I’m not so sure if that’s true…
Fifteen
Knight
The little clock on her bedside table reads three a.m. That’s three hours until I have to report to the rink.
Three a.m.
Where I’m from, that time is a symbol for reckoning, and maybe it’s true. Who the fuck knows? I keep my breathing quiet and labored as I watch the blanket on her body rise and fall each time she takes a breath. What is with you, Little London, and why the fuck do I want to feel you at my mercy?
She moans sleepily, kicking her leg out of the bedsheet. The full moon massages her skin, giving the perfect lighting as I shift forward slightly, moving the hoodie over my head. If she wakes up, what would she do?
Her skin is perfect. Not a single fucking flaw, and the worst part is, I know what she feels like beneath my touch. What she tastes like on the tip of my tongue. It’s not enough, though. She’s like a hit of Devil’s Drop—addictive, consuming, and a definite way to die.
She shuffles again. This time the white sheet slides off her body and I’m staring back at her half-naked. She’s wearing a small little bralette and tight booty shorts that tighten around the crescent of her ass. I feel my cock swell against the zipper in my jeans and I shift back again, spreading my legs wide. The more I’m locked inside a trance, the more I find myself desperate to touch her. The need too great. Her ass too perfect.
I flick the button of my jeans off, my eyes never leaving her and pull down the zipper, wrapping my fingers around my thick cock and letting it rest in my palm the way I want her to. I play with it first, with the smoothness of my skin, rubbing the cushion of my thumb over the tip of my cock to dampen it with my pre-cum before sliding it down the base and cupping my balls.
She moans again and my dick twitches in my grip. I swear I can smell her from here. I inhale deeply, taking in the sweet scent of rose. Of lavender.
I need to fucking touch her. To break her open and feel her blood dripping down my skin, if only so I can taste it again.
I pump gently as my breathing hitches in my throat. I want to move her panties to the side and bury my face against her pussy. I jerk myself harder. Faster. Sweat drips down my temples as I keep myself fixated on her. Ripping her underwear away and forcing my cock so deep inside her that it leaves my mark for everyone else who tries to touch her after.
I want to fucking hurt her—lick her—suck her dry. My balls tighten as my toes curl and my throat closes around myself when I feel the explosion of my orgasm shoot out from my cock in jerking movements.
I release my dick slowly, allowing myself to lie still for a few seconds as I catch my breath. Leaning down to the ground, I pick up a discarded shirt. Bringing it to my nose, I inhale deeply and snarl at the scent I pick up. Desperation and cheap cologne. Her shitty friend Ben.
I clean my dick with it but catch some cum on my thumb, tossing it to the ground and putting myself away before standing to my full height. I don’t even bother to hide my heavy footsteps, because at this point, I want her to wake up. To see me standing over her body before I fucking take hers for myself.
Her blonde hair is spread over her pillows, her little face turned to the side and lips slightly parted to breathe. My mouth kicks up into a dark smirk as I bring my cum-covered thumb to her mouth, dipping it inside. “You taste that, baby girl? Yours.”
I swear my girl hums her approval, and the sound is too fucking tempting to stop, so I press a little further. Goddamn, if she doesn’t open up for me, both her lips and her legs.
I want to slide between them and fuck away Ben and his scent from her body. Maybe I should. Cover her mouth with my hand and force myself inside of her until she’s begging me for more.
“Hmmm,” I murmur, biting down on my lower lip until I draw blood.
No. Not yet.
For now, I’ll settle for oneirokinesis, and maybe a little bit of royal magic…
London
I fly up in my bed, fingers clenched in the sheets, legs trembling and the ache between them a sweet sort of torture.
I’m soaked, both slick with sweat and arousal as I drag my hands to my neck, fighting for a solid breath as if I just got done with an epic fuckathon when it was no more than the makings of a wet dream.
The images flash before me in warm waves, and I bite my lip.
Knight standing at the end of my bed.
Knight leaning over it, touching me. Tasting me.
Or I swear dreamland Knight was about to before my damn eyes flew open and ruined all the fun. I’d almost prefer another murderous nightmare over being teased but not taken care of.
Besides, me and the Grim Reaper-like fucker who keeps trying to kill me in my sleep should be on a first name basis by now. Who the hell has the same nightmare over and over, anyway?
Groaning, I rub my legs together in hopes of some relief, but at this point, I’m convinced not even my vibrator will get the job done. Knight’s touch, or the memory of it that played in my dream, is that good.
Straight up, I want to fuck Knight, and if I had his number, I would beg for a booty call. I am not above a late-night ride.
Pouting, I roll onto my side, and my eyes find the clock, its red lights blinking back at me. Ten after four.
Jesus fuck, four o’clock?
I didn’t make it to bed by four most nights last semester without Ben’s supervision, let alone wake up before it. No, I haven’t woken up this early since I was a little girl.
It’s strange, for several years I would wake from a dead sleep at three a.m. like clockwork. I would just sit there and stare at the minutes ticking by with this heavy sense of anxiousness, as if I was just waiting for something to happen. For someone to come in and…I don’t know, kill me…or so my uncle thought.
After he realized it was happening, Uncle Marcus would do his best to check on me, telling me things like ‘it’s okay,’ ‘all the doors are locked, ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of, little crow.’
The thing is it was never fear I felt. Not once.
It was excitement that raced through my veins, a strange stirring eagerness deep in my chest, like when a puppy wags its tail, or that was the only thing I could think to compare it to when I was a child. I tried to tell my uncle I wasn’t scared, more than once, in fact, but he would just look at me with kind eyes and a small smile, and even as a little girl, I knew he thought I was trying to be tough. I wasn’t.
My little late-night waiting party went on for years, until ever so slowly the feeling of anxiousness dropped into my stomach, creating a hollow void of despair. Of…loss. It made no sense. Eventually, I learned to block it out until one day, I no longer had to stop trying to.
It wasn’t gone, somehow I knew that, but it was as if a deeper part of me knew what to do and protected me from the pain I didn’t understand because it made no sense.
My uncle was a wholesome man. My best friend was the shit and his grandma treated me like I was one of her own. After I lost my parents, I had a whole support system around me. I didn’t know another way.
With a heavy sigh, I climb from bed, making my way to the bathroom. I splash a little cold water onto my face, staring at my ratted hair in the mirror.
“Ugh.” Brush in hand, I head back into my room, throw on a pair of sweats, and reach for the shirt I tossed off mid-sleep last night, but squeak when my fingers touch something sticky. “Damn.”