Page 127 of Not in Love

RUE

ONE YEAR LATER

My voice was muffled by the pillow, dampened by my own gritted teeth, but I hated how reedy and desperate it still sounded when I said, “I hate this.”

“Really?” Eli remained motionless inside me, but the heel of his palm traced every knob of my spine, soothing my tremors. It made no difference, because his other hand was busy pinning my wrists to the mattress. “Because I am into it.”

Of course he was.

He had come.

Twice.

Inside me, wherever struck his fancy.

I, however, had not. It had been hours, and I was a trembling, unsatisfied mess. He got like that, sometimes—pushy and overbearing and everywhere, and I just couldn’t . . .

I groaned into the pillow.

“You’re really not enjoying yourself?” he whispered, this time against my ear.

“I’m not,” I lied.

“My poor girl.” He clucked his tongue, and I was going to kill him. As soon as he let go of me. And let me come. “Why is that?”

Because.

“Is it too much, Rue?” He nuzzled the curve of my throat, and the movement made him surge deeper inside me. I was swollen and used, and it felt so good, I might cry. In fact, I was already tearing up. “Is it broccoli, baby?”

“No! No. It’s just . . .”

“Just?”

I circled my ass against his groin, and his muted, amused grunt ended with him gripping my hip bone and holding me still. Asshole.

“Why are you grinding against me, sweetheart?” He kissed the ball of my shoulder. “We both know that you can’t come in this position, anyway.”

“Then why don’t you just let me move?”

“Because I can come in this position. And I’m trying to save myself for you.”

I whimpered—half plea, all frustration. “Please. I need you to—”

“I know exactly what you need.” His mouth on my earlobe was, briefly, all teeth. “You don’t have to tell me.” He tsked. “Come on,

Rue. I’m offended.”

“Then why don’t you—”

“Because I’m having fun. Want me to stop? Just say the words.”

I could have. I could have told him to put an end to this. I’d done it before, when it had become too much, when I’d felt like I was going to squirm out of my own skin, and he’d stopped without asking questions. I let myself contemplate the possibility: Eli turning me around, making me come with his mouth, rocking me in his arms for long minutes, until I pushed him away or fell asleep, whatever came first.

But as much as I hated this, I loved it too much to give it up. And why would I ask him to stop when I had other ways of getting what I wanted? A bit dirty. Manipulative, maybe. But resourceful. I knew exactly what the words would do to him, and mumbled them into the pillow to my own advantage.

Eli stilled.

Leaned his forehead between my shoulder blades.