I choke through a broken sob, my own tears pooling into my mouth and dripping from my chin as I hunch over, pleasure and pain in equal doses pooling inside of me.
But I can’t seem to stop talking, to stop confessing.
“You’re so beautiful,” I push out through my cries. “You’re so much better than I am: smart and strong and successful. I don’t deserve your grace, but I want it anyway. I’m horrible and greedy, and Imiss you.”
It’s a desperate admission, a plea.
Atticus pops off of me with a growl, his own eyes a tad wet as he glares up at me. “Shut up! Stop talking. I won’t let you fool me twice. I can’t. I’m not… I’m not the same as I once was. I’m not the same guy you could trust to save you.”
I’m not thinking straight. I can’t, not with him before me like this and all my darkest, most pathetic secrets spilling free.
My hands reach for him, cupping the sides of his face and ravishing the way he leans in, lashes fluttering.
“But I think I love you,” I confess, quiet and broken.
And Atticus loses it.
He groans, but it’s just as full of misery as it is of pleasure. Like it hurts him to hear, to acknowledge. And he swallows me up, taking all of me into the back of his throat as he works me over angrily, greedily.
“Fuck!” I sob, my hands rubbing gently against his skin as his eyes drill into mine.
The hazel is flooding, filling with tears that could be related to the weight of me or my confession. I wipe at them as they fall, my own body shuddering with emotion and physical stimulation.
“Keep me,” I plead, pushing as much honesty into my gaze as possible. “Boss me around, take control. I’llgiveit to you—all of me. All of my freedom.”
Pleasure is building at the base of my spine, my dick swelling and my balls drawing tight as I imagine a life in which Atticus is always present. Taking care of me. Handlingeverythingso that I can just fucking breathe.
He swallows roughly, his fingers moving from my hips to my ass, where he slips a finger down my crease and presses lightly over my hole.
I shudder, the sensation cresting, and begin to explode inside of his mouth.
“Please,” I moan, tasting my own tears as I clench my eyes shut against the onslaught of feeling. “Please.”
Atticus milks me thoroughly, drawing out anything he can, and as I begin to soften in his mouth, he pops off slowly. As if he’s savoring it. As if he won’t be keeping me after all.
I only cry harder at this realization.
Atticus stands slowly, not bothering to wipe the drizzle of my come or his own spit from his chin.
It’s silent for a moment, with only his panting and my crying to fill the forest. He’s staring at me like he’s suffering, angry and miserable.
“You should leave now,” he tells me, voice rough and thick with emotion.
“Atticus,” I whisper, twitching as he pulls my pants back up.
“Go,” he mumbles. “I can’t keep you. You can’t fix this. It’s been too long; I’m damaged now.”
“I can help you; I can sort this out,” I insist.
I’ve already been begging and swallowing my pride; what’s a bit more? I don’t think I can live without him.
“Go,” he repeats softly, and the pain in his expression, the exhaustion in his tone, keep me from pleading any further.
So, I leave. Just as he did that night, so many years ago, I turn from him, and I leave.
Atticus
20
