Asking for It

Page 106

I nod absently as I step out of my shoes. Then I slowly pull off my cardigan and unzip my dress, which crumples to the floor. As soon as it’s off, I look Jonah straight in the eye as I begin to unhook my bra.

He takes two steps toward me and kisses me, long and deep. As I shrug my bra off my arms, his hands find my breasts. His touch is gentle. Too gentle.

“We would have to be quiet,” I whisper against his lips. “But we can still play. ”

Jonah goes still. At first I think he’s already there with me, preparing to unleash his darker side. Then I recognize the confusion in his gray eyes . . . the hurt.

Tonight he didn’t want to play. He wanted to make love.

I remember how he was in Scotland, the strange distance between us when I insisted on bringing my fantasy into our bed there. He obliged me, even though I could tell he wanted something else from me. Jonah doesn’t need this fantasy the way I do.

But I do. Right now I need it worse than ever. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. I just want Jonah to take me without mercy.

“Come on,” I whisper as I slide my hands under his shirt. “Last night we were interrupted. Don’t you want to pick up where we left off?”

That makes him smile—the dangerous smile that makes me hot in an instant. “I knew you wanted it. ”

Then he shoves me onto the bed, hard.

I gasp in genuine surprise. Jonah’s with me in an instant, standing by the edge of the bed to peel off my panties. He tears them from me roughly, then leans over my body and bites my breast—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough that I have to stifle a cry.

He hears the moan in my throat. His palm covers my mouth, fingers hard against my face. “Don’t you fucking scream. Do you hear me? Don’t scream. ”

Jonah rolls me onto my stomach. I hear the zipper of his jeans, and I realize he’s not going to get me ready. He’ll fuck me right away, as hard as he can. It will hurt. He wants it to hurt.

There’s a price to pay for demanding our game tonight. I want to pay it.

His hands clutch my waist and pull me down until my legs dangle off the bed. He parts my thighs roughly, then grabs my hair and tugs hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. The whole hot length of him fills me as he thrusts inside.

“You’re already wet,” he says, as if it disgusts him. “You’re such a filthy slut. ”

Jonah starts taking me hard and fast, every stroke meant to punish. His grip on my hair tightens as he pumps into me. My blood has rushed to my clit, my cunt, and already I know I’m going to come hard, soon.

“That’s right,” Jonah pants. “You know you have to take it, don’t you? Don’t you?”

Yes, yes, I have to take it, no matter what you give me, no matter what—

And then Jonah says, “Good girl. ”

This room vanishes. Jonah vanishes. The past decade of my life is gone. I am a fourteen-year-old girl; I am lying on the couch; Anthony is raping me. He is inside me right now.

Within one breath I know what this is. A flashback. I’m having a flashback. I haven’t had one in years, not a real one—a moment where I am back there, and Anthony’s on me, and it is real. It is completely real.

I gasp, “Silver. ”

Immediately Jonah stops moving.

“Silver, silver. ” Tears have begun to flow down my face, and even as the nightmarish image of Anthony fades, the horror remains.

Jonah pulls out. He rolls me over, and at first the sight of him frightens me. He’s naked; his still-hard cock stands out from his body, ready to fuck me again. But then I see the expression on his face—concerned. No, stricken.

He’s not going to hurt me. Jonah would never hurt me.

“Are you all right?” he whispers. I shake my head no. He begins to lie down beside me, then pauses. “What should I do?

“Hold me. Just hold me. ”

Jonah stretches out by my side and pulls me into his embrace. I start to cry—deep, racking sobs that hurt my throat. When did I last cry like this? Have I ever let go so completely? I can’t remember. I can’t think.

All I know is that Jonah is with me, pulling a blanket over me and holding me close, and it feels like the only safety I have ever known.

Thirty-one

“What’s wrong?” Jonah whispers once, late at night, after I’ve stopped sobbing but before I can fall asleep.

“I can’t. Please. I can’t. ”

“You can tell me. ”

“It wasn’t you. Please, Jonah, not now, not tonight. ”