Torture to Her Soul
Page 12

The anger I can deal with… anything but the heartache.
Before she can speak, before she can react, I'm up again, my hands on either side of her on the bed as I lean forward, so close my nose brushes against hers.
She inhales sharply, this time from surprise.
"Careful," I whisper, my voice low and raw from the restrained emotion. "You know I like it when you fight."
"Fuck you."
I press my lips to hers, kissing her roughly.
She doesn't kiss me back.
It lasts only a few seconds before she pushes against my chest, shoving just enough space between us for her to hit me.
Hard.
She clocks me right in the mouth, her fist unexpected, catching me off guard. I grimace at the sharp stab of pain and grab ahold of her wrist before she can punch me again. She winces, flexing her fingers, glaring at me, her nostrils flaring as she shakes from anger.
The metallic tang of blood coats my tongue as I run it across my bottom lip, feeling the small gash where my teeth sliced into it. It burns, already pulsating to the rampant beat of my heart.
It isn't often someone has the guts to swing on me. Even more rare is my guard being down enough for them to actually connect.
The feelings I shoved down just a moment ago boil over, the fuse lit, everything I keep caged in all exploding out. I drag her back onto the bed as I climb on top of her, and she yells something, but her voice is barely a breath in the breeze, a dull murmur drowned out by the humming of electricity inside of me.
There's only one word that will break me out of this haze.
Red.
Red, the color of rage, the color of hate, the shade that takes over my life to the point I can barely think straight. Red, the color of blood, the thick ooze that seeps into hardwood floors and soaks fabric, rarely removable once its been spilled. Red, like the flush of her cheeks, and the curve of her mouth that just begs to meet my lips again. Red, like the claw marks she rakes down my arms, my chest, my neck, and my face. She's fighting, but she's pulling and not pushing, holding me to her as she annihilates my skin.
Red.
Red.
Red.
I kiss her hard again, the sting from my split lip absorbing deeper, seeping into my muscles, fueling me on. I bite her, not enough to draw blood, but enough for her to feel it like I do.
"Say it," I growl, pressing myself against her. I'm hard, so hard it hurts. "Say the word."
I want her to say it.
I need her to say it.
Because if she doesn't—if she doesn't scream it at the top of her lungs, if she doesn't spit it at me like venom—I'm not going to be able to stop. Red tints my vision, a hazy coating over everything, and 'red' is the only thing that can take it away.
"Say it," I tell her again, my lips hovering just above hers, so close I can feel her quick breaths, "but don't say it unless you mean it."
She glowers at me with more fury than I've ever seen from her before. My little kitten transformed into a ferocious beast, a hungry lioness that's capable of tearing me apart. And she will. She'll shred me.
All she has to do is say that word, and I'll be in pieces.
"Say it," I taunt. "Fucking say it."
Her lips part, and I wait. Every muscle inside me tightens, straining, my chest constricting as I wait for that word to greet my ears, but all I get is a shaky exhale. It comes out like a growl, the sound lingering in the air around us for a fraction of a second before she lifts her head just enough to smash her lips to mine.
And I'm gone.
Clothes are tattered and bodies are battered as we strip away every stitch of fabric separating us. There's nothing gentle about it, nothing loving.
This isn't love.
This is hate.
Real hate.
She hates me, and I think it soothes her, pacifies her heartache, letting her unleash that rage on me.
I don't mind.
I welcome it.
She can hit me, beat me, torture me, and I'll take it all. I'll happily absorb the impact of her fists and the bitterness of her words. She can purge her aggression, lose herself with me, and I'll never begrudge her for it.
Because I know the feeling.
I know the anger, the hate, and the pain.
And looking at her, as she pulls from my lips for a fraction of a second to stare me in the eyes, is like looking in a mirror again… a broken, jagged sliver of glass reflecting my soul back at me.
This time, it's the dark half.
She's just as fucked up as I am.
And maybe I did that to her.
Maybe it's wrong of me.
But fuck if it doesn't feel right this way.
I kiss her cheek, chin, neck, chest, again, and again, and again, my teeth nipping at her flesh as I drag her further onto the bed, settling between her thighs. She's already wet, her skin flushed, every part of her heating in anticipation.
Grabbing her legs, I shove them apart, forcing her knees to her chest as my lips meet hers again. I push inside of her, hard, thrusting deep, and she cries into my mouth, growling a lone curse. "Fuck."
"I'm going to," I whisper against her lips. "I'm going to fuck it all out of you, every bit of it." I pull out and thrust right back in, eliciting another cry. "I'm going to fuck you until you beg me to stop." Another thrust. Another cry. "And then I'm still not going to stop, not until you say the word to make me." I pull back to look at her as I thrust again, deeper than before. Her breath hitches. "I'm not going to stop until you say it… until you mean it."