Chapter 19 Like Twin Stars

— 19 —

LIKE TWIN STARS

Gemma

I FIND MY power with the thrust of a knife. It penetrates his flesh as an extension of my hand, triggers a release, and the flood of endorphins overwhelms me.

Fucking hell, that feels good.

Just before the blade plunged, my eyelids snapped shut, protecting my eyes from the spray of blood that would rain down from his wound. I didn't see the moment it sank inside him, but I had the satisfaction of hearing the surprised sound he made.

Did I puncture his heart?

Did I kill him?

I bat my lashes, blinking away heavy droplets of blood that splashed over my right eye. I still feel his weight. He's still on top of me, holding me down. Somehow, his dick is still hard; it's still heavy where it lays on my lower stomach.

My eyes open as he moves. He lifts away to lengthen his spine and sits back on his heels, adding more weight and pressure across my hips.

"Fuck," Oz groans.

The knife isn't in my hand.

When did I let it go?

Where is it?

My eyes flitter across his chest…

There's no wound over his heart.

His right hand—the one with the partial skull tattoo—rises between us and reaches across his chest. I spot the knife when his fingers wrap around the handle.

It's not where I meant it to be…

It's jammed into his left bicep.

"I missed…"

Shit.

I missed!

How the fuck did I miss?

He looks at the wound with some sick sort of fascination, watching blood ooze around the blade.

Then he looks at me, meets my eyes, and grins. "I'm proud of you. Damn, I'm so fucking proud of you. If I hadn't moved, that would've killed me." He looks at the wound again. "I know you pushed it in as hard as you could. I felt your strength, baby." He stretches his fingers away from the handle, then wraps them around again with a firm grip. "You did so fucking good."

His jaw visibly clenches as he braces himself, and with a grunt, he yanks the blade out of his bicep. He exhales with a heavy rush of air as fresh blood falls over me, oozing from the slit and gliding down his arm.

"Fuck, that hurt." He clutches his arm as his upper body twists, then he falls back on the pillows near the headboard.

His right leg straightens as he drops, and it lays heavily across my hips. If he flexed every thick muscle of his toned thigh, he could probably keep me pinned with that leg alone. But he's not flexing, not pressing down as though he means to trap me. The only tension he shows is in the strain of bracing against the pain. Another wave strikes him, and his expression tightens as he sucks air between his teeth.

Get out, Gem.

Go while the pain is still intense.

Now… this is your chance!

I kick my legs, dig my heels into the mattress to push myself backward. He doesn't try to hold me down with his leg, but it's still heavy. I manage to clear my knees, then sweep my feet out from under him. I roll sideways toward the foot of the bed, spin right off the end, and land on the carpet on my hands and knees.

"Where are you gonna go, Gemma?"

I rush to my feet, expecting to see him rise and come after me. Instead, I find he's still laying on the bed.

"Anywhere," I reply, slowly backing away. "Anywhere away from you."

I reach my hand out behind me as I step backward toward the door, searching for the doorknob without taking my eyes off him. My heel strikes something on the floor, and I nearly fall back, but I manage to catch my balance and stay on my feet. I have to look away from him to see what's blocking my escape—the twin mattress he laid sideways in front of the door.

Fuck.

"I told you before," he says, "even if it were possible for you to escape the Gates, you'll die out there on your own."

"I'll die in here with you ." My fingers skim drywall until I find the light switch. I flip it on, flooding the bedroom with light. "I'd rather take my chances—"

"I was never gonna kill you."

His voice is soft, and I must be delusional because that almost sounded sincere. I know he's lying, trying to manipulate me… yet it makes me pause all the same.

"I just wanted to see the color of your blood," he admits.

I bend near the head of the twin mattress, grip the edges, and tug. I turn it and drag it away just enough to allow the minimum space needed to open the door.

"The cut on your ass is small. It's nothing. "

I snap upright. My hair whips around me, flinging over my shoulder as I whirl to look at him. "Excuse the fuck out of me?"

He gazes at me down the length of his prone body, though his head remains on the pillow. "It was the only cut I was gonna make, and I would've cleaned it when I was done."

I take a bold step forward. "It was one cut too many. One fucking cut is too many! Do you have any idea what I've been through? What I've survived?" Another step. "I know the worst of men. My rage is the product of their vile intentions, and you—"

His head rises from the pillow. "You think my intentions are vile?"

