Burn Down the Night (Everything I Left Unsaid #3)- Molly O'Keefe Page 0,35
he gave a shit. The show was enough for everyone else. The illusion was purchased and appreciated over and over again.
Why did he want to be different? Why did he insist on more?
“I’ve been living a lie for months, waiting for the bullet in the back of my head. And it seems like maybe you’ve been living your own lie.”
He paused, like it was a question. I nodded in answer. I was living so many lies I had no idea what was real anymore. No idea who I was.
“And I got no time anymore for shit that ain’t real. Revenge—that’s real. This thing between us—that’s so fucking real I can taste it. So, that’s all I want. And you want that, too, don’t you?”
I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. Not entirely sure what I would even say if I could form words.
Tension rose in my body. My fingers ached to slip between my legs. To touch myself in the exact way I liked. In the way I touched myself when I was alone and just trying to feel good. Just trying to beat back the despair and the darkness.
“Save your act for other people. The lies and the show—I don’t want it. I want you. Fucked-up and crazy. I want you.”
It was poetry. It was the sweetest thing anyone had said to me in a long time, and I had him handcuffed to a bed. I was offering to fuck myself to get his help to save my sister. I was a goddamn mess but that was sweetness I hadn’t heard in years. Since Good Boyfriend #1—and he never turned me on like this. Never like this.
It was real and authentic and I couldn’t fight it.
I couldn’t argue with him. I had no breath to lie.
“Yeah,” I licked my lips. “And what will you be doing? While I’m stripping myself down to the bone for you?”
“Thinking of what I’m going to do to you once you take these handcuffs off.”
Now I was sucking in breaths, my chest heaving. This was nothing, I told myself. He wasn’t touching me. He wasn’t getting something from me. And I wasn’t giving him anything.
But those were lies.
“Show me, Joan,” he whispered. “Show me what you do when you’re alone. When there’s no one watching. Think about how good that would feel.”
My fingers slipped down between my legs. Masturbation wasn’t about a show, I mean, I could make it one, and that could be fun, but he didn’t want that. He wanted to see me at my most private.
“Do it. Just…fucking do it.”
I stopped watching him, I turned my face away and sat back on the dresser, my back against the blinds. Fucking them up no doubt, but whatever.
Sun came into the room in strange chunks and weird lines, splitting apart the shadows between us. My hand slipped over my pussy, humid heat filling my palm, scenting the air. I wondered briefly if he could smell it, too.
Don’t think about him, I told myself.
My middle finger traced the seam between my puffy naked lips, finding its way in. Breaching my own defenses. I was wet and slick and warm and the touch of my own finger under the spotlight of his eyes was enough to make me gasp.
Inside. Inside. More.
I traced the path between my clit down to my pussy and back again, circling my clit until I jerked. And then jerked again, feeling like I’d been brushed with electricity. I did it until I felt like I was made of electricity. Until my skin felt too tight and my head felt too heavy and I needed something more or I’d break out of myself.
Only then, did I squeeze my clit between two knuckles, finding the pulsing pressure between pain and pleasure. That’s where my satisfaction lived.
He made a noise on the bed, part sex, part discovery. I opened my eyes long enough to take him in, the all-over flush of his skin. The riveting stillness of his entire body. Like every bit of him was focused on me and me alone.
Oh, what I wanted to do with that calm. How I wanted to break it between my legs. Eat it with my fingers, take him apart, juicy bit by juicy bit until the truth of him was sliding down my throat.
I bent one leg, and curled the other in front of me, hindering his view but opening myself up in the way I liked best. A slow steady pressure on my clit