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Butusually, I don’t settle for oral either. I’m all about the act itself. The fucking. However, a part of me resisted that with Gwyneth for more than ten days. I tortured my dick and myself in a fruitless attempt to get her off my fucking radar.
But with each word out of her mouth, each orgasm, and each fucking sexy sound, my resolve crumbled. The last straw was seeing her on that not-some-normal bike with that fucker Christoph and knowing she’d been alone with him.
So I had to stake my claim in the most unsophisticated, animalistic way possible. Even now, I still don’t know what’s come over me.
I’m not like this.
I don’t fuck against walls. I don’t fuck virgins. And I sure as hell don’t fuck without a condom.
Gwyneth smashed all my rules to the ground. She’s muddying my logic and I should stop it. I fucking should. But that’s the last thing on my mind right now.
I tuck myself in, then I grab a few towels, wet them with warm water, and go back to her room. She’s sprawled on her back, her arms thrown above her head in a carefree position, and only her torn shirt and bra cling haphazardly to her shoulders and torso.
And the blood. It’s dried up between her thighs and down her legs to the fucking white sneakers that are all smudged in red now.
I sit on the edge of the bed, place the towels on the nightstand, then remove the scraps of clothes I savagely tore. She’s like a doll in my hands, completely lost in sleep, no matter how much I maneuver her and move her around.
It’s weird to see her so deep in slumber like this. She suffers from insomnia, which is why she bakes or watches horror movies late at night. I often find her sleeping upside down on the couch, her legs in the air and her head lolled to the side. I carry her to her room every night so she doesn’t break her neck in that position.
After I remove her sneakers, I place a warm towel on her pink, swollen pussy. She sighs, mumbling something incoherent. She talked in her sleep when she was a kid and Kingsley used to freak out whenever she sometimes called for her mom.
He’s always hated that. Gwyneth needing a mom, and the woman herself. He hates Gwyneth’s mother with a passion I’ve never seen him have for anyone else.
He thinks his daughter only needs him, that having him is enough, but he’s wrong. Gwyneth misses her mom, even though she’s never met her. I became surer of that after she mentioned the abandonment thing. She’s still wounded by it, and King was wrong to sweep her feelings about it under a rug. She needed to deal with it a long time ago—when she was a kid and talked in her sleep.
I wipe the blood away and it’s not as much as it seems. Thank fuck, because the sight earlier made me think about driving her to the ER.
Then I take my time cleaning my dried cum from her tits, nipples, and stomach. I want to engrave this sight into my memory so I can picture it later.
After I’m done, I cover her to her chin with the blanket, though it’s a fucking shame to hide her tempting pale skin and her beautiful tits.
“Ice cream…” she mumbles, and I can’t help the smile that breaks across my lips.
She has an unhealthy obsession with that. And milkshakes. And everything vanilla, basically. She’s been slipping it in everything I eat or drink, trying to convert me to her side.
I reach a hand out and push a stubborn auburn strand away from her forehead, and my hand lingers there, then slowly slides down to her flushed cheek.
I know I should feel guilty. I should be beating myself the fuck up and confessing to every god on the planet for fucking my best friend’s daughter and loving it. For thinking about repeating it. For being deranged and loving the fact that I’m her first.
But I’m not.
Because I’m a sick bastard and I’m not apologetic about it.
What’s the point of confessing if you don’t stop doing the act? And no, I surely don’t intend to stop.
Not now that I’ve had a taste of her.
Not now when she’s officially mine.
Fuck. I need to put a halt to these fucked-up thoughts, because my dick is pressing against my pants with the need to act on them.
I start to remove my hand, but she catches it in her smaller one and softly places it under her cheek, as if I’m her new pillow.
Ordinarily, I’d pull away and go to my room. I’d work out to deal with my own sleep problems, but I don’t this time.
This time, I lie on my side, facing her, facing her soft face and her dreamy expression. Then my hands are on that face, and I stroke her hair behind her ear.
“Don’t go…” she mumbles, and it’s probably about her father or maybe her mother.