I almost laugh as I cross my arms. "Do you seriously have to ask?"

"I do, actually." When I don't immediately respond, he drops his head on the pillow again. "Why are you still here? I thought you were leaving… Isn't there somewhere else you'd rather be than here with me?"

Good question…

Why the fuck am I still here?

"Yeah, you're right." I drop my arms and take a step back. "I have a revenge plot to finish."

"There's my girl," he chuckles. "There's that main character energy."

God, I hate him.

I lift both middle fingers as I take another step back. "Fuck you, Oz. I hope you fucking die."

"Well, fuck, princess…" He rolls onto his right side, his hand still clutching the wound on his left arm. I back up as he rises to sit, sweeping his legs around to drop off the side of the bed. I take another step back and collide with the door. "If you had a dick, I bet it'd be fucking huge… Bigger than mine, no doubt."

"Oh, I wish." My eyes narrow as I push off the door and step forward. "I wish I had a huge fucking cock to sling around. I'd be the most powerful bitch you've ever met, and I'd tear you a new asshole for every girl you've ever raped with yours."

"Guess I'm stuck with the one asshole I already have, then."

I chuckle without humor, tilting my head as I look at him with disbelief. "You fucking liar."

I know I shouldn't engage, but I can't seem to stop. There's a constant push and pull between us, like twin stars in a binary system. He found me in the vastness and dragged me into his orbit.

I need to go… I want to leave.

Yet I already feel the drag that could keep us revolving.

Have we already been bound by each other's gravity?

Have we already begun circling in an infinite celestial dance?

If we have, this will only end catastrophically; we'll collide, we'll collapse, or we'll consume each other entirely. But one way or another, this will end—I'll make sure of it.

I'll eat him alive if that's what I have to do.

He turns his head sideways to look at me, and his expression is more serious than I expected. "I'm not a rapist. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not that."

I wanna scream.

I wanna cry.

I wanna choke the life out of him with my bare hands.

"I can't believe you just said that to me with a straight face." I slowly shake my head as my eyes narrow to slits. "Have you already forgotten what the fuck you did to me in the shower?"

"No, baby, of course not. How could I ever forget how hard I came watching you fake it for me?"

I charge after him with nothing but violence raging through my mind. My fist clenches beside my hip as I rush around the side of the bed, and I only raise it the instant before I strike. I throw a punch that lands hard against the side of his face.

"Motherfucker," I mutter, shaking my hand as a surprising pain shoots through my knuckles.

I hit him hard, and it hurt my hand, but the impact only has him twisting sideways for a moment.

He sits up straight, looks me dead in the eyes, and says, "Harder."

He doesn't need to ask me twice. With a flat palm, I slap him as hard as I can across the cheek. I intend to hit him a third time, but as I draw my hand back, he snatches my wrist.

"Gemma." He commands my attention with a simple yet severe lift of his eyebrows, with the intensity of his needlessly beautiful hazy blue eyes locked on mine. "I'll let you get back to beating the shit out of me in a second, but I need you to answer a question for me first."

"What?" The word is flung from my mouth with fury as I jerk my arm from his grip.

"Did you say no?"

"Excuse me?"

"In the shower… Did you tell me to stop?"

"Of course I did!"

He cocks his head. "You sure about that?"

"Yes, I said…"

What did I say?

I'm sure I told him no.

I must have told him to stop.

But did I say the words out loud?

It shouldn't matter whether I verbalized it.

It doesn't matter, but…

Shit.

Did I ever tell him to stop?

I pause to search my mind. My gaze shifts, becoming unfocused, and I fixate on the pillow resting beside him. I find some mental images of what happened in the shower. A few of them are clear, though many are shrouded in fog. It's like the mist and steam from the shower had dissipated from reality and seeped into my mind to obscure the details.

It feels the same as my memories of the most horrifying moments from that summer with Seb and his friends. Those traumatic recollections existed for years as mental images obscured behind frosted glass. I could make out the abstract visual of the events that took place, but the details, the words spoken, and the emotions I'd felt were too blurred to recall.

They remained that way for years. My mind couldn't even begin to break the frosted glass until I found stretches of time where I felt safe. Even then, it happened slowly. I could only shatter one glass wall at a time for the suffering brought by each break of clarity.

