Love

Wes gave her a sweater to wear in place of a proper nightgown, which was if anything, thicker and longer. It was clearly old, the wool fibers had broken down and become soft, but there were loose threads, and it was stretched a bit around the collar. He thankfully left her alone and closed the bedroom door as he went to get the lights and change into his own nightclothes.

She stripped out of her dress and tights and let them lay in a pile on the floor as she pulled the sweater over her head. It was warm and heavy, and it smelled like him and also a lingering trace of dust. She would've preferred to keep her dress on but he insisted she couldn't wear her day clothes to bed.

So, she dealt with it, and crawled under the covers, trying not to think about that smell and all the others that had been caught up on his clothes as he'd laid on top of her. Those smells had been comforting before, even attractive. He smelled like rainy days and old books, things which should've made her feel safe, but now made her chest feel tight and strange.

A few moments later he was in bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her like a possessive child with his favorite stuffed toy.

"That wasn't so bad, was it, dear?" He asked, his voice low and soft in her ear.

"I guess not," she lied. "You're just very heavy and sharp." Her thighs still felt a bit sore from him poking them, but she couldn't deny that underwear felt a bit damp. That the feeling of his body pressed so close against hers once more was making her feel things she didn't want to feel.

He chuckled. "I'll be more mindful of that next time." Those words made her stomach clench.

They managed to make it through the night without incident, and the next morning. Wes had decided to be civilized again, but Lillian felt uneasy. She knew it was going to happen again, and not knowing how or when didn't make that any better. Especially not when she caught a look at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her frazzled hair, the sweater hanging down over her thighs, the purplish red marks on her neck.

He'd done this to her, and she knew he was seeing her and thinking the same thing.

Back in the basement, she did everything she could do to avoid him, as if it would make any difference. She lingered in her room, reading, and only really left it to eat or to do her lessons which had become a great source of anxiety. He tried for a couple days to coax her out with treats and praise like she was a pet, but seemed to realize he'd damaged what little trust they had.

That sliver of a conscience he'd had, or at least pretended to have, was falling apart under the weight of his desire. She was starting to feel lonely, incurably, and she hated that she missed his company, but she didn't have anyone or anything else. Just those moments where he was nice, whether or not they were fake.

At least another week passed before he found her in her bed, crying. Crying because she felt alone. Crying because she knew it was almost Christmas and her poor mother didn't know what had happened to her daughter and wouldn't get to know. Even if Lillian somehow made it out of this alive, she could never tell her.

She had her knees drawn up against her chest, holding them as she sobbed like a frightened little girl—just the way she felt. Wes sat quietly down beside her and put his arm around her. He didn't say anything for a while, just let her cry as he gently rubbed her back and stroked his fingers through her hair, lightly scraping her scalp.

"I'm sorry," he said, when she'd finally downgrade from a full-scale sob to a quiet whimper.

She stared down at her knees through watery eyes. "You don't even know why I'm crying," she managed to say.

"I know it's my fault," he said, softly, sincerely. And somehow it was the exact right thing to say. No placating, no attempts at solution or trying to absolve himself of guilt, claiming he'd done the right thing in keeping her here.

She sniffed, staying silent for a few more moments before she hesitantly leaned against his shoulder and mumbled, "It's almost Christmas."

"Christmas eve," he confirmed. "Is that what's eating you? How long you've been here?"

It felt wrong to confess, to lean on him both literally and figuratively, but she couldn't stand to go through this alone any longer.

"My mother," she admitted, "she has no idea what's happened to me and she's worried sick and spending Christmas alone."

"And you're stuck here with me when you'd rather be with her," he said.

She nodded, and wiped the tears from her eyes but more just came down. "She's never going to know what happened to me," she said with a sob.

Her mother was all she'd had growing up. A smart woman, fierce and independent, who had gone to work when her husband was away and continued to work harder even after he died. She'd held onto their home, took care of her daughter, pushed Lillian out of her comfort zone even though the whole world terrified her and she'd never be half as brave as her mother.

She'd spent her whole life living up to that, trying her best to succeed in a world that had never seen her as anything more than a useless little girl. That was why she'd done everything. Moved to the city, got a job as a journalist, tried to solve some grand conspiracy. Just to make her mother proud, and yet it had all amounted to nothing.

"I know," Wes said, using his sleeve to try and dry her cheeks again. "I'm sorry." This was the first time he'd touched her in a way that was genuinely unassuming. Not wanting to do anything more than comfort her.

It was night already, late, but he stayed with her. Laid down beside her and let her cry her eyes dry against his shirt while he rubbed her back. There was little he could say to make it better, so instead he held her gently. She managed to fall asleep in his arms, feeling just a bit better, less alone.

The next day he asked her for a shopping list so that they could make cookies. He brought her back to his apartment in the evening and watched over her shoulder while she worked, occasionally getting at things in the cupboard she couldn't reach. That night nothing bad happened. That night she started to trust him again. Really started to believe that he felt bad.

