Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“My cock feels good inside you?” he pants. “Are you going to cream all over it?”
His filthy words only make everything more intense. “Yes!” I shout, desperate for the tension to break. “Yes, yes! Fuck me!”
I’m completely lost, aren’t I?
But it doesn’t feel bad, especially once the tension breaks all at once, and I shatter into a thousand pieces around him. Nothing makes sense. I don’t know who I am. I only know I’m coming hard, shaking and moaning by the time he pulls back and aims his dick, so his cum lands on my pussy.
“Oh, fuck, yeah!” he almost roars, with his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and a look of pure bliss washing over his face before his fist starts to slow. He then releases a long, deep sigh, his gaze landing on me. A slow smile spreads—knowing, maybe a little smug.
He’s not going to ruin this, is he? I’m lying here with my shirt up around my chest, and my legs are still spread. I’m out of breath, hoarse, more vulnerable than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe ever. He wouldn’t destroy me by making a sarcastic comment, would he?
“Wait right there.” That’s all he says before he goes to the bathroom, flipping on the light before turning on the water in the sink. My head is spinning, and I’m almost afraid to move. Like I’ll only break the strange spell over me if I do. What just happened?
It’s not long before he comes back with a washcloth. When he touches it to my skin, wiping away the cum he left behind, he’s gentle. He takes his time.
I can’t understand him.
I have to say something once he’s finished. I can’t let this moment pass in silence. But when my mouth opens, the first thing I think to say is, “Are you always this nice to girls you blackmail into having sex with you?”
He’s wearing a tiny frown as he backs away, going to the bathroom and tossing the washcloth in the direction of the sink. “Is that what I did?” he asks, moving toward the door after collecting his clothes. “Because the way I remember it. I didn’t have to blackmail you into anything. You did that because you wanted to.”
I open my mouth, ready to argue… until I realize he’s right. There is no argument. He didn’t blackmail me into having sex with him. At least not verbally.
The last thing I see is his knowing smirk before he steps into the hall and closes the door, leaving me to wonder how I’m supposed to protect myself when I lose a little more of who I thought I was every time he touches me.
FIFTEEN
Carter
Well, it’s done. And that is pretty much the best thing I can think to say about the spectacle that’s been unfolding around me all day.
That, and Dad looks beyond happy. I’m glad for him. I only hope she doesn’t make him regret it.
It’s exhausting, putting on a happy face for hours on end. I’m pretty sure my facial muscles are going to cramp by the time the night is over. I figure this is the least I can do for Dad—when he looks through pictures later, he’ll see photographic evidence that I did my best to play along today. He’ll know I did it for his sake.
“Champagne?” I can barely hear the voice of the server over the music, threatening to split my head open. The theme for the night was obviously ’80s and ’90s, as loud as possible. I’m pretty sure that had to be the only instruction Irene gave the DJ. It wouldn’t even be bad if it wasn’t so fucking loud—and this is me, somebody whose closest neighbor once recorded the music I was listening to while they were out of the house, which was audible at a distance even with every window closed. If I think it’s too loud, there’s a problem.
I’m glad to take the flute from the tray before the girl walks past, though I could go for something stronger. That’s another favor I’m doing for Dad tonight: taking it easy with the drinking since I’m not exactly of legal age. It would look kind of shitty for the underage son of the town’s police chief to stumble around drunkenly, but champagne is celebratory. I’m just enjoying the festivities.
Sipping the bubbly, I make a slow tour of the ballroom, wondering how long I have to stick around. I’m trying to be polite. I’m trying to play along, but it’s been a long day. I would be exhausted enough without adding on the weight of pretending to be happy. Dad is out on the dance floor, bowtie loose and hanging around his neck, doing what I guess he considers dancing—but it looks like something out of an old monster movie. He wouldn’t notice if I was gone. He’s too busy having fun.