Things I Wanted To Say: Chapter 22

HE SUMMONS me later that evening, like a king calling his court. The moment I opened my room door after returning from the dining hall, a note fluttered to the ground, thin and sharply folded. I open it with shaky fingers, knowing exactly who it’s from.

Come to my room.

No please. No thank you. No signature. His handwriting is distinct, so I know it’s from him. That he dares come into the dorm hall and slips a note into my door is bold. No one knows about us. We try to keep ourselves discreet, but it’s getting more and more difficult to keep up the pretense.

I wait until lights out before I sneak from my room and leave the building. The air is chilly, the tang of salt from the sea in the air and I breathe deeply as I make my way to his private suite.

Pausing in front of his door, I raise my arm, my fingers curled into a fist to knock, but the door swings open before I can, Whit grabbing hold of my arm and pulling me into the room. I stumble inside, practically falling into him and he pulls me close, holding me to him as he shuts and locks the door.

“You’re late.” He sounds irritated as he lets me go, practically pushing me away from him.

“I had to wait until lights out,” I remind him, rubbing my arm from where he touched me. “I’m not as privileged as you. I can’t walk around campus as if I own the place.”

He smirks, and my heart stutters to a stop before it slowly starts back up again. He looks young right now. Almost carefree. I don’t know why the change, but I swear he appears as if he could break out into a smile at any moment. Much like how he laughed earlier when we were together.

What in the world is wrong with him?

“You sound downright jealous, Savage,” he taunts.

“And you sound like an asshole, Lancaster,” I toss back at him.

His gaze dims. “You have a smart mouth.”

“So do you.” My voice is cool and I fold my arms so he won’t see my shaking hands.

A sigh escapes him and he paces around the room. I think of our first night together. How it was a realization.

We were alike. In the scariest way possible.

When he still hasn’t said anything, I speak up.

“Why did you summon me?”

He stops his pacing, turning to look at me. “Summon you? Is that what you call it?”

“You gave me no choice.”

“You always have a choice.” He approaches me slowly, stopping directly in front of me. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His hair is still damp, and he smells fresh and clean, as if he just came out of the shower. I want to shove my face into his neck and inhale him, but I restrain myself. “You don’t have to come here.”

I lift my chin, my gaze meeting his. “That’s not true.”

“It is. Like I said, you always have a choice. But you want to be here. With me.”

I don’t say a word.

“I fucked you earlier. Was that not enough?” He raises a brow.

“You’re the one who demanded I come to you,” I remind him. “So maybe you should answer that question yourself.”

His chest rises and falls, his breathing shallow. His frustration is a living, breathing thing, swirling around us, and I wonder what’s bothering him.

What did I do to him? What happened earlier at the crumbling building was no different from any of our other experiences together. I don’t know how many more times I have to do this for him until he’ll return my journal to me.

Maybe it’s not even about the journal anymore. Maybe it’s about something else.

Something more.

“Drop your pants and bend over the chair,” he demands and I startle, shocked by his request.

“Why?” I ask quietly, not able to contain the tremble in my voice. My ass is killing me. I picked out tiny bits of rocks that were embedded in my skin in the shower earlier, and I have a bruise on my right butt cheek that’s going to make sitting on those hard desk chairs in class extra difficult for the next few days.

All thanks to the way he brutally fucked me against that ledge. And while I could accuse him of hurting me and taking me against my will, we both know none of that is true. I wanted it.

I wanted him.

“Just do it,” he says.

“Why?” I ask again. If he threatens to spank me or whatever other deviant thing he has in mind, I’m going to have to refuse him.

I won’t be able to take it, no matter how much I want to.

“I want to see…” His voice drifts and he throws his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I want to see what I did to you earlier.”

“Oh.” My heart squeezes. I’m confused, but I go along with what he asks, going to the chair that’s pushed in close to his desk. I shove my leggings and thong down all in one push, so they puddle around my feet and I slowly bend over, showing him the damage.

He sucks in a breath, and I feel his hand come close. I wince, bracing myself, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. He traces a scratch. Another one. He touches a particularly deep one and I hiss. He draws the perimeter of my bruise. He exerts no pressure, his fingers a soft caress upon my skin and I close my eyes, savoring it.

This means nothing, I tell myself. He just wants to see his destruction. Revel in it. And that’s okay. He doesn’t feel bad for what he did to me, and I guess he shouldn’t. I agreed. He just wants to look at it. Maybe he even wants to take a photo of my scraped and bruised flesh as a keepsake.

“I hurt you,” he says, his voice raw.

“You’ve hurt me before,” I remind him, ducking my head when his fingers come closer to the spot between my legs.

“I’ve never marked you like this.” He smooths his hand over my butt, the touch somehow more intimate than usual. “Are you okay?”

I remind my riotous thoughts to calm down. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t. Care.

“I’m fine.” I open my eyes and stare at his desk. There’s a stack of papers sitting on top of it. A haphazard pile of textbooks. A familiar, battered black journal tucked at the bottom of the stack.

