Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Then the lock flips into place.
Chapter 20
TJ
I taste her when I close myself in the bathroom.
I taste her when I climb into her shower.
I taste her when I grip my cock.
And I can still taste her on my lips when it only takes five punishing pumps for me to coat the wall of her shower with my cum.
I could’ve fucked her. How easy it would’ve been to just ram inside of her as the last convulsions of her cunt distracted her.
Yet, I didn’t, and fuck if I don’t feel like I deserve a gold medal for my restraint.
The rough towel I drag over my body after stepping out of her shower is a harsh contrast to the silkiness of her pussy against my mouth and the delicate flesh of her thighs under my fingers.
“In due time,” I promise myself in the mirror before I unlock the door and step out into her room.
The covers are tucked under her chin, probably giving her a false sense of security, and as I suspected she would, she avoids looking directly at me.
“I didn’t use all the hot water.” She hurries off the bed when I bend down to grab my jeans, and then the bathroom door slams.
I go to settle on her bed, and the wet spot left from her orgasm taunts me. She came so fucking hard it left me with spots in my vision.
Nothing will ever be the same. How can it? What she showed me tonight is only but a glimpse of what we could have together. Sure I’ve cut women before, and they’ve enjoyed it. I’m like a fucking surgeon with a knife, knowing how deep I can go and where to cut to minimize pain but maximize blood loss. Never, not fucking once have I leaned over and licked any away. I’m not thirsty for it. I get off on it coating the skin, not ingesting it. That changed tonight, epically.
Kaci stays in the bathroom for over an hour, and by the time she opens the door, I can tell by the look in her eyes that she expected me to be gone.
“Hey,” I whisper.
She gives me a weak smile before grabbing some clothes out of her dresser and disappearing into the bathroom again. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I came over to try the going out thing with her again. Unless she’s left without her cell phone, she hasn’t stepped out of this apartment since she was attacked three weeks ago. As much as I like the idea of her not going anywhere without me, I also know it’s not good for her head to be stuck in here day after day.
Knowing she isn’t going to want to leave now, I pull out my phone and order delivery. Just as I’m submitting my credit card information, the door opens again. Her damp hair hangs in clumps over her shoulders, wetting her t-shirt and making the furl of her nipples more prominent.
I swallow down my need and give her a quick grin. She settles on the other side of the bed, and it rubs me the wrong way. I purposely situated myself on her side of the bed so she would come to me, but stubborn as always, she keeps her distance.
“I ordered subs. Should be here in thirty minutes.”
She nods in response before pointing her remote at the TV. The laughter of the audience on a sitcom serves as a distraction until the food arrives. Without a word, we eat and pretend there aren’t a million words we should be saying to each other right now.
I hold out my hand for her trash when she balls the paper up. She places it in my hand, making sure her skin doesn’t touch mine. I can tell she needs the space, so I’ll give it to her for now.
We go back to watching TV, but the silence is eating away at me. I’m feeling like Dr. Phil before the words even come out of my mouth, but I want to help her get over what happened to her. The destructive path she’s hell bent on walking is dangerous and a risk I’ll no longer allow her to take.
“I know what happened in Honduras and Venezuela.” The confession is low, and she doesn’t respond immediately, which leaves me wondering if she even heard me over the raucous laughter coming from the TV.
“You don’t know shit,” she says long moments later.
She continues to watch the TV, and I continue to watch her. To anyone else, others who hadn’t spent days watching as her face transforms with each of her emotions, she’d appear calm and unaffected by my words. I know differently. It’s in the slight crinkle in the corner of her eye, and the almost invisible tremble in her chin. She’s hurting, probably being tortured with what happened every day since she returned home. I can relate, and as much as I don’t want to talk about my fucked-up past, I know I can use it to try to reach her. Maybe if I show her my gaping wounds, she’ll do the same.