novelxo Hitched: Chapter 8
Lex
I wake up the same way I went to sleep, except now a cold sweat coats my body. The alarm clock by the bed buzzes like a hive of angry bees. The time on the clock is only a few hours later. Nothing is worse than waking up restless next to a goddamn woman like her. Actually, next to any woman at all, but she’s especially difficult to just exist beside.
I turn onto my back and stare up at the dark ceiling. Every so often, headlights illuminate the room through the thin veil of the inner curtains. For a while I worried about her husband finding us, but as the days passed without him sending the goddamn army to find her, I can’t help but wonder if he even cared that she was gone. Not just about being married or the marriage-centric image he portrayed, but actually cared about her. Is she safe? Dead? With all that generational wealth he has, why isn’t he doing everything he can to get his girl back? A girl like her would make me do some real fucked-up shit to find her and bring her home.
She stirs beside me, and I hold my breath for a moment until she settles. She’s making me anxious. I feel guilt and regret and something else that I can’t put my finger on. I hate knowing I’ll have to kill her when we get to Texas, but it’s better than sending her home to the piece of shit who bruised her abdomen like that. I can’t bring her with me, not that someone like her would come along anyway. Life on the run wouldn’t work for a girl like her. There aren’t any spas or fancy new cars on the lam.
My mind wanders to how I imagine her husband looks. Probably nothing like me. Probably well dressed and put together. Someone her parents love more than she does. All I know for sure is that he’s a little-dicked piece of shit who likes to beat up on his woman.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I never treated women much better, and I’d be lying if I called myself any kind of saint. She’s different, though, and I can’t wrap my mind around his inability to see that. How can he not when it’s so disgustingly clear to me? With everything else good in his life, he also has her beneath him.
Fucking idiot.
My cock hardens at the thought of him fucking her. It shouldn’t, but it does. I recognize the appearance of the side of me that wants to see that. A familiar to me—yet foreign to her—entity that occasionally screams in my head. At times, that side of me is hard to disregard.
I ache with an uncomfortable throb I can’t ignore. My hand slips to my cock, and I bite the inside of my cheek as I wrap my fingers around the head of my dick. I circle myself with my fist as I try to be quiet and still, like I had to do when I was on the inside. I was polite about it, at least, unlike some of my roommates who jerked it loud enough to wake up the whole row.
I bite back a groan. Fuck, I want her. I need her. Never in my life have I wanted to rip the clothes from a woman so completely.
At this moment, with my head in all the wrong places, I turn over and scoot closer to her back. She remains motionless as I press my hard cock against her ass. There’s no way she doesn’t feel it. I run my hand down her side, knowing there are bruises beneath my touch. If she doesn’t feel my dick pressed against her, she’ll feel that.
“Don’t pretend to sleep, bunny,” I whisper.
She tenses and tries to fake a heavy sleep as my hand reaches the waistband of her pants and travels to the front of her slacks. I unbutton them and lower the zipper. I reach into the newly splayed fabric, rubbing the soft skin of her lower stomach and the soft hairs of her pelvis.
“There’s no way you don’t feel this,” I say in a hushed tone as I tug her pants down. “Being asleep doesn’t make it any less wrong, you know? Pretending to be asleep doesn’t make it any less sinful.”
I pull her pants past her ass and push my cock between her thighs. I groan at the warmth of her pussy against me.
“Remember when I said I fucked women who couldn’t consent? If you think being asleep deters me, it doesn’t.” I grip my cock and guide myself into her.
The muscles inside her twitch at the intrusion, and the tension rides up her entire body. She’s still trying to remain faithful. It’s a pathetic and sad attempt to fight what she wants and what I need. What we both need. She’s too fucking wet to pretend she doesn’t want it, too.
“Goddamn it, rabbit,” I groan as I draw my hips back and slam them into her. It’s too dark to see her face and gauge her reaction. I hope a pair of headlights will cross the window so I can see her open eyes. Because I know she’s awake. “You’re being childish,” I say through gritted teeth. I get sick of it. I refuse to play the fucked-up game she made up to avoid the reality we’re in. To avoid letting me in.
I sink my fingers into the worst of her bruises, and she yelps. Finally, a fucking reaction. I roll her onto her stomach and keep my cock deep inside her as I press her face into the pillow. Her legs clench together beneath me, and the friction is enough to make me want to bust.
“Lex . . .”
I push my hips forward, going deeper inside her. “Good morning, bunny,” I say with a growl as I wipe the hair from her cheek.
