Page 111 of Ghosted

His fingers slide down from my throat, rough palm dragging over my stomach until his thumb finds my swollen clit. He presses down hard, circling tight and fast while his other hand shoots up, fingers twisting into my hair at the roots.

He yanks my head back sharply, exposing my throat, forcing my spine to arch as my hips keep slamming down onto his cock.

His thumb grinds harder against my swollen clit, relentless circles that make my hips jerk.

The grip in my hair tightens, yanking my head back until my throat is stretched bare and my spine bows.

"That’s it, ride it," he snarls, voice thick and low. "Use that angry little cunt to cum all over the cock you’re fucking to spite him. Show my little brother how much better his toy gets off on his brother's dick.”

The filthy words slam into me right as the orgasm hits.

My thighs seize, cunt clenching around his thick shaft while his thumb keeps working my clit in tight, brutal strokes.

His fist stays locked in my hair, holding me arched and exposed as his cock throbs inside me. Hot, thick spurts flood me, each pulse matched with another filthy taunt.

"Ah fuck. That’s it. Such a pretty Cutter cum whore."

I keep riding through it, cunt pulsing and dripping around him, thighs shaking as his thumb drags the last tremors out of my clit.

His cum leaks out around his cock with every brutal drop of my hips, and he just laughs low and mean against my skin, still holding me by the hair like he owns the moment.

Then I move off him and drop onto the other end of the couch, grabbing the blanket from the back and pulling it over myself like that fixes anything.

It doesn’t.

My body still feels wrecked. My mouth tastes like him. My skin feels marked in places I don’t want to look at yet.

Johnny stays sprawled where he is, completely comfortable, one arm stretched along the back of my couch like he belongs there.

Like this is normal.

Like he didn’t just walk into my apartment and make himself part of the furniture.

I stare at the ceiling and try to catch my breath.

He laughs softly beside me, all smug and lazy.

Way too pleased with himself.

I fucking hate him.

I hate myself for letting him stay.

And the worst part is, for one stupid second, I don’t know if I hate him, or Jagger more.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

One minute, I’m curled on the couch with the blanket pulled over me, naked underneath it, trying not to think about Johnny still being in my apartment. The next, I’m waking up slow and sore with my cheek pressed into the cushion and the smell of butter, garlic, and heat drifting through the room.

At first, I’m just confused.

Then I hear a pan scrape across my stove.

I sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest, and stare toward the kitchen because there is no fucking way my life has gotten weird enough for Johnny Cutter to be cooking in my apartment.

But there he is.

Barefoot. Shirtless. Humming under his breath like some fucked-up version of domestic while he moves around my kitchen like he belongs there.