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“Yes, what?”
“Touch me.”
He pulled back far enough to look into my eyes. “What happened to
being good?”
“Fuck it,” I said. “Let’s hurt each other. Let’s hurt each other so bad we
walk out of this thing on broken legs, screaming in pain. When it’s over, I
want to be praying for death and wishing I could do it all over again.”
He pushed me into the wall by the sternum and held me in place as he
unbuttoned my jeans. I didn’t have any fight left in me. Resisting what I
wanted had been exhausting, and letting him hold me down and have me
was a blissful relief.
I’d regret it. I regretted a lot of things, but they were my things.
He pushed down my waistband, kissing every butterfly tattooed on my
belly, and stopped, looking from my bare skin to my face. “I want you to be
sure. Because I am.”
My body was a hungry mass of liquid fire, like lava rolling down a
hillside, scorching reason and sense in unstoppable destruction.
“Break my heart, Logan.”
“I’m going to break more than that.”
He threw me over the bed, face down, and pulled my jeans down to my
knees. He was rough—demanding that I cede control to him, and I did out
of an arousing habit, pushing away the little voice that wanted to remind me
it could all go wrong.
“You know what happens to bad girls?” he said.
I looked over my shoulder. He kneeled on the bed and undid his belt.
“They get punished?” I said, savoring the word.
“Some do.” He opened his fly. “Do you?”
“I do. I want to be. Yes.”
I could have thought of a hundred more ways to agree. Logan ran his
hand along my ass, squeezing me, teasing the seam between them.
“How did I keep my hands off you this long?”
“It’s hard to be good.”
He nodded and pulled my hips to the side of the bed so my waist bent
over the edge.
“This is for not talking to me.” He slapped my ass so hard I yelped.
“This is for pretending you were happy.” He slapped me again, then ran his
fingertips along my wetness, then added another slap. “That’s for being a