Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 143453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
I turn off the toys and remove them from her.
She whimpers but doesn’t attempt to move, drowning in a puddle of her own arousal.
I planned to finish this by having her admit she’s wrong, and saying she’ll choose me this time, but something tells me this isn’t the right moment for that.
“Are you done?” she whispers in a hoarse, raw voice.
“I’m only getting started.”
“Stop this madness.”
“Beg.”
“Please.” She sniffles.
My muscles tighten and the healed bullet wound burns. “You’re begging for the wrong reasons. You’re begging for your family when you should be begging for me.”
“I can’t just cut myself off from them.”
“You can. I’ll make it happen.”
Her chin trembles and fresh tears stream down her cheeks. “This isn’t the Creighton I know. This isn’t the man I fell in love with.”
Her sadly delivered words and the anguish behind them wrap a noose around my neck.
She hates that she loves me—or loved me. And I want to bathe in the blood of whoever changed her mind.
Of whoever made her dig a knife, or more accurately, a bullet, into my chest.
“The Creighton you knew was shot dead by you.”
“Creigh…”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“But—”
“Shut up and listen well, Annika. You’ll never get rid of me unless you shoot me again. But this time, make sure you aim straight at the fucking heart.”
She cries harder.
I pretend her tears don’t affect me as I hydrate her, make her eat, bathe her, and let her fall asleep cocooned in my chest.
With a knife in the bedside table. A knife she can grab at any moment and use to kill me for real.
If she does, then so be it.
Because I meant it. Death is the only thing that will keep me away from her.
36
ANNIKA
A week has passed.
A whole week of being trapped on an island where it’s only the two of us.
A whole week of being tormented by Creighton, brought to my knees in submission, stuffed with toys, forced to orgasm. Denied orgasms.
All of it.
A whole week of me fighting and negotiating and pleading. I tried to reason with him, to tell him that not only are my parents worried sick but his must be, too.
I tried to knee him in the balls again and run, but that only got me whipped until I cried while I orgasmed, and then he fucked me.
He punished me and brought me to the edge, where the only thing I could do was moan his name and hate myself.
Fully. Thoroughly.
I hate myself because no matter how much I want to leave, I want to stay, too.
I want to sleep cocooned in his arms, I want to be fucked by him to the point of insanity. I want to wake up all deliciously achy and marked.
I want him to put those marks on me and then carefully slather them with ointment. He’d kiss them, too, making me shiver in both pleasure and self-loathing.
Because how can I enjoy the company of a man who vehemently refuses to let us start anew?
How can I find pleasure in this situation when my family is probably suffering because of this?
I had a nightmare about my mom’s mental issues declining last night and couldn’t go back to sleep.
After I tossed and turned, Creighton woke up and he fucked me back to sleep.
He’s been an insatiable beast since we got to the island. No matter what I do, he’d be breathing down my neck like a pervert with the stamina of a sex demon.
If I jog on the shore in the morning, he joins me and then fucks me on the nearest rock.
If I try to cook, he annoys the hell out of me, standing near like the Grim Reaper, and then after the meal, he eats me out on the kitchen table.
Sometimes, that happens during the process of making food.
If I’m trying to practice ballet to keep in shape, he sits across from me, watching my every move like a hawk. Then he tears at my tights and mounts me on the floor.
That one ends up being the most animalistic, with my cute purple tulle shredded and scattered on the floor.
I have no clue how he got my stuff here, but he definitely had them from back in England. When I left Brighton Island, I didn’t pack everything.
A part of me hoped I’d go back.
That part never counted on this depravity.
I swear this isn’t what I meant when I told the girls that my fantasy was to be kidnapped.
Or maybe it is.
But his reasons have left a bitter taste at the back of my mouth.
I place lamb soup and fish and chips Creighton made on the patio table that faces the bright sea and he brings my salad.
We’ve fallen into this domesticated routine that would be a dream under different circumstances.
We do our morning jogs or swims together, sometimes fully naked. He fishes by the rock and I try to help but end up making it worse. Then we shower together. He watches me practice, makes lunch, and then we hike on the island's mountains to the point that every day is an adventure. We talk about everything, or more like I do and he reciprocates. We discuss school, life, art, like when we were on good terms, but he completely closes off when I ask him if we’re going back.