Damaged: The Dillon Sisters Layla Frost (ebook reader with highlighter .txt) 📖

stand in front of the mirror. Gripping my hair taut with my free hand, I held the razor to the roots and deep breathed.

Do it.

Shave it off and get it over with.

But I didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Weak,” I taunted myself. “Weak and ugly and fat. No control.”

Filled with so much disgust and hatred—for every damn thing in my life—I reached my breaking point. Before I could think, I lifted my shirt and sliced the blade across the fat that bumped up at my side. Like I could cut it off. Like I could drain the bloat.

It wasn’t a deep cut, but that didn’t matter. The initial pain grew to a sharp sting.

And, fuck, it felt good.

I did it again, lighter and more deliberate.

It was even better.

Because I was in control.

My mother’s laughter filled my room. “No you’re not.”

This isn’t right.

“You fail at everything. You even failed at dying. Instead, you let him fuck you like the whore I always knew you were.”

No, this isn’t how it went.

“That’s why none of the angels of mercy thought you deserved their compassion.”

Get away!

“You’re a disappointment. You always let me down. You always mess up. You are a worthless whore, Briar… Briar… Briar…”

My eyes shot open, and I was already partially across my bed, scurrying away from the ghost of my past as my hands gripped my hair, making sure it was still there. Only instead of my nightmare, it was Alexander sitting on the bed next to me.

In the light streaming in from the bathroom, he didn’t look like the handsome tech nerd. The shadows played with his sharp jawline, his massive size, and his wild gaze.

He was a stalker.

My stalker.

Menacing.

Sinister.

His inner darkness called to mine.

And I’d never been so happy to answer.

Not thinking about anything but him and the relief that I was no longer imprisoned in that awful memory, I grabbed his shoulders and yanked him down. I must’ve taken him by surprise because he nearly slid off the side of my mattress. That didn’t stop him from bending at the uncomfortable angle so I could kiss him.

And I fucking kissed.

When the ghosts that haunted me faded into the shadows, I was able to focus on how good his lips felt. How strong and dominant his tongue was as it danced with mine. How willingly he let me bite and claw and clutch him to me, as though he knew I’d been floating in the seas of hell and he’d become my life vest—even temporarily. And when he shifted, keeping our lips connected as he covered my body with his large one, I focused on how good his weight felt.

And how alive it all made me feel.

If only for a brief moment.

Riding that high, I rocked my hips against him. His hardness pressed between my legs, my thin sleep shorts offering little protection against the fabric of his pants. It was still too much of a barrier, though. I wanted to feel their roughness against my oversensitive skin. I wanted to feel the sting and burn from the cuts on my thighs.

I wanted to feel him.

Gripping his soft sweater, I yanked it up. Alexander tore his mouth away in order to help, and I let out an involuntary whimper at the tragic loss. I expected him to laugh or tease me for attempting to magically remove his shirt without separating my lips from his. He didn’t. That addicting heat filled his dark eyes, as though he were getting off on how desperately I wanted him.

No longer letting me control the kiss, he nipped and sucked and bit every inch of my flesh he could as he frantically undressed me. I did the same to him, my movements just as hurried and uncoordinated.

Once we were both naked, he pushed himself up onto his arms, taking his touch, his kiss, and his weight with him.

I wanted them all back.

Clutching his shoulders, I lifted off the bed to bite his jaw, licking down his strong neck to nip a tendon. His sharp exhale gave away his pain, and I bit harder, my nails digging into his skin. I could feel and hear his groan rumble before he gripped my wrists and slammed them down to the bed.

Being restrained wasn’t something I’d ever dealt with well. Too many overzealous staff members at the expensive mental health spas. Too many nights strapped to a hospital bed because the fevers I’d gotten from chemo infections had made me delirious and a safety hazard.

But right then, it was different. Like when he cut me, I didn’t mind that I was powerless. Under his control. Vulnerable and defenseless.

I liked it.

That didn’t stop me from fighting. Not because I wanted to get away. It was because I wanted the ache in my shoulders. The sharp bite of his hands on my wrists. The power of his body.

I just needed to keep feeling.

So I thrashed. I wiggled. I tried to dislodge my hands from his, and when that didn’t work, I tried to attack with my legs and teeth.

He took everything I gave and held steady until he found his opportunity. The moment my thighs spread enough for his hips to fall between them, he slammed his cock into me. Impaling me. Keeping me in place.

“Fuck.” Rough and raw and filled with wonder. Like I was the best thing he’d ever felt, too.

My own voice was just as raw when I pleaded, “More.”

He gave me what I needed, moving hard and fast. Frenzied. Unable to get deep enough. Or maybe he was just unable to get enough of me.

Whatever the reason, his cock continued to slam in deep and at just the right angle to make my toes curl and my body tighten. With his relentless hold and thrusts, my brain didn’t have the chance to fight my orgasm. Intrusive thoughts didn’t push in and chase it away. I didn’t have to work to find the fleeting pleasure.

“Fuck, Alexander,” I breathed as it barreled at me, leaving me no choice but to take