He continued to be nice, asking for the same small favors as before over the next few days. The goodnight kisses didn't turn into anything more, and all the marks he'd left on her neck had completely healed. She felt okay, like she could live with this. But she hadn't forgotten how he'd treated her that one night, and there was still a lingering fear in the back of her mind.

She sat in his office working on her lessons and watched him, gloves on, using glue to gingerly repair an old book. Wondering how those were the same hands that had pinned hers down against his couch. The same hands that had gently stroked her while she cried. How could he stand to treat a woman worse than a dusty old spellbook?

That afternoon he disappeared. When she looked in his office the bottle of glue was still open and his gloves hadn't even been thrown away. She'd thought he might come back, but he didn't. Not for hours. She'd then assumed he must've had something important to do, and had simply gone home afterwards.

But eventually he did return. It was so late she was already in bed, her eyes heavy, but not quite closed when Wes came in and shut the door. She didn't like that noise, or the sound of him slipping off his shoes.

"What are you doing?" She asked groggily. "I thought you went home."

He turned the lights all the way off. "Something came up," he said simply. Then he was climbing into bed beside her and pulling her close in the way that was possessive and tight. He smelled faintly of smoke.

"Why are you here?" She asked, a horrible feeling filling her head, chest, stomach. It felt like an alarm going off inside her.

"I wanted to see you," he murmured, nuzzling the side of her neck. "Didn't you miss me?"

"I—why did you turn the lights off?"

"Tell me you missed me." His voice was deeper than usual, slightly hoarse.

She swallowed. "I-I missed you."

"That's a good girl," he praised. "Clever too." That got to her, in some odd inextricable way. The tone of his voice right in her ear, the soft syllables of his accent. It terrified her too. He knew she wanted to please, make things as easy as they possibly could be.

But she didn't want whatever he was about to do now.

"Please go," she said feebly. "I'll do whatever you want if you leave now."

"Oh, whatever I want?" He asked curiously.

Lillian nodded, reflexively, even though Wes couldn't see her. Even though it was pitch black. "Yes," she said quickly. "Just don't touch me, please." She couldn't believe she was here again, bargaining for her body. Of course, nothing had changed. Despite everything kind thing he'd done he was still the same miserable bastard.

So why did she want to cry? Why did she feel so betrayed?

He laughed softly, smirked against her skin. "Tell me you love me."

Her entire body went cold, even under warm blankets, with long socks on and a sweater over her nightgown. "What?"

"I want to hear you say it." Then she felt his hand sliding down to her thigh.

She couldn't. That was the one thing she couldn't do. She could lie and play nice and pretend it didn't make her feel sick thinking about how she had loved him before, or at least come excruciatingly close. But that hadn't been real. None of this was real.

Her mouth felt dry. "Wes, this isn't the way to do this."

"You can't, can you?" He asked. He already knew. They'd both known this whole time this wasn't real romance, just a disturbed mimicry of it. Of something which could be so beautiful. "That's alright, love," he muttered, pulling up the edge of her nightgown, one arm still wrapped firmly around her body. His cold fingers slipped under the soft satin, pressing into her skin. "Take your time."

"Please."

But he paid her no mind, as he rubbed her slowly, taunting her. His mouth ended up on her neck, finding all the most sensitive spots he'd pinpointed before, even in the dark. She could feel the stiff fabric of his shirt crinkling against her back, his sleeve around her waist. The cool leather and metal of his belt against her.

Her eyes started to water, as his hand rose higher, pulled the leg she had underneath the other forward so he could grip the inside of her thigh. He squeezed her flesh lightly. And maybe it was that touch, or the perfectly placed kisses, or an attempt from her body to protect itself—but she started to feel the warmth of arousal settling low around her hips.

At least he couldn't see the redness spreading across her face, or see the shame in her teary eyes as his hand got so dangerously close to the edges of her panties. Where her skin was excruciatingly sensitive, and she could feel his long fingers dragging over every little hair. His hand seemed huge then, particularly his fingers, so much longer and decently thicker than her own as they inched closer to where she desperately didn't want them to be.

"Please, don't do this," she begged.

"You know what you need to do to stop me," he replied, briefly separating his lips from her skin.

"I can't!" She insisted, her words coming out all broken and strange.

"We'll see about that," he chuckled. The tip of one of his fingers pressed against the thin fabric that was protecting her, rubbed her through it. Her whole stomach tied itself up in hot, tense knots as he pressed a bit harder, practically pushing her panties into her, moving his finger back and forth.

Then he hooked it under the edge of the fabric, and started slowly pulling them down. He dragged them slowly, all the way down to her knees which were awkwardly separated, stretching the fabric taught. She tried to bring them together, to give herself any amount of control but his other hand came down to pry them apart.

Wes's hand was compressed still, between her thighs, but his long fingers found their way in. Two this time, stroking her, coaxing out slick fluid and smearing it over her, barely pressing inside. Just a threat. A tease. He was giving her time to soak it in, the reality of this. Of him finally getting to touch her, have her

"You're practically drooling," he taunted. She could feel him getting hard against her backside, that very firm shape making itself obvious.