So I have to wonder whether the details of what happened in the shower are hazy because Oz hurt me like Seb or because my mind is so broken that it no longer forms memories the way it should.

Either reality is unsettling.

And regardless of the reality, I'm stuck in a loop, quickly scanning the few clear mental images of what occurred in the shower.

Gently placing his hands, I feel Oz touch my hips, but I can't react. I'm still trapped in the search for what I said to him, what I didn't say to him, what I wanted to say to him but couldn't…

"I remember what you said, if you'd like me to refresh your memory."

The sound of his voice calls to me, bringing me to the present reality where his stellar gravity drags me into orbit. I blink, force my stare to focus, and search the blue of his eyes.

"You said, 'Make me come .'"

I shake my head.

He lifts his hand, brushing a lock of hair from my cheek. "You said, ' Don't stop, Oz. '" He tucks the strand behind my ear. "You said, ' Yes, ' and ' Oh, God, ' and ' Please .'" His hand lowers to my hip again. "But what you didn't say was ' No ' or ' Stop .'"

A breath rushes out of me, sinking my lungs, and my shoulders drop. "But I didn't need to say it…"

My head is spinning.

I feel flustered, mind-fucked.

He's playing mental games with me, and it's not fair.

"You're not fighting fair," I whisper.

He drags me closer, and my stupid body lets him.

"I know, baby." His hands rise just enough to lift the hem of my shirt so he can touch my skin, so he can curl his fingers around my waist. "I know." He leans forward and gently places a kiss over the fabric between my breasts. "It doesn't really matter what you did or didn't say, right?"

Does he mean that?

"What really matters," his hand moves beneath my shirt, glides smoothly over my skin, and stops just beneath my breast, "is what you did when I kissed you."

What did I do?

His thumb sweeps over my nipple, and I feel it everywhere.

I fill my lungs with a gasping breath when he does it again.

My back arches with the next brush.

"Take off your shirt. Let me look at you."

"What?" I'm swept up in an unanticipated haze of lust—a feeling I thought was lost forever. "No, tell me… What did I do?"

"When I kissed you?"

"Yes."

"You kissed me back—and there was nothing fake about it."

His hand glides up and down my side, dragging a little lower over my hip, then farther down my thigh on each sweep.

"I wanted to make you feel good; I wanted to make you come." His hand stops on my thigh, near the bottom hemline of my panties. "I still do." His thumb swoops in, rubbing the inside of my thigh in gentle circles.

I feel breathless, a little light-headed.

My body sways toward him. I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself. "I can't."

His thumb moves higher. "Can't, what?"

I shake my head as my eyes drift shut.

I'm lost in the way he uses me, victim to the way he draws desire.

His hand turns, fingers slipping between my legs.

"Oz…"

"Just tell me you want it." He kisses my stomach. "Just say, ' Please .'"

His fingers breeze over the fabric covering my pussy.

I clench.

I shudder.

I moan.

"I'll do it however you want me to," he promises.

His fingers graze my panties, lulling me into a quiet desire.

"I could stroke inside you with my fingers. I could lick your clit." His hand slowly slips, glides around my hip, flattens against my lower back, and pulls me against him. "You could use me if you want."

He lifts my shirt and lays gentle kisses on my stomach. The light touch of his lips fluttering over my skin sends a flurry of need through my core, and for a second, I forget to breathe.

"I'm already hard for you." His hand glides over the curve of my cheek and continues down the back of my thigh. He clutches behind my knee, lifts my leg, and I shrink back. "It's okay." He pulls my leg over his thigh, guiding my movement until my knee is settled on the mattress. "Now the other." He looks at me expectantly. "I can't lift your leg with this arm; you stabbed me so good, baby."

A dark, vast emptiness creeps into my consciousness.

It's like I'm floating into deep space, and the quiet is actually relieving. I don't feel entirely gone from my awareness; I'm not completely disconnected. I feel as though I've entered a peacefully thoughtless space that allows sensation to exist for what it is.

His touch feels inevitable in this strange moment. It's undeniable, like the chaotic harmony of the cosmos. Unexpectedly, my body responds with acceptance.

There's only sensation

There's only the need to follow desire.

And what I desire is to surrender to his inescapable gravity.

I lift my leg over his, straddling his lap.

His right hand strokes my hair, and it feels so good, I can't help but indulge. My eyes flutter shut, and I let my head fall heavy against his palm.