“You’re . . . hurting me,” she whispers.
“I’m not even doing anything to hurt you . . . yet.”
As she pants, pain weaves through every breath. She’s wet, stretching around me just right. I’m not hurting her pussy. Not like that, at least.
“Get off me . . . please,” she begs.
Despite how fucking good she feels around my cock and how much I don’t want to pull out of her, I do. Self-restraint has never been a strong skill of mine, so I struggle between the bit of humanity she draws out of me versus everything I’ve always been.
I get out of bed, snatch the sheet around me, and flip the light switch, illuminating the room. She’s pulled up her pants, but they’re still undone.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” I ask, harsher than I intend, even though her wetness coating my cock makes me almost too hungry to stay off her.
“I—” she begins, but the rest of the words are choked off. Her lip trembles, and she cuts her gaze from mine. Her body shakes, and that broken little girl is suddenly back in front of me.
I sigh, wiping a hand through my hair. I gather my composure as best I can and walk to her side of the bed, a hand still clutching the white sheet around my waist. I lift her chin with the other, forcing her to look at me. “What was hurting you?” I ask again, more forcefully this time. “It wasn’t my cock, so what was it?”
“The bruises,” she whispers.
“On your stomach?” When I rolled her onto her stomach, I was careful with her. I tried to be, at least.
She shakes her head.
“There’s more?” I ask, but I know the answer already. There must be more marks on her skin than what she showed me. I force her to her feet, and she flinches when I grip her bruised wrist. “Show me,” I command. I leave no room for argument.
When I reach out for the buttons on the front of her blouse, she screams out a no that almost makes me stop. I bat her hand away and return to the buttons. She keeps wiggling and fighting me. I release my hold on the sheet, and it falls to my feet as I knock her back into the nightstand. The lamp teeters behind her. I grab her arms and pin them to her sides, and she releases a whimper.
“Stop fighting me,” I seethe.
“Please don’t,” she begs. Her eyes widen with fear, as if she thinks I’ll hate her once I see what waits beneath her clothes. Or at least think differently of her. Her hands go for my wrists again.
“If you don’t keep your hands at your fucking sides, Selena, I’m going to grab my gun, put it up to your pretty little head, and force you to strip for me. Your choice.” She’s gnawing on my last nerve.
Her hands finally fall to her sides and remain there. I work the buttons off, one by one. She keeps her face turned away from me as the fabric spreads on her chest. More bruises. They cover her sternum and wash down her breasts. I can’t even take a moment to enjoy her tits because I can’t believe what I am seeing.
The front of her pants is still undone, but I ignore the brown hair between her legs and focus on another patch of purple peeking from beneath the fabric. I reach for her waistband, and she grabs my wrists with undeniable fear on her face. She’s forgotten the threat I made because what I’m doing is scarier than my gun.
“Leave my pants on,” she pleads.
Absolutely not.
“No, Selena. I’m going to see every inch of you. I need to know where you’re hurt.”
Tears fall down her cheeks, an uncontrolled overflow of her emotional pain. I slide her slacks down and my mouth gapes. More bruises. The worst is a large mark that takes up the entire length of her outer left thigh. I’m guessing that’s what hurt her when I pinned her beneath my weight. My knee dug into that area, keeping her legs together as I pushed deeper inside her. Or it may have been her chest, where her hands would have been pinned beneath her breasts.
“Oh, bunny,” I whisper as I rub my hand up her thigh, making her nearly jump from the pain. I wonder how I didn’t hurt her in the car, but then I remembered that leg would have been cushioned against the back seat when I was over her. It all makes sense.
My erection is gone, and I hang limp between my legs. She cries as she tries to cover herself again. She looks ashamed more than anything, which rubs me in all the wrong ways. Shame isn’t what she should feel. Her fucking husband should carry this burden, not her.
“I’m usually fine with pain,” she rationalizes as she buttons her pants with trembling fingers. “I’m used to it. But your knee pressed right into this bruise”—she touches her left thigh—“and it was too much.”
When she goes to take a breath to keep babbling on, I take the chance to pull her into my chest. She swallows the words instead of continuing. My heart breaks for her, and I don’t understand how it can when I’ve never had one. I’ve never felt sympathy for anyone or anything. But my blame shifts in my selfish mind. If she hadn’t tried to play Sleeping Beauty, I wouldn’t have pinned her like that. I curse myself for putting the blame back on her. I’m the one who was too forceful.
