Free Urban Climber 2 by S.V. Hunter Page A

lying to myself. As I climb into my bed, I start writing another message, but I can’t send it. Every part of me resists what it will feel like to end all chances to be with him. But I have no other choice than the one I’ve already made. Just as my mind starts to dull into sleepiness, I press send and close my eyes.
     
    Me: Please don’t talk to me again, Ash. Don’t look at me. Don’t contact me. Don’t come near me. If you see me on campus—pretend you don’t. I can’t do this anymore. And I know you don’t get why. But you don’t have to.

NINE
     
    Months later …
     
    After the fight with Mel, I’ve tried to stay out of the house as much as possible. Sure, I want to tell her why I’m marrying Hugo, but I know she wouldn’t understand. How could she? Her parents don’t even have a mortgage they’ve got so many gold bars coming outta their ass. And yeah, I’ve tried talking to Hugo about how awkward it is living with her, but when he phones me, it’s for other reasons, and my knickers are always around my ankles. Hugo has never mentioned Ash again. He never asks how my studies are going. Never asks me how I am, or what I’m doing. Instead, it’s always the same text—two, sometimes four, times a day:
     
    Push down your panties, spread your legs, and get ready to make me cum.
     
    Sometimes, I text back, protesting that it isn’t a good time, but mostly, he ends up getting his way, and I have to drop whatever I’m doing and go somewhere private. The back seat of his car, the fire escape, the local toilets, my bedroom—wherever the closest place is to keep him satisfied for the time being. Thinking about it, I believe he enjoys the thrill of antagonizing me just as much as my monkey. In a lot of ways, it feels like I’ve been boxing shadows these last few months, and from the smirk that sprawls across his face every time, he knows it too.
     
    What if I get caught half-naked and playing with myself? There would go my dignity right down the drain along with my soul. And the chances of someone catching me are so high I can almost hear the sound of my greatest fears rushing up behind me, crashing down on top of me like a snarling, saber-toothed tiger. And sure, Hugo’s never said as much, but he doesn’t need to. Every time I get that text, he’s contacting me for his end of the bargain, and no matter how horrible it is, I have to face my fate. The writing is on the wall, dripping in deep, red paint: RUN, LAURA. RUN. But I can’t. I don’t have a choice.
     
    “Rub faster, you little bitch. That’s right, show me how creamy your fingers are.”
     
    He’s wanking like he’s about to snap it right off. If only.
     
    “What are you sniggering about?”
     
    To avoid his question, I bring out the big O. Fake-out time. I’ve got it down to an art now, and it’s so guaranteed to give him satisfaction that I’m half expecting someone from the porn industry to steal my lines or offer me a job. I let out a big moan, pushing the camera between my thighs. “I’m coming, baby, I’m coming so hard.”
     
    “Don’t you dare,” he groans, wanking faster. “I always come first. Remember?”
     
    “You’re making me so hot, though,” I pant, “I can hardly stand it, baby.”
     
    And then, with several grunts and groans, he blows his load—all over the screen. Yay, we’ve reached the happy ending … for now, at least.
     
    “Do it!” he growls.
     
    “Mmm, ooooh,” I moan, pushing my tits into the screen.
     
    “Yeah, baby. That’s right,” he groans. “You like that, don’t you? You like getting your jugs all covered in me.”
     
    “Yes,” I pant. “Oh, yes. I wish I could taste it.”
     
    He smirks, wiping off the screen. “You will very soon, Laura, and you’ll be swallowing every drop.”
     
    Shit. Why did I have to say that? Just the thought of his scent, his strong, salty taste in my mouth, makes me want to barf.
     
    “Say something.”
     
    “You know I struggle