Burn Down the Night (Everything I Left Unsaid #3)- Molly O'Keefe Page 0,36

and a finger teasing the opening of my pussy. Flirting with myself, just a little.

I heard his rattling breath from the bed and it was a soundtrack to my pleasure. A counterpoint to my own breathy moans. The deep sighs I couldn’t swallow down. Sweat, despite the air-conditioning, rolled down my chest between my breasts, over the soft folds of the skin at my belly.

My head fell back and the blinds rattled. More pressure, faster against my clit. I stopped flirting and slid a finger deep inside myself and curled forward, my hair falling down around my face like a curtain. Yes, that was good. That was better. Because I didn’t want to see him and I didn’t want him to see me. Not my face, anyway. Not my eyes.

I curled my fingers inside my body, finding that soft place that made me wild. That made me want to fuck everyone. Everything. There were plenty of people in the world who would judge me for the ways I found my pleasure, but they didn’t understand how fucking lucky this made me.

My bisexuality, my kinky shit, my open mind, my lack of shame when it came to this stuff, my lack of judgment—it was a goddamn gift in a bleak life. It was a bright spot and I was grateful.

My orgasm was coming for me with teeth and claws bared and I threw myself into it.

“Fuck!” I moaned. “Oh, fuck yes!” My hips jerked, and the dresser banged back against the window behind me, rattling the blinds. I heard the dark rasp of his laughter, and everything burst. Everything shattered, revealing the brightness of me. The brilliance of me. Pleasure like a starburst transforming everything.

I had to brace myself so I wouldn’t fall back into the window, or over onto the floor. My fingers stayed on my clit, drawing it out until it was almost painful. Until there was no other sensation to wring from my body.

In the silent aftermath, I took a deep breath. And then another. Sweating and ragged, I glanced up and saw him, head thrown back, eyes closed, his cock in his fist, with spurts of come landing on his hand. Across his stomach. He looked pained and maybe he was with the concussion and bullet wound in his calf.

Or maybe, like me, he was clinging so hard to a bright spot of pleasure, it hurt. That he made it hurt. Because somehow, hurt made it tolerable.

Very suddenly, I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t want to meet his eyes and see him, that hard blade of a man, undone by his own hand.

God, how much easier would it have been if he’d just taken the show. Just accepted the act. Now I didn’t know what to do. I felt like my skin had been ripped off.

I got off the dresser and left, my feet silent on the carpet. I slipped past him, within arm’s length—he could’ve grabbed me.

Fuck, did I want him to grab me?

If he grabbed me, what would happen? Would he strangle me like he did in the kitchen the other night, showing me in no uncertain terms that he was bigger and badder and stronger than me?

Or would he put that hand between my legs? Rub the come from my orgasm over my body? Would he lick it off his fingers?

My knees buckled.

Which did I want?

Jesus. This was a mess.

Naked, I went into the other room and wished more than anything that I could leave. That I could grab my garbage-bag life, toss him the key to the handcuffs, and just leave.

Because somehow, that moment—not touching, with our eyes closed and coming in the same room—that was the hottest, most authentic thing I’d been a part of in months.

I thought of the waitress in a café outside of Cherokee, I thought of the way her feelings for me made me feel good. How I’d used her for those feelings. I’d fucked her so I could borrow her heart for a few minutes. I tried to make it even—that transaction. Her heart for my tongue. My fingers.

However she wanted it, whenever she wanted it—I gave it to her. Just to feel good about making someone so…nice, so kind, feel good.

There were no promises between us. I made it clear from the beginning that I would be leaving her and she said that was okay. She had no expectations. But then she did—and they’d felt…good. Because she was a good person and if