“Sweet bunny,” I whisper, “I’m going to fuck you, and then we’re going back to New York.”
She looks up at me and tries to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “But . . . why?”
I brush her hair from her face. It’s sticky with the salt of her tears. “Because I’m going to kill your fucking husband.”
She shakes her head. “We can’t.”
I fist her hair. “Which part?”
Instead of answering, she drops her jaw and allows her lower lip to tremble.
“Sweet little rabbit,” I growl, “I can answer that for you. Of course I can fuck you. I was just inside you. And since I’m a murderer, I can kill your husband for putting these bruises on you.” My fingers trace her chest, only partially concealed by her blouse. I drop a hand between her thighs and move upward, past the bruises that make her flinch.
“We can’t kill him.”
I lean closer to her mouth. “We aren’t going to. You aren’t doing anything. I’ll take care of everything, just like I’ll take care of you.” I kiss her, and her breath hitches as I tug down her pants. She slips out of them, and I look at her. Fully look at her.
She’s naked except for the white blouse covering her nipples. I see every bruise. Her brokenness makes me feel like I need to mend her instead of being the one who does more of the breaking. I remove the last bit of fabric hiding her body from me, and she drops her gaze.
“Don’t be embarrassed about your body. These marks don’t shame you. They shame him. Your piece of shit husband.”
She flinches at the word husband, and my eyes narrow.
“Goddamn it, rabbit! Stop fucking caring about him. He doesn’t care about you.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” I turn her around and pull her closer. I run a rough hand down the big bruise on her left thigh, and she jolts. “This isn’t from a man who cares.”
She scoffs. “Abducting a woman at gunpoint is A-okay to you, though? What do you call that?”
I bite the sensitive skin of her shoulder. My cock hardens against her ass. “Desperation? Your lucky day?” I say with a smirk as I kiss where I bit her, and I swear I see a hint of a smile cross her face.
I carefully wrap my arm around her waist, trying to avoid the bruises on her stomach as I bend her over the bed. When her elbows hit the mattress, only the mark on her wrist has pressure against it. No pain.
I run my hands down her sides, tracing the bruises that wrap around and lick at her back. Her ass somehow remains pale and perfect, without a mark on it. I want to change that so goddamn bad, but she needs to stay unmarked . . . for now. I need to give her pleasure as I show her what it’s like to have a real man inside her. A man who is as angry and violent as I am, yet still wouldn’t hit her.
“Lex,” she whispers. There’s a hint of longing in the word, a desire I’ve been desperate to hear.
“What do you want?” I growl. “Use your words. You know I like that.”
“I want you inside me.”
“Inside what? In your ass? Your pussy?”
“My . . . pussy.”
“Good girl.”
I fist her hair, grip my cock, and push inside her. She whimpers as she drops her head and rests it on her fists. She feels incredible. And she looks amazing. I lean over her and run my hand down her stomach until I reach the dripping excitement between her legs.
“Goddamn it, bunny,” I groan as I move my fingers along the seam of her pussy. Her clit swells beneath my touch. I rub her until she backs into me to take my cock deeper. I lift her to me, wrapping my free arm around her chest. “Your husband is so fucking stupid. You know that, right?”
She hesitates for a moment before whimpering out a yes.
“I’m going to fuck you in your bed at home. Make him watch. I want him to look at what he lost until his very last breath.”
Her cheeks flush. “Lex . . . don’t talk about him.”
I laugh. “Until he’s dead, I’ll mention him as I fuck you.”
She tightens her lips, but they spread again as I rub circles over her clit. I caress her most sensitive area until she moans—a sound I love to hear.
“Come for me,” I command as I bite her neck. “Be a good little bunny and come.”
She squeezes around me, choking my dick, and I fight against her body to stay deep inside her. I rub her until she shudders against my grasp on her chest. As she spasms, her body coming down from the violent twitches of her orgasm, I thrum my thumb back and forth over her clit.
“Lexington,” she whispers.
I hate my full name because it’s the name on every form, every newspaper, blasted all over the internet. I hate when people call me Lexington because when they do, it calls to him, the person I’m trying not to be around her. It calls to the side of me I despise. The part of me who thinks about her and her husband together. The part of me I don’t want to let out to play with her.
I hate that name, but when it falls from her parted lips that way, I love it.
The moment we get to Texas, I’ll be off her hands—out of her hair and out of her pussy. I fully intended to kill her, eliminating any chance for her to offer information to the law regarding my whereabouts. But now?
I’ve decided I’ll set the rabbit free.