My journal.

I stand up straight and turn on him, not caring that I’m basically half-naked. “I want my journal.”

He blinks, and it’s as if his face transforms into an impenetrable mask. “No.”

“Give it back to me.” Anger rises and my voice is fierce. “Haven’t I done enough?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “You haven’t. You always seem to forget your place when it comes to me.”

“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten,” I spit at him, hating the disdain that drips in his words. “We’ve been doing this—whatever it is for a while now. I think I’ve paid back my debt.”

I don’t even know why I owe him anymore. What we do is like a game. I’m just a toy he enjoys playing with before he sets me back on the shelf and forgets all about me.

“You haven’t even come close to repaying what you owe me.” He cups my chin, reminding me of how he touched me earlier. Everything within me comes alive at first contact and I’m trembling. My nipples harden beneath my T-shirt. I didn’t wear a bra.

I’d hoped for something to happen between us. I’m that sick.

That needy.

He tilts my head back, his examining gaze trailing over my face. “I did some online searching earlier. Regarding your mother.”

I press my lips together so I don’t say anything.

“You look so much like her, it’s eerie. I see why my father fucked her for so long.” He leans in to breathe the next words across my mouth. “And why I fuck you.”

I blink at him. Where is this coming from? We haven’t talked about our parents in a while. In Whit’s eyes, I’m still the whore daughter of the whore mother who destroyed his family.

“You only do this with me to get back at your father?”

I don’t believe him.

“Your mother ruined my parents’ marriage,” he reminds me.

“I think that marriage was ruined long before my mother came along,” I retort.

His face hardens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do you.” I pause. “I want my journal back.”

“No.”

“I’ve done enough with you.”

“You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“Fine.” I yank my face out of his grip and take off my T-shirt. Kick my leggings and thong away from my ankles. Until I’m standing before him completely naked. “Is this what you want?”

He says nothing, but I see the hunger simmer in his gaze. Mine drops to the front of his joggers. I can see the outline of his cock. He wants me.

Nothing new there.

Lifting my chin, I march over to his bed and sprawl across it. My legs spread wide so he can see all of me. I’m wet, but I don’t care. We’re beyond humiliation now. I lie there, spread-eagled and vulnerable just for him. My ass smarts, but I ignore it. I want him to fuck me.

Fuck me for one last time and be done with this.

Lies. You don’t want to be done with this. You want it to go on and on and on…

“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps.

“Fuck me,” I tell him. “You know you want to.”

He approaches the bed, his expression impassive, his hands in the pockets of his joggers like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

I want to sock him in the face.

“Nice,” he drawls, his gaze zeroed in on my pussy. “You think this is what it’ll take for me to give the journal back?”

“I don’t know,” I practically wail and I snap my lips shut, irritated with myself. I can’t show weakness, yet here I am, crying to him. Sacrificing myself to him. “Just get it over with.”

“What? Now you’re nothing but a fucking martyr,” he says, his voice hard. “You just want to lie there and take it? That’s not like you.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” I taunt.

“No,” he says firmly. “When have I ever told you that?”

I think of our other interactions. Most of the time we end up together because of something I say or do. What’s so different about tonight?

“You want me.” I sit up and reach for him, cupping his erection. His cock jerks beneath my touch. “I can feel it.”

“Not like this. Not like a sacrifice.”

“You don’t want me willing? God, you’re such a sick fu—”

He grabs hold of me, so roughly I shriek. His hands grip my arms and his face is in mine. “Don’t you dare call me sick when you’re just as fucked up as I am. We’re both like this. You love it when I tell you what to do. And I like it when you fight against me.”

“I didn’t fight earlier,” I whisper. “When you told me to say I hate you.”

“You should hate me,” he says, his voice harsh. “All I can think about is how much I want you to resist.”

I struggle against his hold and squeeze his cock at the same time. “Like this?”

“Let go of my dick,” he whispers.

“No.” I smile. Slip my hand beneath his sweats and encounter nothing but bare flesh. I stroke him, loving the way his eyelids flutter. I smooth my finger over the head, smearing sticky pre-cum everywhere and I want to suck him into my mouth.

He’s right. I’m as sick, as fucked up as he is. I could accuse him of making me this way, but that would be a lie.

I was already like this. I just didn’t understand how. Or why.

“Summer.” His voice is a warning.

“Whit.” My voice is a tease.

He lets go of my arm and grips the back of my head, pushing me forward. “You want it? Suck it, then.”

I do as he asks, rearranging myself so I sit on the edge of the bed. He stands in front of me, his expression like stone. Like the beautiful angel statues in the campus gardens.

I shove his joggers down, exposing him completely, and I reach out to touch his erection. Warm, hard skin. Velvety soft.

He’s human, I remind myself. No matter how much he tries to convince me that he’s not.

Dipping my head, I let my hair fall forward as I wrap my lips around the head of his cock. He drips onto my tongue, and a surge of triumph runs through me. He wants this.

