Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
“Dora, I—”
“So I’ve decided that I’m going to make you feel better.”
“What?”
I nod, folding my hands in my lap, looking like the picture of patience. “I think I’ll give you a little blow job first and then you can fuck me.”
He opens his mouth to say something and I’m ready for it. Whatever it is. Whatever obstacle he’s going to throw in my path.
But all that comes out is a puff of air at first.
Followed by a disbelieving, “You think you’ll give me a little blow job and then I can fuck you.”
“Yes,” I confirm, nodding. “I figure that should make you feel better.”
“You figure that should make me feel better.”
“You know, repeating everything I say is not going to change my mind. I’m sucking your dick one way or another.”
He clenches his jaw as he stares down at me and into my defiant eyes.
He clenches his jaw again when I lift my chin to show him how determined I am. And I would’ve kept doing that, kept being all determined and stuff, but he decides to bend down in a flash and fist my hair, tugging my head back.
Then, his harsh face fills my vision as he growls, “Does the fact that the dick you’re dying to suck is a ten-incher change your mind?”
I grip his waist. “No.”
His fist flexes in my hair. “You’ve seen me, haven’t you? You know I’m not kidding. You know how much I made you bleed. What do you think is going to happen when I stick it in your mouth?”
“I don’t care.”
His nostrils flare. “If I stick it in your mouth, I’m going in your throat. And if I’m going in your throat, I’m fucking the fuck out of it.”
I raise myself up on my knees. “You can.”
“I can, huh. I can throat fuck you. Like I fucked your little pussy last night. Like I want to fuck your tiny little asshole one day. And if you thought your sweetheart pussy hurt with my daddy cock, then I’m going to fucking wreck your sweetheart asshole. You’re going to cry like you’ve never cried before and you’re going to whine so loud that they’ll call the cops on me. How about that? Does that change your mind about making me feel better?”
I raise myself up even higher, my pussy waking up just by the mention of it in his growly voice. “No, because I’ll tell the cops that you’re my daddy and I wanted you to fuck my asshole. That I begged you to fuck my asshole. I wore short skirts. I went without panties. I fucking bent down every chance I got. All because I wanted you to stick your dick in my ass. I’ll tell them that I wanted you to fuck my pussy too and I wanted your cock in my mouth. I’ll tell everyone that. Which I don’t think you want me to do. Because you want everyone to blame you, don’t you? You want everyone to think you’re making me do things, that you’re forcing me, which is not true at all. So I don’t care. I don’t care what you do. You can do whatever you want to me as long as it makes you feel better. Because the thing is, Stellan, you always know how to make me feel better. How to be there for me even when it looks like you’re not. So let me do the same. Please, let me do the same.”
It's true, though, isn’t it?
He always knows. At the bar last night when he came to my rescue; then again when he took my virginity and I was so hell-bent on him being rough, but he was so careful. The night we met when he warned me against getting in that strange man’s car.
He always does that.
He always knows what I need and that I need to slow down when I want to speed up.
He knows.
So it’s only fair that I get to know him too.
“Please, Stellan. You can’t love me, can you? You can’t even share parts of yourself with me for some reason. So give me this. Let me do this for you. Share this with me. Or I’ll stay here until my knees are bleeding and I collapse.”
He won’t say yes, will he?
He’ll never say yes.
He’ll never give me any part of himself.
That’s why he’s letting go of my hair, isn’t he? That’s why he’s stepping back from me. Even though he keeps our gazes locked and connected, he’s moving back, his features impassive.
And then he hammers the last nail in the coffin when he breaks that connection too, when he turns back and away from me, walking to the chest of drawers as if I wasn’t in the room.
I wasn’t kneeling at his feet.
Ready to skin my knees and bleed for him.