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Begging for It Page 4


  Not to say that Arturo and Carmen don’t argue. They do, and it can be fierce. Carmen’s attitude about his early marriage to Shay and the pregnancy—let’s say it took her a while to adjust. But Ortizes even fight fair. Even at their angriest, they’re always talking to each other from a place of love.

  Where do you learn how to do that? And how? The habits of a functional family seem alien to me—literally, like something from an entirely different planet. Different from the one I grew up on, anyway.

  I find both brother and sister on the second story of the town house, in the nursery, disassembling Nicolas’s crib. “Uh, guys?” I say. “Doesn’t the baby need that?”

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  Arturo never looks up from his place on the floor, where he’s hurriedly unscrewing board from board. “Product recall. Who makes a baby crib that kills babies? This is what we get for shopping at the Salvation Army”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Carmen says. She’s in her San Antonio Stars jersey, carefully detaching the stars-and-moon mobile from what remains of the crib. “The charity should’ve checked to see if there were past recalls on any of these products before they sold them again. Or the parents who donated it in the first place! I bet they threw it out at the original recall and donated it for the tax benefits, and they didn’t even care if some other kid got hurt. They’re scum. ”

  Maybe the donors had no idea that their baby crib was a white wooden death trap, but the mood in the room keeps me from defending these unknown people. Carmen and Arturo are united in their shared loathing, and they both get a whole lot more productive when they’re angry. It’s like they each know how to take their temper out on the forces of entropy, instead of other human beings. “You want me to help out?”

  “Two people is enough to work on this,” Arturo says. “But someone needs to make a Costco run. The diapers this kid goes through!”

  I don’t want to go to Costco by myself. Not only will I have to fight my way through the hordes of people who somehow need to buy televisions and economy-size bottles of hot sauce at the same time—but I’ll also be alone with my thoughts. That’s the last thing I need today. “I’d rather stay here,” I say, like it’s no big deal. “Why don’t I take crib duty while one of you guys heads out to Costco?”

  Arturo gets this hopeful look on his face. “I haven’t seen the sun in forty-eight hours. ”

  I can’t help laughing. “So go. See the sun. And give me the screwdriver. ”

  This is how Carmen and I wind up sitting together on the nursery floor, surrounded by soft yellow walls and approximately one zillion crib pieces. “I had no idea these were so complicated,” I say.

  “My thesis is on point set topology with an emphasis on separation axioms. ” Carmen scowls at the junk around her. “This is harder. ”

  If I ask what any of that actually means, I’m going to get a lesson in mathematics I really don’t want. So I stick to the main subject at hand. “Do they have another crib ready?”

  “Yeah—got one off Craigslist cheap. The seller’s being super cool, dropping it off later on today. Mostly assembled, thank God. ”

  I’m relieved to hear it. Arturo and Shay are still undergraduates. While they’re both way more responsible with money than most people their age—more than I was, for sure—they don’t have much. Every piece of furniture in this town house is thrifted or freecycled. It doesn’t look it, thanks to Shay’s mastery of “hipster chic,” and the sheer love and care they’ve poured into their first home. But even small financial setbacks could hit them hard.

  For an instant I remember Chloe e-mailing me photos of Libby’s nursery. They’d found out the gender first thing—which Chloe said was good, because it let Anthony “get over the disappointment” of having a daughter instead of a son. She’d had her decorator paint the walls seashell pink and hang soft lace curtains over every window. At the time, I could only think of the impending arrival as more Anthony in the world, so I wanted to hate the nursery. To find it tacky. Instead I thought it was the sweetest place I’d ever seen. And when I saw the tiny crib for the first time, I could imagine the baby lying inside. That was the moment Libby became more than simply the proof my fate was shackled to Anthony Whedon’s forever. That’s when I realized this baby would be my niece—a part of my family, a part of me.

  I waited along with my parents on the day Libby was born. I held her in my arms, took pictures like any proud aunt, even tolerated Anthony trying to stick a cigar in my mouth. If only I could say I had tons more memories like that, countless cherished moments I spent feeding her, taking her out in her stroller, or singing silly little songs.

