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I ball my hands into fists by my chest.
Needing more, needing more passion, so I start to suck and mouth him. His teeth clench in response, the sound of them grinding loud even through my drumming pulse.
He doesn’t deny me the pace I desire, groaning, “Very well, little deer. Make me come.”
I work my neck and head, taking him deep, drawing out, the smooth, plush head flopping and bobbing. I dive down again, my movements desperate and needy while his tight grip on my neck is unyielding and distant.
Tears squeeze out of my closed eyes, quickly streaming down my face, wetting me and his cock.
“You think you can handle my evil, sweet girl?” he taunts, and it hurts, but his anger isn’t for me. His need is.I know it, I know it, I chant.
Oh. God.
What has happened tonight, Sir?
Where are you?
Frightened by his remoteness, by his cruel, provocative air, I use my mouth to prove I can handle any part of him, all of him, even as my heart aches and my tears fall. I can handle his evil. I can.
His breath suddenly jerks, his hips buck, and he squeezes my nape until I whimper under the pressure. He holds my mouth wide around his root, the length of him down my throat, his cum pulsing out hard and fast.
“Suck it all out of me, little deer,” he hisses. “You want it. Swallow all my fucking evil like a good girl.”
The first sign of passion between all his stony detachment comes out as his body shakes, his teeth snap on a growl, and I swallow around the deep penetration, accepting him and his evil, drinking both in.
Barely finished; he stills.
I fight to breathe.
Keep my hands in fists.
Obediently squeeze my eyes.
Silently, he backs away, his cock sliding from the depths of my throat, leaving me gasping.
I sit up with a start, drawing in air and allowing myself to sob, unable to restrain it. I blink the tears. It’s dim in the room, but I cover my face anyway, peeking through the gaps in my fingers, and seeing his blurry silhouette walk from the bedroom through the pools of my tears.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
fawn
“She did it,”he utters, sensing me or hearing me as I press my shoulder to the bedroom wall, having searched the entire mansion for him after he left and now find him in a strange room that smells of perfume. “She did everything they accused her of andmore.”
Wariness ripples through me.
As he moves around the all-white and grey bedroom, his gait is slow—meaningful. Two walls have 3D embossing—geometric patterns in the white plaster. No room in this house is boring and flat. They all have dimensions.
He scans the lavish space, looking at nothing and everything as though for the first and last time. I came to tell him he hurt me, but find him suffering more pain than I’m in.
He stops by the closet door and runs his palm down the red material of a dress hanging on the door. It’sherdress. I can tell by the fabric, the column style.
I try to keep my breaths shallow, concerned my panting will stir, awaken, or spook whatever dark entity is circling him. “What happened tonight?”
“She confessed,” he hisses out, stopping to touch a bottle on the bedside drawer. His touch is stiff. “To beating my brothers,” he continues. “To despising them.” He winces. “Christ.She hated them. How did I not see that before?”
Past tense—hated.“Hated?”
I hardly have the will for words, feeling his testimony on his tongue, hearing it in his deadly timbre, seeing it before me as he touches things, his fingertips collecting memories.
