He drags a hand over my thigh, letting it rest on my knee. “What did you do with yourself today?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to recreate how we used to be, but that dynamic has shifted. I’m still his captive, yet what we were is long gone. It’s not our situation that has changed. It’s me. Where I craved his affection before, I now fear it for all the ways in which it can destroy me. I made the mistake of thinking he was capable of feelings once. I won’t do it twice.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Zoe? Don’t you have anything to tell me?” I try to shift off his lap, but he tightens his arm around me. “I thought you were done with designing.”
“Does it bother you?” I ask in a catty tone. “Maybe you’d prefer I do nothing all day.”
My stubbornness to discuss my day with him is born from my resistance to this strategy, one in which he never gave me a choice, but he doesn’t get angry or impatient. His voice is gentle as he says, “On the contrary, I’m happy that you’re doing something you love.”
I’m not going to tell him I’m planning on selling the dress to supplement his income. We need the money badly, although he refuses to admit it.
“The design is very unlike you,” he continues.
“Yes, well, it was about time I grew up.”
The frown I’d glimpsed when he walked through the door returns as he studies me with a serious expression. “You think you were anything less than grown up before?”
I snort. “I was naïve and stupid.”
He searches my face for another moment. “I’d say you have a certain amount of naivety, but that’s part of what I find so endearing about you. As for stupid, I have to disagree.” When I don’t reply, he continues. “Don’t you see? I don’t want you to change. It’s you I want, just the way you are.”
Too late. I’m already changing. I can’t help it. It’s the only device I have to protect myself from breaking more, but I keep that to myself. It’s a weapon. It’s my secret device, and I’m not sharing that with him.
His eyes darken in a way I’m well familiar with just before he pushes his hand under the elastic of my sweatpants. When his fingers find my folds, shame engulfs me for my body’s reaction. Need makes me heat from my lower body upwards, sending flames that burn hotter in my cheeks. I hate myself for getting wet when he rubs a calloused finger over my clit. Grabbing his wrist, I try to hold him back, but it’s not him I’m fighting. It’s myself.
“Let go,” he whispers, rubbing his nose over my temple.
With his free hand, he wiggles the pants down over my hips, exposing my humble cotton underwear. I want him inside me so badly it aches, yet I plead, “Please, no.”
I feel dirty and weak for wanting this. Instead of obliging, he wraps one arm around me and pushes my underwear down with my pants. Just like before, I’m exposed to him, naked from the waist down. The way he studies me heats my face more, but it also perversely turns me on. I’m lost even before he parts my folds with a finger, testing my arousal. Satisfaction bleeds into his steely gray eyes when he discovers my wetness. Without preamble, he sinks two fingers inside. The stretch makes me sigh even as I hate myself more for responding this way. I feel filthy and depraved as he starts fingering me.
“You want this, don’t you?” he asks on a growl, massaging my clit with his thumb. “Open your legs. Show me what a dirty little slut you are.”
My body obeys of its own accord. I give him better access and the view he wants as he pushes my upper body down. I should protest when he pushes the T-shirt up to reveal my naked breasts. Already, my orgasm is building, and I’m completely lost before I can salvage enough control to stop this humiliation.
“Fuck,” he says through clenched teeth, “you look so good with my fingers in your cunt.”
My lower body contracts at the vulgar words. Self-loathing mounts with my desire. I moan when he pulls his fingers free, but the sound quickly transforms into a protest when he roughly flips me over. Some self-preservation returns, bringing me to my senses, but he pushes me face-down with one arm over my back, my body stretched out over his lap on the sofa.
“Show me how you come,” he says, teasing my entrance with a feather-light touch.
I don’t want to, but I’m lying helpless as he plunges his fingers back inside me.
“Such a dirty little slut,” he says, hammering out a rhythm that has my toes curling.
Turning my face away from him, I pinch my eyes shut. I try to imagine that I’m someone else, but all I can think about is how I must look with my ass in his lap and my sex exposed. His brutal movements extract sloppy sounds from my wet sex. It’s embarrassing and a dirty turn-on at the same time. When he grinds his palm on my clit, my hips lift to meet the demand.
“What did