  But spending lots of time with Libby would mean spending time with her father. I’m a strong person in many ways, but relaxing in my rapist’s presence—that’s beyond me. So all the good times I’ve had with Libby have come in short bursts around the holidays and the occasional Skype call. She adores me as much as I adore her. God knows why. I’m grateful the little time we spend together is enough to kindle love in the heart of a child.

  Libby won’t be a kid forever. Soon she’ll have dance recitals, school plays, graduations, and she’ll expect me to be there, in the same row with her parents. Either I’ll have to get used to sitting shoulder to shoulder with Anthony, or I’ll have to let a little girl down.

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  And of course she can never know what her father did to me. No child should ever have to know that about her dad, even if it’s the truth.

  “Hey,” Carmen says, bringing me back to the here and now. “If you’re not going to use the screwdriver, hand it over. ”

  “I’m working. ” And I get back to it, focusing my entire attention on taking the crib apart.

  That way I can stop myself from wondering whether I’m hours away from making love with Jonah again—or finding out I’ve lost him for good.

  •   •   •

  I don’t know if Jonah will come to me tonight. I don’t know what he’ll do if he does; the nature of my ultimatum means he’ll have total control over the scenario, if we do return to our games.

  However, I know some things he absolutely won’t do.

  When Jonah and I first agreed to do this, before we knew anything about each other but our names and our desires, we laid down extremely clear boundaries:

  He can never threaten me with a weapon.

  He can slap me around, even hurt me, but not to the point of serious pain or injury.

  He will not take photographs or video of his “attacks. ”

  He will not come on me.

  That last one seems so mundane, I know—but Anthony did that when he raped me, and the horror of that moment has stayed with me always. Initially I had other boundaries for Jonah as well, but as our games continued and he earned my trust, I let those boundaries fall. He can tie me up now if he wants. He can even fuck me in the ass.

  (Jonah’s the only man who’s ever done that to me, and we only got around to it once. I wonder if he’ll take my ass again tonight. )

  I have to obey certain boundaries too:

  I can fight back, but can’t leave marks or injuries he’d have to explain later.

  If anyone ever sees part of what’s going on and misunderstands, I have to put aside my embarrassment and defend Jonah if necessary.

  And I may not call him daddy—a rule I thought was funny when he first laid it down. Now that I know the truth about Carter Hale, Jonah’s need for that rule sickens me, makes me bleed for him inside.

  Of course we have a safe word. Silver. I’ve had to use it with him twice so far. Tonight won’t be the third time, I feel sure. Tonight I think I could take anything, if only Jonah will come to me.

  I know he might not. Yet I’m already aching for it, the heat between my legs as tight as a clenched fist. As I park my car in front of my little house, I think, Please, Jonah, don’t make me wait much longer.

  Even though I know Jonah would never show up early for one of our games, my heart leaps into my throat the minute I walk inside my house. Every rustle of the wind through the trees outside makes me imagine him walking closer. Every creak of the wooden floorboards brings back the memory of him walking toward me in the night, dressed in black, ready to take me down.

  Two and a half hours until I unlock my door.

  I make myself a simple omelet for dinner, eat it at my tiny table. It occurs to me I’ve never cooked for Jonah. Not that I’m some sort of master chef—anything but. Still, we’ve skipped over so many of the usual, gentler milestones of intimacy. I’d like to make up for that, if I get the chance.

  Just not tonight.

  I wash the dishes. I take a shower, slathering myself with vanilla-scented body scrub so every inch of my skin will feel like silk. Every place my fingers touch, I imagine being touched by Jonah. He’s gripped me there, bruised me, kissed me.

  Afterward I blow-dry my honey-brown hair, trouble I’d never take to just sit at the house alone. I’d usually change into a shapeless T-shirt and leggings after an evening shower; tonight, I slip into a silky white robe. Nothing else. It will be easy for Jonah to peel the robe off. Maybe he’ll use the sash to tie me up.

