Page 33 of My Dark Divine
She bites her lower lip, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. “No?—”
“Liar,” I interrupt, sensing the battle between her resistance and the desire that clouds her mind. “Come on, baby girl. Show me how much I scare you.”
My words shatter her composure. Her lips part wider, a silent scream caught in her throat as her hand grips the windowsill until the tips of her fingers turn white. Her inner thighs clench together, the silk fabric catching between them as she comes all over herself. The seatbelt is probably the only thing keeping her from collapsing under the force of the orgasm that crashes over her.
Fuck. She’s so beautiful when she gives in.
Reluctantly, I tear my eyes away, easing off the gas pedal as I lower our speed and roll up the window. The sounds from outside blur into the background, leaving only her ragged breaths beside me. Each panting gasp nearly chokes her as she struggles to get the precious oxygen she craves.
My cock throbs with a primal need, one that wins over the withdrawal, which begins to feel like distant noise. I place my elbow on the windowsill, my hand scrubbing across my chin as I try to come up with something to distract myself from what just happened.
Gradually, the aftermath creeps in, and my familiar anger pierces through the haze she cast. A scowl contorts my face, and I feel my muscles twitching, ensnared by the tendrils of irritation. Her hurried breaths only add to my annoyance, and I struggle to hold back a biting remark I want to direct at her. It’s not her fault for making me feel weak, but now I’m fucking stuck, unsure of how to proceed. I don’t understand why I letthings spiral out of control, complicating our already tangled relationship.
I’m confused.
She annoys me while simultaneously fueling my desire. I can barely resist the urge to stop the car and pull her into my lap. She’s so close, yet it feels like she’s a world away—innocent and disoriented, nibbling on those soft lips I desperately want to taste again.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I can’t stop thinking about her.
I just fuckingcan’t.
I can’t let her find out what effect she has on me. It would ruin everything, and the last thing I want is to fuck it all up. She clears her throat, and I shake my head, recognizing that she’s about to ask me something. But she brushes off my disapproval—or pretends not to notice—as she starts, “West, I?—”
“Shut up,” I cut her off, feeling her eyes on me from the corner of my vision. The conflict of betrayal and confusion plays out on her face, and I fucking hate myself for my harshness. But I can’t let that small flicker of warmth expand. “Shut the fuck up, Venetia.”
After a long moment of staring, she folds the fabric of her dress between her fingers and turns silently to the window, her palpable hatred for me shoving aside any pleasant thoughts.
Just what I need.
Each knockon the door feels like a hammer slamming into my skull. My nose burns from the sting of the coke I inhaledmoments ago, and I rub the spot under it, desperate to speed up the process.
I usually do three long lines—there’s only one left. But the persistent knocking is distracting as fuck. We got here early—I can already fucking imagine the fines I’ll have to pay in the morning for tripling the speed limit—and I left her, retreating to the bathroom for my routine.
The fact that my craving for this shit has dulled since I started spending time with Venetia confuses me. I’m forced to be around her constantly, yet I feel freer than I ever have. Here’s the thing about her—with Venetia, I don’t have to pretend. She knows who I am and hates me for it, just as much as I hate her. It’s mutual. When the doors close behind us, we’re free to bite each other over and over again until there’s nothing left.
It’s suffocating, but at the same time… it feels effortless. I don’t have to think about what I can or can’t say. If I’m tripping out, she’ll call me an idiot. I prefer this to the usual pretentiousness, silent treatment, and lies. She’s straightforward, just like I am.
I’ve never been one for change. I prefer things the way they are, and I’ll die on that hill. So these fresh, out-of-character feelings confuse me. I don’t like feeling something so new and profound, and I don’t want it to last. I don’t deserve to feel better. My impulsiveness will inevitably fuck everything up, and then I’ll hear the same things my father loves to remind me of—the truth about myself.
That’s why I have to bury myself back in the pit.
“West! Open the fucking door!”
I don’t know what she wants from me, nor do I care. I focus on the single white, powdery line before me and, in one swift motion, snort it all up. I don’t even bother to roll the bill like I usually do—that’s how impatient I am.
With a trembling hand, I reach for the toilet seat I’ve been using and wipe off the excess product, gathering some with my fingers before rubbing it into my gums.
A loud thud slams into the door, making it shudder. “I’m going to fucking break it, I swear to God!”
My head spins as the burning sensation travels up my nose and settles inside me. I rub my sweat-covered forehead, sniffing in any remnants that might have stuck to my skin before rising to my feet. The world shifts, and I slam my palm against the wall to brace myself.
The chemical aftertaste burns in my mouth as I muster all the strength I have left, unlock the door, and swing it open. Venetia’s startled face greets me, her eyes widening in concern, swiftly replacing the annoyed scowl.
“What are?—”
Ignoring her, I push past, ready to walk out of the room. I have no power or desire to stand there and take in the questions she already knows the answers to.
