sound of him stroking himself is followed by the head of his cock being pressed against my lips.
“Lick it clean,” he commands and my tongue darts out to taste the salty bit of precum that’s waiting for me.
He strokes his cock again, his knuckles brushing against my skin.
“I’ll have every bit of you,” he says but it’s almost as if it’s a promise to himself. I take his words for what they are, a hell-bent eagerness for this man to consume me.
“Yes,” I say and breathe out, feeling everything slip away. My sanity included.
It’s not until he places his lips at the shell of my ear to tell me, “But you didn’t beg,” that I think it won’t happen. He won’t thrust himself inside of me and take what he wants.
I open my eyes only to stare at my own grip on the edge of the bed. The sound of his footsteps rounding the mattress is barely heard over my pounding heart.
“I told you that you’d beg for me, that you’d feel deprived without me inside of you,” he says and my response is right there, so close and so wanting to be heard, but I can’t speak.
“It’ll be fun to play with you, though.”
He keeps his promise, taking his time until I’m wrung out and begging. Even then … he still doesn’t take me.
According to him, I didn’t beg fast enough, and I don’t crave him enough. Yet.
Even when I whimper that I need him, it’s not enough.
Delilah
The ache between my thighs is unrelenting. Even in the hard chair of the interrogation room, I can barely sit without feeling him. His fingers played with me, toying and testing. Leaving me satisfied, aching, but wanting more.
My cheeks are stained with a heat that would reveal a harlot to anyone who dared to pry. The sarcastic huff notes the ridiculous of my thoughts. Given that I’m sitting across from a man who’s attempting to pin a murder on me, my focus needs to be anywhere but on Marcus.
“My mother?” I ask Detective Skov. His dark brown eyes are just slightly lighter than his thick hair. It’s grown out an inch at the top and not at all tamed. Along with his overgrown stubble, on the cusp of being a beard, the man looks like he doesn’t give a damn about rules and regulations. I’ve given him my explanation more than a handful of times now. Each time he asks nearly the same questions.
What time was that? Did you hear anyone? Did you see anything else? Can you describe … on and on. I know the tricks of the trade. He’s looking for any chance to cast doubt on what I’ve said. To see if I’m lying.
“She’s not coherent,” he says and I exhale in frustration. I begged her this morning, telling her if she wanted to say something, to just cry instead. It’s better for her to appear unstable than to give them an alternative version of the story.
It’s not lost on me that if she slips up, if she goes weak, I’m fucked.
They’ll know I lied and charges will be pressed; I’ll be disbarred. It’ll be the end for me.
“She wasn’t coherent when I found her either,” I tell Skov again. Two hours in and I’m only repeating myself now.
I can take it all day long. I don’t know that the same can be said about my mother, though.
Glimpses of her disheveled state flicker in front of me and I pick under my nails rather than look back at the man I’m certain doesn’t believe me. He knew my father and by association, my mother and me and my sister. Only by name, though.
“Is this a normal reaction for her?” he asks and I glare up at him.
“A normal reaction to finding her husband dead? My father,” I say but my voice breaks and I force my eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” I whisper and with both elbows on the table I hang my head in my hands. “I just … I’m sorry,” I say, apologizing again.
“For what?” he asks and if I wasn’t truly destroyed from everything that’s happened, I would smile at his idiocy. My story is ironclad. It’s all up to my mother.
“For my shortness,” I tell him and take in a steadying breath. “I’m usually more … Talkative and approachable and … I’m usually better.” My voice cracks again as I speak and I shake my head. “I just don’t understand or believe it. He can’t be