  Assuming he comes here at all, I remind myself. I’m trying to brace myself in case he doesn’t come. Though losing Jonah would crush me no matter what, I want to at least be . . . prepared.

  So I try to read, but while my eyes scan over the words, my brain refuses to make sense of them. I go over the same paragraph time and again, attempting to concentrate on the here and now. It never works. Netflix offers me a TV show I’ve been meaning to catch up on, but it’s just colors and light projected from a screen. Meaningless. All I can think about is my ever-quickening pulse, and the progression of the hands around the clock.

  9:59. One whole minute early, I walk to my tiny kitchenette, take a deep breath, and unlock the door. Then I cut off all the lights in the house except for one small lamp in my bedroom—the one farthest from the bed. Now I can only lie down and wait.

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  Will he come in? Is he out there already?

  It hits me then: Of course he is. Even if Jonah has no intention of having sex with me tonight, he’s still outside. Because I told him I’d leave the door unlocked for one hour. That means I’m a little bit less safe.

  And Jonah—who has tied me, fought me, held me down, bruised me, had me at his mercy—would always want to protect me.

  Our relationship is pure paradox.

  Or it was. I’ll find out within the hour.

  But down deep, I had hoped he would come through the door almost as soon as I’d slid back the bolt. He hasn’t. Jonah must be parked across the street even now, sitting behind the wheel of his car, listening to the radio and not coming in. On some level he wants to; I know that. Wanting isn’t enough.

  In the darkness outside, Jonah is fighting a battle inside his own head.

  Fifteen minutes go by. Twenty. Arousal begins to fade into sorrow.

  I roll onto my belly in the bed, the pillow cool against my flushed face. Now I feel foolish, even manipulative. What do you mean, giving someone an order to fuck you or else? Jonah doesn’t want to hurt you—he’s uncomfortable with our rape fantasy. Shouldn’t he be? Aren’t you?

  Then my ears prick up. My breath catches. You imagined that sound. Just like you’ve been doing all night. You only think that’s the sound of the door hinges—

  And I hear Jonah’s footstep on the floor.

  Five

  I sit up, hands still braced against the sheets, just before Jonah walks in.

  He’s dressed like he usually is—jeans, belt, long-sleeved red tee. No black gear, no mask. Jonah spreads his arms to brace them on either side of my bedroom doorway. The dim light outlines his muscled arms, and hides the expression on his face.

  “You think you can play this any way you want,” he says, voice low and rough.

  Is this the game or isn’t it? It is. I know it is. He wouldn’t be in my house right now if it weren’t. But Jonah is only barely playing a role tonight. I sense that his fury is directed at this fantasy, and our mutual need for it; he’s going to burn it off the only way either of us ever could—in bed. The anger he’s brought here is real.

  So are our rules. I know that. If I say silver, it’s over. I’m safe, I’m safe, with Jonah I’m always safe.

  One deep breath, and I’m ready. Let the game begin.

  First I feign ignorance. “I don’t know what you—”

  “Shut your mouth,” he says. “Unless I tell you to open it for me. ”

  Sometimes I fight him. Sometimes I submit immediately. Tonight I submit. I scramble backward on the bed until my back hits the headboard, but I say nothing.

  Jonah reaches down to his belt and unbuckles it as he walks forward. I shiver at the sound of metal and leather.

  “You thought you could push me. ” His voice has lowered almost to a growl. “You thought I was yours to boss around. But that’s not how this works, little girl. You belong to me. ”

  He snaps the belt between his hands, and I jump. Adrenaline hits me like a drug injected into my heart—every nerve is on fire for his touch, every instinct telling me to flee or fight. My limbs tremble; my breaths quicken.

  Jonah notices. “Panting for it already, you little whore? Maybe I ought to make you beg. ”

  With his belt in one hand, he reaches for my foot with the other. Deep instinct makes me jerk back. That only ignites his anger. Jonah lunges across the bed, grabs my ankle so tightly it takes me to the edge of pain, and drags me down the mattress. My white robe rides up, baring me to the waist.