"Goddamn, you're beautiful. Why don't you just relax? Let me inside you… Sit on my lap, and I can hold you, kiss you, stroke your hair while you use me to come."

My body sinks, desperate for more sensation, fighting to keep my mind in the quiet darkness to remain in this physical state that just feels so fucking good.

His hand falls away from my hair, and I lift my head, opening my eyes. I watch the nebulous clouds dance across the blue of his eyes as he reaches between us. My lips part, and I gasp as his fingers sweep my panties to the side, tickling across my bare pussy as they tug the fabric.

"I need you wet, Gemma. You wanna be wet for this, don't you?" The tip of his cock grazes between my legs, sending tremors through my body. "Let me just play with you a little."

I think he grips his cock because the tip drags with precision, gathering my gradually pooling wetness so he can paint me with it. He barely dips the tip inside me, drags it away, and then swirls it over my clit. He draws out pleasure as he dips, drags, and swirls, repeating the pattern until I'm panting and rocking my hips.

"You can take it, baby. Just sit down and take it whenever you're ready."

Why do I want this?

Why do I need it?

I'm frenzied by desire, and I have to chase it…

I can't resist it.

With resolve, I lower my hips.

We moan as I lower steadily, impaling myself with the thickest, heaviest cock I've ever known. Inch by inch, breath by breath, I drop until I'm filled completely and there's not an inch of space between us.

Fucking hell, that feels good.

It feels so fucking good…

But then there's a flash of light in my mind that bursts through the peaceful darkness. It's like a distant star that explodes like a supernova, sending a brief flurry of thoughts bouncing wildly through my consciousness.

This is wrong.

He's gonna hurt you.

He coerced you into doing this…

How could you ever want him inside you?

He's toxic. He's dangerous.

You should be ashamed.

You don't like this.

You hate him.

You can't enjoy this…

Shame and the sense of wrongness begin to drag me from the empty peace… But the sensual, filthy way he whispers, " Fuck, " as he trembles triggers the same release, the same rush of endorphins I felt when I thrust the knife into his flesh. It scatters the bad thoughts, sends them away, and I drift back into the abyss of empty space and carnal recklessness.

"You're so warm, so fucking perfect." The hand of his wounded arm rests lightly against my hip, the other stroking my body, touching me everywhere he can reach. "Move for me. Rock your hips. Make yourself come."

I couldn't stay still if I wanted to—this need to use him for my own selfish gain is overwhelming.

I remain fully seated as my hips begin to move.

I lean forward and find a perfect angle where my clit pulses against his lower stomach with each forward grind of my rocking hips. I move steadily, slowly but heavily, as the drive for physical pleasure overpowers everything else.

My left hand moves from his shoulder, follows the curve of his neck toward his jaw, then slips around to cradle the back of his head in my palm. Panting, needy, my head lowers and our foreheads touch. My eyes are closed, but I can feel the way he watches me as I move for myself, for my own desire, seeking release for me and only me.

He sighs. "I'm so proud of you, baby. You took me so deep… You're doing so fucking good."

No, I don't want that…

I want him to hate this.

I don't want his praise; I want his spite.

With my forehead still pressed to his, I slowly shake my head while I firm up my grip on the back of his skull. I grind heavier, rock faster, pulsing my hips until my clit is throbbing with warning.

My lips part and remain that way as I pant and moan with quickened breaths. I open my eyes, turning my forehead against his to see the bloody stab wound in his bicep. My right hand slips from his shoulder, softly glides down the side of his arm to rest beside the wound.

I watch his blood ooze from the puncture.

I did that… I cut him.

I ripped his flesh, and I took control.

I tore his skin, and I took my power.

I fuck him harder.

I'm closing in on the relief I need… the relief I deserve .

And just as I feel it beginning, at the moment it rises to start its climb toward the peak, I lay my thumb over his wound and press.

Oz cries out in pain, and I breathe out a moan.

"Fuck, stop !" he groans, but that only spurs me on.

He tries to reach between us and across his chest to remove my hand, but I'm determined to hurt him while I peak. My strength amplifies as pleasure rises, as I take what I want and give him pain in return. I keep him firmly against me, my fingers splayed at the back of his head, and our foreheads press together so hard it causes an ache.