Tonight might be the night Lillian finally got acquainted with it. She felt queasy at the thought, but there was that singing, aching pain below her stomach too. And she physically twitched beneath his fingertips.

"I don't want this," she insisted, the tears that had been filling up her eyes threatening to spill over.

"Of course you don't," he soothed. "You hate my guts, but God if I wouldn't like to get in yours."

Heat surged through her, intermingling with fear as the two took hold of everything in her body. Then he started pressing a finger inside of her and she whimpered at the sensation of her body stretching to accommodate it. The way she was progressively more and more snug the deeper it got, as he worked it in slowly, slowly until he was up to the knuckle inside her.

She'd pleasured herself before, curiously and gently, but she'd never felt anything like this. The heat and tension. The overwhelm. The way his long finger reached deeper inside of her than she'd ever managed to get.

He planted his lips right on the column of her throat and then she felt his teeth. Taking extra care to suck on her skin for a long while as she whined, he began to work that single digit inside her, moving it back and forth. The thought of waking up tomorrow and having to see the evidence of what had happened was too much. Tears finally slipped down her cheeks.

She whimpered and sobbed quietly as he moved his finger in and and out while curling it upwards at the same time in a rhythmic motion. The tip of it rubbed against a certain spot inside her that made her feel almost good. But this was all uncomfortable, shameful, horrible as he covered her neck in a patchwork of marks and invaded her most intimate area.

Eventually, he started to slide his finger out of her. Leaving just the tip inside. Then he nudged a second one in alongside it, struggling for a moment to work both in past the tense resistance of her muscles. One had been fine. She'd been able to handle one, or two or three of her own, but his fingers were significantly thicker, and her body had a certain internal limit that he barely managed to squeeze his way through and bury those two completely inside of her.

A moan of pain escaped her lips, and she could feel herself, twitching, tensing around his fingers. There was an aching, stretching, burning discomfort as he started to move his fingers back and forth and in and out.

"Oh God, you're a small thing aren't you," Wes crooned. "Already struggling?"

"This hurts!" she protested.

"I'm being quite gentle, really," he said, nearly snickering in her ear as if this were somehow amusing to him. "Are my fingers too big for you?" He asked pointedly, wrapping his other arm around her waist and drawing her closer, bringing her attention back to the shape of his erection. It seemed especially big now, practically throbbing as it pressed against her.

Lillian let out a particularly pathetic whimper. "You'll hurt me, seriously hurt me," she said shakily.

"Oh, I know, love," he said softly, "that's sort of the thing with sex, isn't it? That's what you're so afraid of." He split his fingers apart inside of her, causing searing pain that forced another moan out of her.

But it wasn't just about pain, and it wasn't just about sex for him either. It was about control. It was about taking something she could never get back. Making her beg and plead and cry, and having every part of her for himself.

"You don't get it," she said, letting out a choked sob as he left a particularly dark mark on her neck.

"Maybe not," he admitted, as soon as he'd separated from her skin, "but I'll try to make it easier on you, just relax for me." He continued to work his fingers further apart like scissors even as it burned and ached and she nearly mewled from the pain.

"I can't," she gasped, "I can't—I'm not doing anything for you."

He hummed. "Well, it's a shame I have to have you when you're like this, but if you can't relax, you're the one that's going to be uncomfortable." He paused, then laughed a bit, "I mean I might be a bit, but I quite like getting squeezed." The implications of his words made her clench down a little around his fingers, and a cloying heat emanated from her lower body.

He seemed to read that change instantly. "That bothers you, doesn't it?" She didn't reply, but she instantly let out a whine as he began to crook and curl his fingers, spreading them a little more. "You can't lie to me sweetheart, I can feel you," he purred. She felt herself opening up slightly, her body seeming to adjust.

She hated the idea of that, of her insides stretching for him.

Another minute or so passed, of her whimpering and moaning as he used his fingers to coax her walls open. The only thing worse than that sensation was the feeling of dread that hit her as soon as he slid his fingers out and unwound his arm from her waist. Then pulled away from her entirely.

She couldn't see a damn thing. Could only hear the sheets rustling before Wes's hand was on her shoulder, pressing her face-down against the bed. Then he moved her hips too. She had to turn her head to the side so she could breathe. Her tear-stained cheeks dampened the pillows and pure terror filled her as the mattress creaked and he climbed on top of her.

This time she was desperate in a way she'd never been before. As far she could tell he was on his knees above her. She could feel the faint indent from his hands placed near her head. One of them lifted, and she heard the sound of him unfastening his belt—the metal clink and stiff sound of leather.

Then his zipper.

Lillian's mouth felt dry, her heart beating so rapidly she thought it would jump out of her chest. She wished it would. Those terrible feelings that had rested themselves in her stomach threatened to come up and out past her lips. They were hot, burning her throat and filling her with shame as she finally opened her mouth.

"I love you," she gasped, the words spilling out like vomit.

"What was that?"

"I-I love you," she repeated, louder, firmer.

She didn't need to see his face to know he was smiling. "That's what I like to hear."