He groans against me, flesh trapped between his teeth, and his body stills before flooding my pussy with his cum.
Burning pain battles with the euphoria rolling through me in harsh waves. It becomes so overwhelming; it feels like I'm on the verge of combusting.
“Cage!” I squeal, and finally, he releases my cheek.
The plunge back to earth is dizzying, more so when he drops his hand from the belt, allowing me to straighten.
My back aches from being in the same position for so long, so I drop forward, catching myself on both hands as I pant heavily.
Fingers brush over my back, and then his thumbs dig into my tailbone, instantly relieving some pressure.
“Jesus, way to remind me I'm not twenty-five anymore,” I groan.
His soft chuckle reaches my ears, and I work up the nerve to straighten again. I cock my head over my shoulder, meeting a stare that hasn't waned in intensity.
His thumb brushes against my scar gently. “I hope you think of me next time you look in the mirror.”
Insecurity rises, and I’m almost embarrassed that he’s focusing on my trauma so plainly laid out on my face. I’ve always hated my scar, and something inside me rebels against him finding a way to make me accept it. Especially seeing as part of me wants to let him.
I narrow my eyes. “That wasn't cool. Don't do that again.”
His smile widens, not the least bit ashamed.
“It didn't stop you from coming all over my cock, did it?”
“Almost.”
A massive lie.
One he clearly doesn't believe by the way his lip crooks higher.
I expect a smart-ass response, but instead, he leans forward and places a kiss over the bite mark. I’m taken aback when he pulls out of me, distracting me from the surprises he keeps throwing my way. Now that I'm firmly back in reality, I'm realizing once again that I'm covered in the woman's blood.
“Let's go shower. Show me around the rest of the house while you're at it,” he suggests casually.
My mouth pops open. “You—what? No. You're not coming to my house again. You haven't been invited!”
He stands and shoots me a cocky grin.
“Baby, if you keep playing hard to get, I'll fucking move in. Now, let's clean up and shower before I decide I'm hungry again.”
He picks up his jeans and begins to slide them on.
And all I can do is kneel on the floor with my mouth agape and stare at his bare ass being covered.
I hate that it feels like it’s too soon.
Molly
Fourteen Years Ago
2008
It's fucking hot outside, but even the suffocating summer air can’t deter the bone-deep chill washing through me, a reaction that only standing in front of my childhood home can evoke.
The home I was sold from.
It’s a small, yellow one-floor house with missing shingles and dirty siding. It'd be considered cute and quaint in a suburb if it wasn’t so broken down. If it fostered a happy family with loving parents.
However, in Reaper Canyon, a town that’s seen more drug overdoses than gender reveal parties, the only thing that’s been born in this shithole is half of my fucking nightmares. The other half were bred by Francesca and her filthy brother.
“This is so going to get you killed,” I mutter aloud .
At any moment, my parents could stumble out the door, lay eyes on me, and call Francesca.
I'd be forced to leave Layla behind.
I don't have much of a heart left to break, but I'd give her the last piece of me if it meant she'd escape this house of horrors.
It took me two days of hitchhiking and bus rides to get here. An adventure that was almost as terrifying as escaping that house. I covered up my scar with dirt and lied to the drivers, telling them my car broke down on the way home from college, and I needed to get home to my sick mom.
By some grace of God, or Zeus, or whoever, the second driver I came across was a sweet old lady who offered me money. Enough to buy a hoodie from the thrift store, get something to eat, and take a bus the rest of the way home.
I got lucky and can only pray that it’s still on my side.
Steeling my spine, I trudge through the useless, rickety chain-link fence surrounding the house, and head toward the back. My feet kick through overgrown grass that nearly reaches above my knees, the blades getting tangled around my worn shoes.
The back door leads directly into the laundry room. I can't remember the last time Mom or Dad even smelt detergent, let alone used it to clean clothes, so it's a guaranteed area of the house that they won't be in.
Dad’s car is parked outside. There aren’t strange cars like there usually were in the past, so I'm fairly confident they don't have any of their dirty friends over. The only thing I need to worry about is my parents seeing me before I see them.