I bask in knowing he feels that ache, too, but the minor discomfort isn't enough—I want to hurt him deeper. I shift my thumb, press it harder, feel it creep into his wound…

And he howls in pain.

This is power.

This is what it feels like to conquer a man.

My hips thrust erratically as I near the peak, as the spectacular tingling in my pussy explodes, sends me flying over the crest with the most perfect pleasure I've ever felt. Shockwaves of prolonged bliss ripple through my body, and though my movements slow, I don't stop, lazily rocking my hips through the fall.

Relief.

Fucking hell.

I could cry tears of joy for the way this relieves me.

It wasn't just a release devoid of satisfaction.

It was enjoyable, gratifying.

It was everything an orgasm should be.

I let out a small laugh as I release him. I lean back, arching my spine, and let my head fall back on my shoulders. I take a moment to revel in my satisfaction.

But in a flash, the moment's gone.

Despite the pain he must feel in his injured arm, both his hands clamp around the sides of my waist with a warning squeeze. My head drops to level, and my wide eyes meet the depravity in his.

My hands snap to clutch his wrists. "Don't—"

In one motion, he lifts me off his lap, twists, and flips me onto the mattress, where I land heavily on my back. He moves over me, snapping something in my mind that floods light into the mental darkness. Every haphazard thought I'd suppressed while chasing desire rushes in, racing to fill all the empty space.

Just like that, control is taken, my power is seized, and pleasure fades to gray. He reaches across my body, and when he draws back to hover over me, I see what he was reaching for… He holds it in his hand—the knife. I'm so fucking stupid that I forgot all about it.

How could I forget?

How could I let this happen?

With haste, he reaches down, pressing the blade to my throat. Fearfully, I freeze, entirely overwhelmed by my senses and the flood of thoughts filling my mind.

Oz shifts between my legs. He grazes my pussy with his other hand, readjusting my panties where they bunched with the movement. He pushes the fabric toward my thigh, out of his way, then drives his cock deep inside me.

I gasp.

He groans.

He fucks me.

"Hold still for me." He thrusts. "I don't wanna slip and add another cut to your pretty little throat."

"Oz, please—"

"Yes." He bends over me, bracing his free hand on the mattress above my head, the knife still at my throat. "That's my girl, begging so sweetly."

"I'm not begging—"

"No, Gemma. I don't wanna hear any other words fall from your pretty lips if they aren't Yes , Oz , Please , or Harder ."

"I don't—"

He rears back, still thrusting as he lifts the knife from my throat, lays the blade flat to my chest, and slowly drags it between my breasts.

I hold my breath as tears fill my eyes.

"Does this scare you, baby? Do you feel how hard and deep I sink inside you and fear I'll do the same with this?" He lifts the knife, bringing the tip of the blade to rest at my sternum.

I'm terrified, seized with fear.

But I also feel my stomach clench with the way he moves inside me. Something deep within me is twisted, and I know it's wrong. It's the way that fear mingles with the desire to come again.

It's sick.

It's wrong.

It has to be some stupid kink developing from my trauma.

I feel him swell, grow, and throb inside me. It tugs on a thread from my core, one that pulls pleasure from that twisted feeling. I don't mean to make a sound, but involuntarily, I moan. The moan is meaningless, though—the tug of pleasure is fleeting, a quick jolt of something that feels good, and a moment later, it's gone.

I don't want him to fuck me like this.

I didn't ask for this.

But I can't tell him to stop under the threat of his knife.

Shame strikes as he thrusts hard.

Self-hatred settles as I endure his erratic movements, witness his loss of control, and feel the flood of warmth that spills inside me.

Fuck… He came inside me.

I drop off a cliff into an ocean of panic, and the knife no longer concerns me.

"Get off." I swat at his hand. "Get off me." I kick my legs. "Get off !" He removes the blade from my chest, and I jackknife, slap my palms to his chest and shove as he slips out of me. "Get away!"

I leap off the bed, jerk open the door, and dash down the hall.

"Gemma," he calls out. "Don't make me chase you."

His cum drips, seeping out from inside me, and tears fill my eyes. I've never been so confused and overwhelmed. I've never felt so hot and filled with so much hatred all at once. I've never wanted a man who terrifies me the way he does.

Oz will break me, but worse… I fear he'll change me.

I have to run. I have to leave.

I have to get away from Ozlo Kincaid.