Free Expecting Him by Scarlet Corrine Page B

changed, that your curves are more prominent and your cunt needs more attention. Rough. Hard. Attention.”
    I look away before I answer, dropping my head so that my ginger colored curls fall in my face, brushing my burning cheeks. I am looking down at my breasts again, bigger since the last time he saw me.
    "You can't, Martin. You can’t fuck me," I whisper.
    "You know I’m going to fuck you." His tone is blunt and determined from across the room. I can hear him move, catch the rustle of him standing, and my pulse quickens.
    I feel my juices flow even more, beginning to slip down my inner thighs. "And you let me in, Ana. You want me in."
    It is only a few steps to my chair with his long stride. He is standing over me. He waits, but I refuse look up and into his eyes. He would know what’s on my mind with a mere glance. Briefly, I wonder if he smells my arousal.
    As always, he goes for the shock factor to get my attention where he wants it. "You know I don't give a fuck if I get you pregnant," he continues, relentlessly. ".... again ."
    I leap from the chair, bumping my chest into him by accident. I teeter, but keep from falling. My fists balled at my sides, jaw snapping as I gasp into his face, "Oh, fuck you! Fuck you, you hateful bastard!"
    His slap catches me sharply across the cheek, knocking my face to the side hard enough it makes my neck ache. I yelp, losing my balance, falling back into the chair as he leans in over me. I instinctively shield my face with my hand, whimpering, yet scowling up at him boldly as his eyes flash with a warning.
    "Want to reconsider your words, girl?"
    "You can't say things like that to me. That’s awful. Terrible…" I protest as he leans over me, his hands bracing on the arms of my chair, effectively trapping me.
    "Tell me that you want me to leave ," he says, perfectly reasonable. "Go ahead and change your mind. This is your home, Ana. Tell me to leave. If you don’t want this, I’ll walk right back out that door and we’ll never see each other again."
    I turn my reddened cheek to him, staying silent.
    "Better yet," he grins as he pushes his face down close to my ear. "Tell me it's not true. Tell me he isn’t my son."
    My breathing is shallow under the resentful jut of my chin. I say nothing. Not a single word. In that moment, I detest him even more than I want him to stay.
    He straightens to his full height, and tells me, "Stand up, girl." I hate when he calls me that. He knows it. That’s why he does it when he orders me around. It never fails to sting.
    I have barely got ten to my feet and he grabs a fistful of my blouse from where it’s buttoned at my neck, sharply ripping it down along with my bra on the down stroke, exposing my heaving breasts. I stand still, shaking with my arms at my sides as he slaps one, then the other. Without waiting for my reaction, he grabs one, squeezing it in his hand as if it belongs to him, pinching and kneading the flesh in his strong fingers.
    "Please, d on't leave bruises," I whimper as anxiety kicks in full force.
    He stops at once. His fingertips go white, sinking into my breast like a vice. "What was that?"
    It's not really a question. He is simply daring me to have the nerve say it again and suffer the consequences.
    I know when to keep my mouth shut. I’m not stupid.
    I remain still and silent as he handles my soft flesh with brutal intentions—to hurt me, bruise me, leave his marks on my skin.
    I've let him in, and now it feels good to endure, to suffer like this. I’m twisted. Wrong. Full of sin. Still yet, I’m lusty for more of what only He can give me.
    "Look at me," is his low command. I shake my head obstinately, and he twists a plump nipple between thumb and forefinger until my knees buckle. I grasp his muscled forearm to keep from falling to my knees. I know it’s a punishment for making him repeat himself, one that I know I deserve. He’s taught me better than that. Martin hates when I fight him, but he adores it too.