirror can't reach—all gifted by the cruelest man in a thousand-mile radius. The same man who treats me like property. The same one who slapped me without flinching.
I let him do this to me. I begged for it.
He was careful. Careless. Both. No bruises where the world can see. But my thong is gone. Ripped into memory. My bralette, too. What's left of me is in this leather skirt and black platforms.
I didn't expect this. Not after last night in his room. Not after the way I curled myself to sleep like a scorched animal, nursing shame and unshed pleasure, choking my pillow between my legs. But it happened...and tonight in this Audi, tethered and trembling? It's ten times worse, ten times better than anything I'd ever dreamed of.
I skipped movie night yesterday—after creeping back to my room. Zipper undone. Thong missing. A practical walking fluorescent sign screaming, "Guess who just almost came from finger-fucking Theresa's son in his room? This girl!"No one saw me, thank God. No one caught the shame shadowing my third shower in four hours.
