Twisted Obsession (Editing)

60 - Crawl Before You Walk

Athena Luciana Bianchi

A soft yawn escapes my lips as I shift in bed, every muscle aching as though I'd just run a marathon for five days straight—though, honestly, I'm not sure even that would leave me feeling this wrecked. The room is drowned in darkness, save for the pale glow of the moon filtering through the blinds. Its silver light spills across the room, casting long, stretching shadows on the walls. Jesus. How long have I been out?

My hand gropes for my phone on the nightstand, fingers fumbling in the dark, until the screen flickers to life. 9:40 PM. The next day.

Fuck. I slept for nearly an entire day.

I flop back into the mattress with a heavy exhale, my mind pulling me back to the events of last night. Lorenzo. The things he had me doing. The way he pushed me past every limit I thought I had, stripping me of my pride, my composure—leaving only raw, unrestrained pleasure in its wake. I should feel mortified, maybe even ashamed. But I don't. If anything, I fucking loved it. Last night was the best I've had in years.

A faint noise drifts in from the kitchen, followed by the rich, buttery scent of food—something savory, something mouthwatering. My stomach tightens, reminding me how long it's been since I last ate. With a groan of exhaustion, I swing my legs off the bed, planting my feet on the cool floor. But the second I try to push myself up, a brutal wave of weakness crashes over me. My body protests, a dizzying rush sweeping through me as my iron levels plummet. I don't even have time to process it before my knees buckle, and I collapse onto the floor.

Shit.

Heavy footsteps approach, deliberate and slow. A shadow falls over me, and I know who it is before I even look up. Lorenzo.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. I can't even describe what I'm feeling—aside from the fact that he looks fucking delectable. He's dressed in black lounge pants and a fitted black T-shirt, the fabric hugging the sharp lines of his chest and arms. A small white towel hangs over his shoulder, his hair still damp from a recent shower. He looks at me with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Need a hand, baby?" His voice is lazy, drenched in amusement, like he's savoring the sight of me struggling beneath him.

"Does it look like I need your fucking hand?" I snap, trying to push myself up, my palms pressing against the cold floor. But before I can even get halfway, a sharp pressure lands on my shoulder—his hand, pinning me back down with humiliating ease.

Lorenzo exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head like I'm something pathetic. "Look at you," he muses, pressing down just enough to keep me in place. "Mouthy little bitch, but here you are—on your fucking knees where you belong."

Heat flares up my spine, a mix of anger and something far more dangerous curling deep inside me. My pride screams at me to fight back, to shove him off, but the way he's looking at me—with that slow, knowing smirk—makes my skin burn.

Lorenzo doesn't miss a beat. His voice drops lower, taunting, dripping with something darker. "Since you're already down there, why don't you make yourself useful?" He says, unzipping his trousers. "Crawl to me like the little slut you are."

My stomach tightens, the weight of his words sinking into me like a brand. I should be furious—I am furious—but the worst part is the way my body betrays me, the way my breath hitches under the sheer force of his dominance. He sees it, of course. He always does.

I couldn't believe myself when I found myself crawling to him. Every part of me screamed to resist, to push back against the way he made me twist up on the inside, but I didn't. Not this time.