“Probably not. They think you’re a prude, after all. But it’ll create a niggling doubt and what-if questions. Ava might start putting the pieces together, such as when you always wore scarves or when you went home limping and closed yourself up in your room. They’ll form theories, and you’ll be put under increased pressure the more you deny them. With time, you’ll become disgusted with yourself for lying to your best friend. She’ll probably be revolted with you and question all the years you’ve spent together.”
“Ava is not like that,” she murmurs as if the statement is meant for herself instead of anyone else.
“You don’t know that for sure. No matter how open-minded people pretend they are, deep down, they judge you for being different. They kink-shame you, tag you with labels, and shove you into the lowest category. You’ll be nothing more than an animal who’s following their instinct. Someone who asked for it.”
“Shut up.” Her voice is barely a whisper, a trembling haunted sound that obviously scares the shit out of her.
Because she knows it to be the truth. It’s why she’s never shared this part of herself with anyone. She must’ve learned in her psychology endeavors that society doesn’t react well to those who are different.
Society stomps on them, fills them with doubt, and throws them into a ditch where they rot and die.
And Cecily is terrified of that prospect.
A better person would’ve given her affirmation and attempted to lessen the blow.
But I’m not a good fucking person.
“Your precious Landon will see you as nothing more than a whore. A filthy slut with depraved tastes and several holes ready to be used. He might fuck you like he fucks the other holes, but he’ll never like you as much as you like him. You’ll be nothing more than a cum bucket.”
She lifts her hand and I see the hit coming, but instead of stopping it, I let her slap me across the face.
Tears shine in her eyes despite the scrunching of her nose to keep them at bay and hide her weakness.
“You’re a monster,” she snarls. “I hate you.”
“Your feelings for me have no importance.” I turn around. “Follow me or I’ll make your worst nightmare a reality.”
She doesn’t.
At least, at first.
From the corner of my eye, I can see her standing by the car, her whole frame shaking, but by the time I reach where I parked my bike, she beeps her car closed and quickens her steps toward me.
Cecily wipes her tears with the back of her hand and shoots imaginary daggers in my direction.
I pull out the extra helmet and strap it on her head. She starts to push me away so she can do it herself, but I sink my fingers in her arms and force her to let go.
Despite her having the helmet on, I can feel the animosity radiating off her, floating around us and attempting to stab my skin.
I put on my own helmet and straddle my bike. Cecily casts one last glance at the club, probably waiting for her Prince Not-Charming to come out and save her.
“Hop on,” I order not so gently and she jerks, whether it’s at my tone of voice or something else, I don’t know.
She gets on the bike and grabs onto my shoulders. “For the record, I don’t want to go with you.”
“So you keep telling me. You can be persistently repetitive.”
“And I will keep telling you. You know, just in case you grow a heart and start respecting people’s wishes.”
“I might if I had any fucks to give.”
I rev the engine and her small frame jerks against my back when I forcibly start forward.
Cecily has no choice but to wrap her frail arm around my waist tightly, holding on for dear life. That, or she’ll fall off.
Whenever I go at a steady pace, she tries to put distance between us, her hold loosening from around me. I go faster every time, hitting the brakes at small intervals, just to have her crash and glue herself to me.
Her perky tits smash against my back and her softer curves mold into my hard muscles. There’s a bizarre type of satisfaction whenever her fingers dig into my abs and she grabs onto me.
Or when her thighs touch mine, quivering, shivering.
Shuddering.
No clue if it’s because of the wind, the vibration of the bike’s engine, or her fear of the unknown, but I revel in every visceral emotion I rip out of her.
Every touch and every frantic thud of her heart.
It might be sadistic, downright demented, but I want to be the reason behind her extreme emotions.
Whether it’s sexual or not.
There’s something about corrupting a good girl, delving beneath her skin and ripping out her deepest, darkest parts.