Unethical

Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

Maxim

I ’ve never seen anything more beautiful than her hands spreading and dropping that towel. She showed me all of herself by choice, without me coercing her or tricking her.

She chose to show herself to me, and I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.

I smirk at her before lifting her and setting her on the vanity countertop. She spreads her legs for me, and I sink my fingers to my knuckles inside of her as I lean over her and kiss her. She kisses me back, though moans tempt her lips.

My fingers slide in and out of her as her inner walls tighten around me. I didn’t have to do much to earn her body’s forgiveness. It’s easy to play her like an instrument with my fingers. If I could only reach her heart the way I reach her G-spot.

Her lips pull from mine and latch onto my shoulder. She’s coming already. I feel it in the way her teeth dig into my skin and the hard tightening of her cunt around me.

“Come for me, doc,” I say through gritted teeth.

She bites the shit out of me, as if she wants to eat a piece of me, but I ignore the pain and continue fucking her with my fingers, dragging out the orgasm that doesn’t let up until she releases me from her bite. She pants against my skin, her naked chest rising to meet mine.

I pull my hand from her and stuff my fingers into her mouth, sinking them to the back of her throat until she gags. Then I move them down her body and grip her hips. I need her, and I can’t wait any longer.

Her hands grip my shirt and pull me closer, and I allow her to stop me from pulling her off the vanity counter. Her warm breath rolls over my skin as she leans toward my ear.

“I need to say something before you fuck me,” she says, and I expect an earful of how I’m not worth it. How she doesn’t forgive me. How I’m the dirty, diseased dog she kicked from her home.

But then she kisses me and nips at my lower lip.

“I love you, Maxim. As unethical as it is, I fucking love you.”

I’m stunned into silence. She’s often sweeter after she’s come. She’s always been that way. More soft and pliable when her body is coming down from an orgasm, long before she remembers who made her come. But I never expected words like that to fall from her lips.

I take a step back and hold the tops of her thighs. She’s glistening between her legs, her slit coated in her come. I’d say it back just for the chance to be inside her. To slip past that warm wetness and sink into her pussy.

But I pull my eyes away from what I’m drooling over and raise them to hers.

I don’t know how to respond to what she’s just admitted to me. Love isn’t easy for me, and I’m not sure that’s what this is. Is love feeling absolutely worthless without her? Like I can’t draw a deep breath unless she’s near? Is it wanting to give her all of me, revealing the things I never wanted another person to see?

Like my heart, for one. As blackened and soiled as that organ is, I handed it to her anyway and hoped she wouldn’t toss it in the garbage where it probably belongs.

The step back changes the features on her face, washing off the confidence to even admit such a thing to me. I don’t want to hurt her, so I close the gap again and drag her ass off the counter. She looks up at me, and I try to find that same confidence to admit that I love something I absolutely shouldn’t.

I raise my hand to her throat and lift her onto the tips of her toes. She pushes out her lower lip in a sinful pout, and I lean in and bite it.

“If you told me to kill myself right now,” I say, “I’d slit my throat while holding you in my arms. I’d bleed for you.”

That seems easier than saying what she wants me to say. What I want to say. That word is buried so deep down in my diaphragm that I don’t know if I can unearth it. I’m fucking trying.

The look on her face tells me that what I’ve said isn’t enough. If she were happier with me dead, I’d do it without hesitation. But this is so much harder. The hesitation is laughably long as I try to admit my feelings. If I didn’t love her, it would be easier. Lying is second nature to me.

But no, loving her is the fucking truth.

“What if I can’t say it, doc? Is there a diagnosis for that in any of your books?” My hands slide up her body and squeeze her waist.

“I’d say you’re a psychopath, Maxim, like I always believed. Psychopaths aren’t capable of the same sort of love most of us experience.”

I lean toward her mouth. “I am addicted. I am obsessed. But there’s something more.”

“Love?”

“Yes, in whatever way a psychopath can feel it.”

I take her into my arms and walk her toward the bedroom, but that look on her face, that expression that hovers on disappointment, doesn’t shift.

I get between her legs and spread them. My mouth crawls across her slit, cleaning all the wetness that’s gathered there. I spread her with my tongue and lash her hardened clit. My hands rise to her hips, and I grip them until she whimpers. I eat her, devour her, until she’s dripping.

I gather her wetness and paint an L on her chest. I dip my finger again for an O. And again for a V. And then an E.

“You can’t read the word I wrote, not with your eyes,” I say, “but you can feel it, can’t you? The warmth before it cools your skin. You can feel it there. Just my touch radiating from that spot. That’s what I feel. I feel the heat. The memory of your touch. It makes me happy in ways I don’t deserve.”

I dive between her legs and eat her until her thighs tremble against my head. My hands drop from her hips and take residence on her thighs, holding them open as I push her toward her edge again.

“I want to come with you inside me,” she pants.

I’ve never been more willing to oblige a person. I’ve been aching for her.

Desperate for her.

And the fact she wants me inside her and is begging me for it? Nothing could keep me from her.

I climb over her. Her legs wrap around me as I unzip my jeans and pull out my cock. I rest it on her soaked slit. Her heat burns me, but I slide my hips back and push inside her.

Heaven.

Fucking heaven.

The closest I’d ever get to such a place is inside her.

She screams out as her walls stretch to accommodate my girth. I raise my hand to her chest, taking a handful of her perfect breast before pushing my grip to her throat. I keep the weight leaned into my legs as I fuck her with my hand around her neck.

Her hands lock around my wrist, and a moment of worry crosses her face. If she’s worried I might kill her, she shouldn’t be. To live without her would be intolerable. I just like how she looks beneath me, with my hand around her slim, fragile neck. The power to take her life surges through me, but the thought of doing it makes me sick.

Because I love her too much.

I stop thrusting. All motion ceases. I don’t even think I’m breathing.

People like me can fake emotions when prompted. We can mask and say what people want us to say or what we’re supposed to say in any given situation. When a person is crying, we know we’re supposed to ask if they’re okay, even if we couldn’t care less or don’t feel any empathy.

But I wasn’t prompted by anyone. She hadn’t even said a word about it. That thought came from me. From my own fucked-up little mind.

I thrust again. Hard. Fast. Because I need to drive that emotion into her if I can’t say it. She squeezes my dick as her back arches, and she rises against my hand. I put one hand on her lower belly and keep her down on the bed so I can drill her. So I can feel her coming around my dick.

“Maxim!” she screams as her rhythmic spasms speak to my cock.

I release her throat and pull her against me so that she can scream her pleasure into my flesh. I’ve never felt as close to anyone in my life as I do at this moment.

I come with her as her pussy squeezes the life from my dick. I fill her and stay inside her until my cock softens and I pull out of her. Come drips from her. Mine and hers. I gather it on two of my fingers and stuff it back inside her.

She’s mine.

And with my entire being, even if I can’t speak the word, I’m hers.