Page 112 of Hate to Love You
But I don’t.
I should hate him for destroying my blouse.
But I don’t.
I should hate how he felt inside me.
But I don’t.
And I should really hate him for not pulling out.
But I don’t.
I squirm in my blankets, squeezing my legs around the pillow between my legs as I think about his seed dripping out of me. I could feel it as I ran out of his office, wrapped up in his coat…which now sits beside me on the bed.
It smells like him, and I find myself intoxicated by it.
When the fuck did this get so out of control?
I’d planned to kill him today, and ended up fucking him instead. But even if he learned of my deadly intentions for him, I’d still feel how I do now.
My eyes fall closed, as I take in a slow and steady breath, inhaling the scent lingering on his coat.
Roman feels like home, and for once, home feels pretty safe.
The pounding on my door wakes me, Lily jumps off the bed, her ears pressed back against her head, and a soft growl emanating from her small form at the intrusion. Sitting up, I wince, before sliding off the bed, my knees hitting the floor as I crawl over to my door, using it to stand.
Oh God…my ass is so sore.
Walking over to the mirror, I lift my dark green silk nightdress, feeling the cool material slide against my skin. Turning, my eyes widen at the sight of my ass, each cheek red, with a distinct handprint on the left cheek. Slowly, I poke a single finger against it, shuddering as pain ripples through me. Shivering as pleasure follows, as I watch it turn from white to pink as my blood flows back into the area.
The pounding at my door continues, louder this time, followed by a shout.
Who the fuck is here right now?!
Rolling my eyes I drop the dress back down, before flinging my bedroom door open and storming down the stairs.
I yank the front door open just as the man standing outside raises his fist to pound once again. He freezes at the sight of me, his eyes widening, before falling straight to the ground.
I know him. He’s the man from the restaurant who waited on Roman and I. Or the man who tried to anyway. But he looks much different than when I saw him last. His skin is pale, a large deep bruise spreading across his face leading from his split lip.
What was his name? Todd? Tim?
But it occurs to me that no one knocks at my door. Not even my delivery drivers or mailman. So somehow, I know that Roman has something to do with this.
“Hello, Miss Wayne,” he says, his voice rough, tired and void of any emotion.
“Good morning! Who are you?” I say cheerily.
“I’m your driver,” the man says gently.
“Okay, but that still doesn’t answer my question,” I ask, still smiling sweetly. “Who are you?”
“I’m Trevor, Miss Wayne.”
Cocking my head slightly, “Weren’t you at the restaurant the other day? Albertos?”
“Um…yes,” he mutters, his spine straightening, the more I stare at him, the more uncomfortable he looks. “Mr. Antonov sent me to fetch you because, well, um, you’re late.”