Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (young adult books to read TXT) 📗

it. Starting at the center and radiating out, it washed over me until I was unable to move much less allow my brain to fuck shit up.

I was vaguely aware of his groan before he ordered, “Say it again.”

“What?”

With each hard, powerful thrust, his words were a staccato. “Say. My. Name. Again.”

Against my will, my lids drifted close as I was thrown toward the edge. It was too much. Too fast. I didn’t want to come again. I couldn’t take it.

My eyes snapped open when a hand closed around my neck, squeezing just enough to make my breaths come in ragged pants.

“Say it.” He slowed to a halt.

Desperate for the orgasm I’d sworn I couldn’t handle, I didn’t hesitate before begging, “Please, Alexander.”

“Please what?”

“Move.”

He did as I ordered, fucking me with the same mindless desperation I felt down to my soul. The tension that’d been painfully coiled below my navel tightened even further. My racing, random thoughts cleared as the coil came undone.

As I came undone.

“Christ, Briar,” Alexander grunted. I was grateful some semblance of brain function had returned because I wanted to memorize the way he said my name.

Like it was a prayer not a curse.

Copying him, I gripped his throat, a thrill traveling through me at the hint of power my—likely ineffective—hold brought and the way his pulse slammed beneath my palm. “Say it again.”

He did one better.

Lowering his head so my hand was tighter to his throat, he gave me another memory I wanted to carve into my brain so it was as permanent as my scars. “Knew you’d become my obsession, Briar.”

With a few more forceful thrusts, Alexander buried himself deep. Stretching me. Filling me with his cock and his come as he groaned. Once he was done, he arched his back so he could drop his head to my neck while keeping our connection.

I knew what would happen once he pulled out.

My brain would start up again.

Shame would twist its way through me like weeds, spreading to cover and snuff out all the good that’d grown.

Guilt for allowing myself that tiny and temporary garden of goodness would crush in on me.

I’d lash out or pull away or freak the hell out. Or, more likely, all three. The tingle of anxiety was already moving up my spine, tensing my muscles.

I wanted to get it over with. Rip it off like a Band-Aid.

I pushed at his shoulders to remove his weight from me, but he didn’t budge.

“I told you I didn’t want to see you again,” I whispered, resentment and disappointment clogging my throat. “Or do you not actually watch the cameras you illegally invaded my privacy with?”

“Trust me, I watch.” His lips trailed casually up my neck, as if he had all the time in the world. As if I wasn’t on the verge of a meltdown.

As if he had any right to be there. Touching me. Tasting me.

“Get off,” I hissed.

“Just did. So did you—twice.”

His blunt words left me momentarily speechless. I’d never had anyone talk to me like that.

I liked it.

A lot.

And not just because of the fresh lust that shot through me, making my stomach clench in a good way. I liked that he wasn’t carefully selecting his words for fear of upsetting me.

I hid all that and scowled. “You’re an ass.”

Rather than being insulted, he let out a small chuckle that sounded and felt too damn good. “Yeah.”

Disgruntled, I tried to shift out from under him, but it was impossible. I seethed silently as I tried to figure out what to do.

And then I was silent because he wasn’t.

Propping himself up with one hand, he stroked my hair back with his other. “This is happening, Briar. Not letting you pull away or cut this off before we see what’s here.”

His words—and the firmness in them—caught me by surprise.

I’d spent my childhood desperately trying to be perfect so people would want me around. When I’d realized it was pointless, I’d switched to pushing them away before they could hurt me by doing the same. It’d been far easier because, most of the time, they’d already been halfway out the door.

But not Alexander.

Which was weird and made me even more suspicious of him.

“Why?” I asked, doing nothing to soften my incredulous tone.

In the dim light, I could see the faintest hint of a smile. “Because I want it. And, despite how your brain is trying to twist it into something bad and wrong, I know you do, too.”

Since I couldn’t argue with that bit of truth, I pointed out, “This is something bad and wrong.”

“Says who?”

“Anyone. Everyone. If my therapists found out, I’d be institutionalized.”

He twirled a lock of my hair between his skilled fingers. “Fuck them. Do you think it’s bad and wrong?”

The logical part of my brain did.

Him breaking into my apartment multiple times—including earlier since I’d definitely locked the door—was bad.

Him installing cameras was wrong.

Him using said cameras to study me so thoroughly was bad.

Him initially being willing to… assist in ending my life was wrong.

And him cutting me for emotional release and physical pleasure or whatever was definitely bad and wrong.

Sure, he’d given me an outlet for the thunderstorms in my head, but it was a fucked up one, which was why I answered, “I should.”

“There’s no should or shouldn’t. You can feel what you feel.” He dropped himself so his weight was half on me, his head was on my pillow, and his lips were pressed to my forehead.

I was trying to convince myself it wasn’t incredibly comfortable because I needed to move away so I could then convince him to get the hell out.

Before I could, he quietly asked, “How much of your life did you waste trying to live it for other people? Or always doing what you should?”

Well, hell. So he can read my body and my mind?

The blow of irreversible regret I always felt at my squandered life hit me square in the chest. All that time wasted before I learned how finite it really