Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I capture his words with my mouth. Because they’re so precious, so fragile and spun from sugar, that they need to be protected at all costs. They need to be kept safe inside of me, on my tongue, in my bloodstream, so I can remember them forever. I can remember that he’s the only one who’s ever chosen me.
Over and over and over again.
I don’t even know how I found him or how he found me, but I’m not letting him go. I’m never letting him go. And I tell him that with my kiss. I tell him when I fill his lungs with my air and he tells me back when he does the same. We kiss and kiss until the world stops and time loses all its meaning.
Until I whisper, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he whispers.
“I’m not letting you go. No matter how much you argue. I’m coming with you to Black Rock.”
“Yeah, you are,” he rasps, followed by the sweetest words anyone has ever said in this world. “Till death do us part.”
I AM RUNNING.
I am going as fast as my feet will take me, but it doesn’t seem enough. It doesn’t seem like I’ll be able to get away. It’s my dress. It’s long and heavy, with a lacy trail and a tulle skirt, which keeps attracting brambles and foliage. It keeps getting caught, making me stumble, messing with my speed.
On my third stumble, I hear the footsteps and my heart jumps in my throat. They’re thudding and powerful. They make the ground shake. They shift the gravity even, so it feels like my limbs are made of lead. I still try, though. I keep pushing, pumping my legs, rushing through the woods. But when my skirt catches on something again and I stumble, I know it’s game over.
I’m going down.
And I’m proven correct when instead of meeting the ground, I meet a pair of corded arms that bind around me like ropes and break my fall. I’d be relieved that I don’t hit the ground as viciously as I thought I would but I’m not because it’s the very arms I have been running away from. So my first words are: “Please don’t… please don’t h-hurt me.”
I’m on the ground now, on my belly, lying on those arms, and I feel him breathing against my back. I feel his chest sliding up and down, his weight heavy and suffocating. And then he says, directly into my ear, “Shh, not another word.”
My fingers fist the dirt. “But I—”
I feel his head shaking slowly, deliberately, as he tsks. “If you keep breakin’ the rules so soon, I’m gonna have to put a stop to this, and the fun is only beginning.”
My heart is racing so fast that it’s a wonder I can hear his voice. Let alone understand the implication of his words when those arms slide up from my belly and go to the bodice of my dress, pulling and tugging, causing me to break his rule again. “Please, not my—”
His impatient sigh halts my words, and fear skates down my spine. “Not your what?”
I’m panting, sweat pooling in the small of my back with his heat. “My d-dress. Don’t… don’t tear it.”
“No?” he says in a silky soft voice.
“No, please, don’t. Don’t…”
“Why not?”
“It’s my… my w-wedding dress.”
He hums, his chest vibrating at my back, making me whimper. “Fuck yeah, it is, isn’t it. Saw you walk down the aisle in it.” He chuckles, all rough and almost angry. “Almost came in my pants, watchin’ your titties bounce in that thing. You pick this out for your husband?”
I swallow. “Y-yes.”
“Yeah, I bet you did. I bet he likes it, don’t he. He likes to see ’em bounce too,” he says roughly, his fingers grabbing one of my tits and giving it a squeeze.
A hard one that makes me arch up and moan, ashamed of myself at making these noises at such a violent grip. “Yes, h-he does.”
“But I bet he doesn’t like it when others watch, yeah?”
“No.”
“Yeah, I knew it. He looks like a motherfucker, your new husband. He beat people up for you?” he asks next, squeezing my tit rhythmically.
It’s so hard to keep my moans in check, but I do my best. I do my best to answer all his questions, too, play his game, but it’s getting harder and harder to focus. With his weight, his mean fingers, his words. So dirty and God help me, so erotic.
“I don’t… I don’t want him to,” I whisper.
“No? I bet that asshole doesn’t listen to you though.”
“S-sometimes he does when I…”
“When you what?”
Shame burns my cheeks as I reply, “I tell him if… if he lets it go, he can… he can put it in my ass.”
His chest shudders with an amused chuckle. “Yeah, that’ll get him to listen. You’ve got a bouncy ass too, don’t you, baby, and I bet he’s a sucker for it.”