Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

more shame crashed over me. I wished it was a wave, dragging me under until I drowned.

“Settle, flower,” Alexander whispered, his fingertips stroking along my scars. “I’m going to move my hand, but if you start screaming, I’ll cover it again. Or gag you.” He paused. “On second thought, go ahead and scream.”

As soon as his hand shifted from my mouth, I verbally attacked him since his strong hold meant I couldn’t physically do it. “You bastard! I don’t know what the fuck kind of game you’re playing, but I don’t want any part of it. Get the hell out of here and stay the hell away from me, you freak!”

In the face of my insults, he chuckled, his hand curling around my throat. “You don’t want any part of this?”

“You mean more bad sex with a small-dicked asshole?” That was probably the biggest lie I’d ever told. His dick—that was still hard against my back—was long and thick and massive. I didn’t even know dicks like that existed outside of porn and male lies. And not only was it impressively sized, he knew how to use it, which had led to sex that was amazing. And crazy. And crazy amazing. But I refused to acknowledge that to myself, much less him. “No, it’s sick. You’re sick.”

“Then why’re you grinding your perky little ass against me and trying to shift my hand closer to your perfect pussy?”

I froze as I realized that was exactly what I’d been trying to do. My disgust grew until it was all I felt.

Pure, unadulterated hatred aimed at the person who deserved it most.

Me.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” I snapped, but the anger in my tone was drowned out by the pleading. The yearning.

I just wasn’t sure what I was yearning for. Because the anxiety elephant, depression beast, and specter of Death that were my constant companions swore it was death I wanted so badly. That it was what I deserved for being so awful.

But my body and the tiny, unfamiliar voice of Life in my head said it was his touch I craved.

I was tied up, embroiled in a battle with myself, and it only pissed me off more.

“Told you, I changed my mind,” he said simply, like he’d switched to chicken rather than steak for dinner.

“Then do it now, you fucking coward.”

Pot meet kettle.

“No.”

“Then I don’t need anything from you, so get the fuck out! Leave me alone so I can do what you don’t have the fucking balls to do.” A lump lodged in my throat, threatening to choke me. I wished it would. “Get out, get out, get—”

My screams were cut off when his hand covered my mouth again. “Poor flower,” he whispered, but it wasn’t with pity. Heat filled his tone, burning so hot, it was like he was the fire breathing dragon, not the knight there to rescue me. “Your head’s going in so many circles, it’s got you in knots.”

I wanted to nod because that was exactly how I felt. Like I was twisted and knotted and I’d never be untangled again.

“Let me help you.” His lips dragged against the shell of my ear.

I thought he was going to make me talk it out. It was what everyone else did. But every time I talked, the loops and tangles spread. Tightened. I was always left feeling worse than when I’d started because nothing ever came undone.

He didn’t uncover my mouth, but he released my leg, moving his hand before bringing it back. Something sharp pressed against the front of my thigh a second before the sting spread, as if the burning that rioted under my skin was being cooled.

He cut me.

I couldn’t see how badly, but I knew it wasn’t enough to kill me—though I’d been trying to goad him into it. It wasn’t even enough to do any harm. It was just enough to give me what I needed—a distraction and a release.

With each passing second, the calm spread, like warmth winding through me to snuff out the toxicity. But it wasn’t warmth from a tender touch or a kind word.

My peace came from pain.

“Again?” he asked.

I nodded frantically.

He sliced again before moving his hand away. When it returned, it went between my legs. His strong finger circled my clit, faster and faster until I was dizzy with need. It slammed into me, taking me onto my tiptoes as his palm pressed to my clit. He dropped his hand from my mouth to clutch my thigh, increasing the sting and the bliss.

“Give it to me, Briar,” he growled, going faster. “Give me what I need.”

Usually, someone needing anything from me was enough to set me off. It was too much pressure and responsibility on my shoulders. His words and his need for me sent me over the edge in a different way. An amazing way. My orgasm hit me out of nowhere until there was no guilt. No thoughts. No negativity.

Nothing but the most addictive pleasure-pain, starting at my core and radiating through my body. Like every cell was alive and electric and filled with dopamine and ecstasy and euphoria.

I slumped in his hold, barely capable of holding myself up as he continued playing gently with me, drawing out my pleasure. As it faded, I waited for my self-loathing to kick in and tell me how disgusting and fucked up I was to let him touch me. Cut me. To want him to do both.

When the cruel voice didn’t come, I searched it out. As if I needed to be taunted and tormented with callous insults. As if I missed the chaos that’d been banging around my head all morning.

But my attempt to self-sabotage garnered nothing more than a half-assed… eh.

I was too preoccupied bracing, waiting to see what he’d do. If he’d touch me more. Or cut me again. Or if he’d give me what I needed by fucking me.

I hoped it was the latter because I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anyone.

He moved