I lick him. Grip him tightly. Suck him. Glancing up, his cock filling my mouth, I find he’s watching me, his expression still blank, though I see something flicker in his eyes. Heat.

Want.

He wants me.

I take a deep breath and suck him even deeper into my mouth, until the head bumps the back of my throat. What’s funny is I’d only given exactly two blow jobs before I met Whit. Now I feel like an expert.

“Fuck.” His favorite word falls from his lips and I gag on his cock when he thrusts his hips forward. “Jesus.”

He pumps in and out of my mouth, again and again, until I pull away, a shuddering breath leaving me. “Stop.”

He stands there, his dick glistening from my mouth, his face one of pure shock. I’ve never refused him. I’ve never told him stop. Ever. He probably thinks something’s wrong with me. “What the fuck, Summer?”

I lie back on the bed, my hand going to my pussy, testing it. I’m so wet. My clit is throbbing. Closing my eyes, I begin to stroke myself, my thoughts filled with images of Whit. Earlier today, how much I enjoyed what he did to me. I always enjoy what he does to me. Too much. He sees my darkness, and he matches it. Exceeds it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks angrily.

His words fuel me and I stroke myself harder, pinching my swollen clit between my fingers. “I need to come,” I tell him and he laughs.

“You are unbelievable,” he utters.

There’s rustling, and then he’s right there, in front of my pussy, his hot breath wafting across my sensitive skin. He shoves my hand away and attacks me with his mouth, devouring me, licking me everywhere. I squeal in delight. In pain. In pleasure. It feels so good, his lips, his tongue. He thrusts a finger into my pussy and strokes. Tickles the skin between my pussy and my asshole, making me jump.

Making me lean into his touch.

“I want to fuck you here,” he says, his finger drawing closer and closer to my ass. “Taste you here.”

“Do it,” I tell him, closing my eyes in shame when he pushes me backward, my legs over my head, my ass completely exposed to his gaze.

His mouth.

He contemplates me, deathly quiet, and I want to squirm. He loves nothing more than to humiliate me, and he’s doing that right now, as he studies my body, not saying a word. I wait in anticipation, my heart thumping wildly, my throat dry as I try to swallow. Until finally, finally I feel his mouth there. His breath. His tongue.

He licks. A delicate flick that makes me jump. He licks again, bolder this time, exploring, his tongue teasing the ridged skin and a moan escapes me. Oh God, it feels so wrong. So fucking wrong.

So right.

He continues his gentle assault on my untouched flesh, working me into a panting, squirming mess, until suddenly his mouth is gone, and he’s pulling me into position so my back is pressed against the mattress, my legs sprawled.

I could’ve come if he kept that up. I’m desperate to.

“Does your ass hurt?” he asks, his fingers briefly skimming over my scrapes and bruises.

I forgot all about my wounds. “No.”

He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving, his dick standing straight out. Licking my ass must’ve made him impossibly hard. “I fucked you roughly earlier. You want it again?”

I nod, overcome. Unable to speak. I want it so badly.

He slides inside my body, no condom yet again, the asshole. Not that we’ve ever used them. He fucks me steadily, his gaze never straying from mine, his hair hanging around his beautiful face. I arch up into him, my hips meeting his, my entire body tingling, anticipating the orgasm he’s about to give me. I don’t think it’ll be as good as the one promised this afternoon. There was something so primal about doing it outside, among the ruins. Exposed and open to nature, the breeze bathing my skin, making me feel so alive. I want to do it again there someday.

Maybe tomorrow, if I’m lucky.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his gaze racing over me, as if he doesn’t know where to look first. “I hate you so goddamn much, Summer.”

I pretend he tells me he loves me instead. He loves me so goddamn much. It’s what sends me over the edge. My entire body goes still, the orgasm sweeping over me without warning and I’m trembling, crying out with my pleasure. He keeps up the pace, still watching me, his fingers going to my hair, tightening. Pulling. Hard. Making it painful.

Making my orgasm go on a little longer.

“You like it when it hurts,” he whispers as he still fucks me.

“I love it.”

“You liked it when I licked your asshole?”

I nod. “I want to lick yours.”

He grins. Actually grins. “Dirty fucking girl. Seriously?”

“I want to do everything with you,” I admit softly.

Whit lifts his upper body away from mine, gripping my hips as he pounds inside of me. I cup my breasts. Press them together. Pinch my nipples. He watches, fascinated, and I smile. That’s all I do. Just smile.

He comes. Falls over me in a heap, his big body shuddering over mine as he spills and spills. Endless amounts of cum shoot inside me and I hold him close. Stroke his back. Murmur dirty words close to his ear.

How much I love his cock. How good he feels inside of me. How I want to tongue his asshole and jerk him off at the same time. Is that even possible? I’m sure I could make it work, and he likes it because his body jerks forward, a little “ahh” falling from his lips with that one final, weak thrust.

I made him come like that. Me. Watching me. Being inside of me.

And he best never forget it.