That admission is a revelation. I soak up the words, sincerity, and truth within them that even he cannot fake, and once he's uttered them I feel like I can breathe.
He didn't kill her.
That's all that matters.
He didn't fucking kill her.
My Levi does not have her blood on his hands.
I drag a freeing breath into my lungs, eyes roaming his face because I've stopped moving. I'm sitting directly down on his length and he's oddly throbbing and painfully erect still — I forget pain in all forms arouses him.
He doesn't move me, doesn't thrust roughly, or take me with feral need like an animal. He simmers motionless in his seat with the guilt he's harbored so long it's debilitating.
"Levi," I address him, hands now on his shoulders, fingers flexing as I glide them up to his neck and then his face. I cup his cheeks. It's odd, the level of intimacy we are surpassing but I move with what feels right with my body. This does.
"You didn't kill her," I murmur. His eyes find mine and he shakes his head.
"Yes. I am the reason she is dead. They wanted to hurt me and she got mixed up in the crossfire. I led them to her, unknowingly, and they did what I should've expected. They got her when neither of us was prepared," He croaks, his voice is deep to the point it's almost foreign.
"That is not your fault," I state firmly leaning closer to prevent him from looking away. "Unless you set the fire, or helped them plot, you are not the one to blame for her dying...." I trail off. It was be all too easy to place blame on him.
Just as it is all too easy to do right now. Had Levi left Baileigh alone she'd probably still be alive. Had he let someone else buy me, I wouldn't be running for my life. It's safe to say he is the problematic factor in both scenarios but my sister and I entered his world willingly.
I could've called quits to the contract when I realized he was involved with some nasty, low-life people. I truly could've, but I never saw my termination with him realistic.
"It doesn't matter. I am her murderer."
"No, you're not! You love pain so much you're willing to torture yourself just for that thrill," I accuse him. "So fucking stop it. Stop it now!"
"This is who I am, Sasha," He begins, his voice a husky octave that startles me. He begins to move his hips to grind his cock inside of me, and I gasp with surprise, releasing his face. "I am poisonous and self-destruction and those around me are scathed by it."
He continues to thrust until I can barely form an audible sentence. My breaths are greedy moans, my hips have begun to gyrate on their own accord. It's as if I can't stop my body from responding to him. Every part of who he is, destruction and all, is toxic and arousing.
I don't realize I'm closing my eyes, immersed in the sensations of his cock stretching my inner walls pleasurably, and the way his hands have cinched my waist. When I open my eyes finally, my gaze meets his and I'm startled by how dark his eyes have become: dark, demanding, dominant.
He doesn't go for my throat with his hands — regardless of his need to control me — he's not willing to damage that area anymore but that doesn't mean he won't seek out the satisfaction of his demented addiction some other way.
He shoves his hands in my hair, fingers lacing within my locks and although it hurts when he yanks me forward, it is nothing compared to how it would hurt if it were my throat.
I part my lips, his name rolling off my tongue, a plea for him to stop as much as it's a beg for more because with him I never fully know if I should want him or deny him, but my body's need for him always wins in the end.
"I don't fucking understand you," he snarls, before he forces my chest against his hard enough to make my cry out. He continues thrusting within me with one hand remaining on my hip.
His pace is beginning to slowly build: faster, harder, possessive. He takes anything and everything I have, even if it's offered to him or not because I've proven here and now that I am his, mind, body, soul.
"Why do you come back? Why do you do this— tease me with your pussy and your fucking words— when I am a monster. A monster!" He growls and I moan at how good it feels to be pounded by him now that his anger has begun to seep through that previous submissive barrier.
"Maybe you enjoy the pain just as much as me. Maybe you enjoy the torment, the sickness of it all. Maybe now I am worthy of you," he whispers hoarsely and I'm keenly aware that the hand which was once on my hip has now slid down to cup my ass where his fingers feathery caress makes contact with the crack of my ass.
"Say it," he demands before he yanks my head back slightly by my hair and places his lips to my ear lobe where he bites hard. I cry out from the pain but the pleasure is too blinding for me to want to stop. "Fucking say I deserve you. Say you're mine, Sasha."
He has lost his mind.
He probably was lacking it, to begin with.
My orgasm stirs awake in the pit of my stomach when his fingertip brushes the taut hole between my cheeks.
He isn't going to —
"Fucking say it," he snarls as the last warning, and my resolve shatters when he pushes a finger inside of my ass and my orgasm gives no warning of its barreling presence.
"I'm yours, Levi! Oh fuck I'm yours!"
"You love it, Sasha—"
"I love it, the pain, the pleasure," I admit because the orgasm is powerful enough to possess even my mouth. But I cannot blame my admission on the insurmountable pleasure rolling through me, because what slips out between my lips is all the truth.
I feel it deep within myself.
I clamp my mouth shut when I feel forbidden words surfacing.
Words that would earn me a place in hell.
Because I love the pain, I love the pleasure, I love the man who wields them both.
I love the man responsible for my sister's demise. The one who postponed mine but will evidently be my undoing.
When I come, my body surrenders to his and my inner walls squeeze and milk his cock for all it’s worth until I hear that familiar grunt leaving his lips that signals he’s close.
The sound of his ecstasy invokes more arousal within me, and by the time I feel his cock swell and I’m greeted by the warm flood of his semen, I am soaking wet down there.
Juicy, just as he’s claimed he loves.
He comes without restraint because although he hasn’t voiced this aloud, I am no longer his toy.
I am his redemption.
I will be after I am no longer his, because where will this path lead us?
I turn my head enough to peer at our surroundings as he stops twitching inside of me, reality a swift, painful slap that awakens me from my erotic entrapment.
I can no longer reside at his house, his twisted haven.
What will he do with me now?
A million questions manifest in my mind as I feel him soften slightly inside of me. Our breathing is ragged, and I try to collect myself but it’s impossible in his presence.
I go to climb off him but he stops me with a firm hand on my side. I arch a confused brow, trying to read his face but he’s stoic right now.
“Levi?” I question, but he doesn’t part his lips to reply. He simply watches me closely, eyes slowly roaming my face, lingering on each point as if he’s deemed them the most important to remember. “Levi?” I question more firmer this time. “What’s going on?”
I lick my lips as they become dry when an ominous feeling makes me nauseous.
“Where are we going? What will you do with me?”
He sighs, looking lost for a moment, boyish in a way that’s the opposite of his manly, vicious nature.
“I will do what I refused to do in the past.”
With my sister.
“I will let you go.”