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)
Holding that knife to my pulse.
My heart dives. I was so busy staring at him like a lunatic that I never realized he had retrieved the knife and now is holding it to my throat.
His eyes shine as he says, “I know you wanna deny it. I know you wanna say you don’t want this. But how about we cut the bullshit?” He presses the tip of the knife on my pulse for a second and my breaths are suspended. Then, in a surprising move, he flips it and offers the knife to me, handle first. “How about I give you a chance to kill me. You wanna stop me, you stab me with that knife. And I’ll be down there, eatin’ your pussy and makin’ you come until you pass the fuck out and can’t lie to me anymore.”
As if in a daze, I take the knife from him and blurt out, “But—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“No, it’s, uh”—I gulp when his eyes narrow—“you’re bleeding.”
“Yeah?”
“So, uh, d-don’t you think we should do something about that?”
He watches me a beat. Then, “If you think a little blood’s gonna keep me off your pussy, then you need to learn a lot of things and learn them fast.” I open my mouth again to say something, but he commands, “Now, shut the fuck up, hold on to that knife, and keep those legs open.”
I purse my lips and wrap both hands around the handle of his knife, hugging it to my chest, and open my legs wider. Like I’m some kind of a good girl and this is not the most bizarre and the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me. Then I watch him move down my body and flip up the skirt of my dress. Before I can draw another breath, he bends down and puts his mouth on me.
The first lick of his tongue, even through my panties, makes me jump and almost stab myself. The second lick is when I try to close my legs, but he holds me down and laps at me.
Which is when I come.
It’s embarrassing, but I can’t help it. I can’t help but rock and undulate on the ground as my channel pulses and pulses in his mouth, flooding my panties even more. At which point, he takes the wet fabric in his mouth and sucks on that alone as if trying to soak in the juices. Before taking the fabric between his teeth and giving it a pull.
And holy God, I come again.
Probably because of the scrape of his teeth against my panty-covered pussy, or the bite of the waistband. Or maybe his growl—because he growled something fierce when he did that—or just my body surrendering to him, to his mouth, to my own desires, because it’s not as if he was lying.
I did—do—want this.
Despite my better judgment and everything he’s done, my six months of feelings haven’t been erased. It’s not my desire alone, though. It’s his, too, that’s turning me on so much.
Because look at the way he’s eating me.
He’s using his tongue. He’s using his teeth. He’s using his voice, too, slurping and gulping and growling. Plus, his fingers are digging into my thighs, keeping me open and available to him. He’s using his entire self to suck on me, and even though there’s a barrier between his mouth and me, I can still feel his hunger reaching. I can still feel all his pent-up desire from the last six months.
So what choice do I have but to give him what he wants. To come and come and just flow into his mouth. What choice do I have but to writhe my hips, dig my head into the ground, scrape my skin against the dirt. I clench my thighs around his head, feeling his stubble on my innermost tender skin, feeling his blood making everything more slippery and stickier.
And I come again.
And again and again and fucking again until I almost pass out. Just as I’m slipping into dark slumber I realize the knife is still in my hands, clutched tightly and held securely between my breasts. And it never occurred to me to use it.
IF YOU KILL once, you can maybe explain it as an accident.
A moment of insanity. A moment of weakness. But if you kill twice, then you’ve got a pattern. A precedent. A history. You can’t explain it away as a mistake.
It’s deliberate. Premeditated.
Although nothing about what happened just now was premeditated. I’ve thought about it a lot, yes, but I didn’t pin her to the ground with the explicit intention of doing what I did. And what I did was betray Annie.
I’m the reason she isn’t here anymore, aren’t I?
Because I failed to protect her. I failed to keep her safe. So I don’t get to do what I did. I don’t get to feel peace. I don’t get to feel a moment’s relief like I did when I tasted my wife’s snatch. Not until I avenge Annie. But I can’t even do that right. Because for some fucked-up reason, I can’t keep away from Peyton.