  “I knew you wanted it,” Jonah says, looking at my exposed body. “Look at you, just waiting for somebody to come along and fuck you. Because that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To get used rough. ”

  He lets go of my ankle only to yank open the top of my robe, exposing my breasts. His fingers knead them aggressively hard, enough that I whine in discomfort. And yet he must be able to feel my nipple hardening against his palm.

  “Little slut,” he whispers. “I’m going to use you now. And you’re gonna take it. ”

  Oh, God, I don’t want to love this. But I do. I do.

  Jonah thrusts two long fingers into my cunt—no warning, no preparation. Doesn’t matter. I’m already so wet for him. He laughs, a low, wicked sound. “Oh, yeah. You’d beg me for it, wouldn’t you? Beg me, whore. Beg me to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. ”

  I want to. But that would shatter the illusion. Instead I turn my head, push myself back far enough that his fingers slip out of me. As I try to crawl across the bed, away from him, Jonah’s hand fists in my hair, brutally tight. I cry out; he doesn’t let go.

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  “When I tell you to stay,” he whispers, “you’ll stay. ”

  He slips the leather belt around my neck. I freeze on my hands and knees, and my fear isn’t feigned. This isn’t a weapon, but it’s closer. We’re on the very border of our limits. Jonah’s testing me.

  But this is what I need. He pushes me to the brink, and slightly past it, the way no one else ever has.

  I hear the purr of his zipper, the rustle of cotton. His free hand is busy taking his cock out. If I could turn my head to see it, I would—Jonah’s body is so fucking beautiful. But the strap of leather around my neck keeps me frozen still. If he pulled it any tighter, twisted his wrist a couple of times, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. Jonah has total control, which is just how we both like it.

  He whispers, “Spread your legs, bitch. ”

  “Please—”

  “That’s right. Beg me to fuck you. ” The belt tightens around my neck. “Beg or you’ll find out what happens to girls who don’t want it. ”

  My voice sounds like he’s choked me already. “Please fuck me. ”

  “How do you want me to fuck you? Tell me. You know what I want to hear. ”

  “. . . Fuck me hard. ”

  “Oh, yeah. Then open your legs for me, slut. ”

  By now I’m reeling. The whirlwind of hormones and emotions makes my arousal indistinguishable from panic. If Jonah were a stranger, an intruder who had found his way in here, I would have to surrender. Slowly, I begin to part my thighs.

  Not fast enough for Jonah. With a snarl, he uses his free hand to yank one of my legs over sharply. Now my cunt is laid bare before his gaze. Jonah reaches for me, but this time he buries a finger in my ass. I cry out in alarm that isn’t entirely feigned. Feeling his finger in me awakens primal fear. Even though the one time Jonah did this I came so many times I nearly passed out, I want to pull back. This is all happening so fast, like tumbling over a waterfall—

  But I gave him permission. I released him from that limitation. If Jonah wants to fuck my ass all night long, he’s still within the rules of the game.

  The only way to stop him is to say silver, and I won’t. I can’t. I want this too much—no matter what this is.

  When the leather strap suddenly loosens, I suck in a deep breath. But Jonah’s not showing me mercy. He’s only changing his attack. One arm hooks through both of mine, pinning them behind my back. Then I feel his hand gripping my ass, and the firm hot pressure of his cock against my thigh.

  “You feel that? Huh?” Jonah can sound like a demon when he laughs. “That’s what you’re going to take for me. ”

  With that he shoves himself inside my cunt, in one savage thrust.

  God. Jonah is so big—long and thick, so much that when I first saw him I didn’t know if I could take him all. It feels like he’s splitting me in two. I cry out in mingled pain and pleasure as he rocks into me, and my whole body bends and turns in the desperate effort to accept every inch of his cock.

  My reward is Jonah’s other hand gripping the back of my head, forcing it down onto the mattress. “You don’t make a sound unless you’re begging me for more. Are you ready to beg?”

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