Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
As I sit in my small office in Vipers Arena, I flip through the backlog files in a last attempt to find anything out of the ordinary.
My ass hurts and I shift in my chair. A groan slips out of me as my muscles scream in pain.
That asshole Kane really meant it about my inability to walk. I can’t even sit without feeling every inch of him inside me.
Since that time he ambushed me in his apartment, he’s been asking me to meet him every single day. Sometimes, at his place, and other times, in secluded forests.
And let me tell you, that man is a fucking animal. I don’t know where he gets the stamina or how he comes up with new ways to make me scream.
It’s like a rollercoaster ride with no ending in sight.
He always chases me first, and when he catches me, he fucks me on all sorts of surfaces—the floor, the stairs, against a tree, in the bathtub.
Everywhere.
Every time I think I’ve figured out his pattern and come up with a plan to escape or hide, he always finds me. No exceptions.
It’s a thrill. A high I think I’ll never come down from.
I’m an addict who can’t quit.
It’s impossible to even think about abandoning the hit he injects in my veins with every encounter.
Whenever he sets up a meeting, I get a tingly feeling in my spine. A need for more.
More.
So much more.
Hell, I believe I’ve been conditioned so deeply, I wouldn’t consider any other form of sex enjoyable anymore.
I’m surprised I even opened my legs for mediocre experiences in the past.
Kane is right. Normal sex bored me to tears. Before him, I thought it was expected not to completely enjoy sex, and those mind-numbing orgasms were the stuff of novels.
I never thought that being hate-fucked to within an inch of my life was the answer.
With a groan, I hit my head on the table. I’m so sick.
And so is he.
But somehow, it works.
I love sex again. I dream of him fucking me and wake up with my hand in my wet pussy.
The violence, the chase, the aggression, and even the name-calling turns me on.
His whole presence turns me on.
Pretty sure I’ve become a sex addict, even if my body barely keeps up with our brutal, bruise-inducing toxic-as-fuck sex.
The whole thing is toxic, really.
Kane is adamant about the ‘using each other’ part and refuses to budge. That man doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body. Whenever I try to stroke his skin or hug him, he stiffens as if I plunged my hand into his chest and ripped out his heart or something.
He also always gets mad and shuts down, so I’ve stopped doing it.
I hate the lack of connection, but it’s better than having him snap or completely withdraw behind his high walls.
At least when I pretend to be fine with the relationship as it is, he drives me back to his place and offers me baths. He even cooks me food and sends me so many clothes that Megan is getting suspicious.
So I had to tell her it’s a sex-only relationship and that the rich love flaunting their money.
But this thing with Kane is highly dysfunctional outside of the sex. My imaginary therapist would point out that even the sex is dysfunctional as fuck, but we both enjoy that, so it doesn’t count.
I tried being gradual in forming a connection. But he shuts me out so fast, it’s a struggle to talk to him.
If I so much as ask about his life, try to get closer, or touch him softly, he completely abandons me.
The way he switches from cordial to an absolute asshole is starting to mess with my head.
I know I’m losing myself to this toxic cycle, but I’m actually scared of seeing his back.
I hate his back.
I hate how easily he could turn around and walk away as if I don’t exist.
But then again, we’re not in a relationship, and he made it clear that what we have revolves around sex only, and I agreed, so I shouldn’t feel this way.
Besides, Megan was right. I shouldn’t hope for anything more from a Davenport. He’s using me? Well, I’m also using him to have access to the secret world he comes from.
If he’s not much help, it doesn’t matter. Because his mom invited me for tea three days ago when she dropped some pastries off at his apartment—that he refused to accept—so I’ll make sure to go.
My fingers pause on a handwritten log that was kept by a previous medical assistant who used to watch the players’ diets.
It’s not because of the notes per se, but the date. September 20.
That’s when Violet was attacked.
I read the notes, but they’re normal, about the players’ diets, the injuries, and the prescribed supplements.
Then my eyes widen when I find a small note at the bottom of the page.