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It’s only one gasp before the faces above me blur, and then there’s darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He Heard Me
It’sDean’svoicethatwakes me, and the spike of anger mixed with fear makes me sit up before I think better of it. I can’t make out what he said, but he’s here, somewhere close. I’m on my feet, ready to find Sam and break free from the Eminent’s men.
Except I’m not outside anymore. Steel walls surround me in the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out at an unfamiliar coast, rain spitting on the glass.
“Why have we stopped?” a woman asks. I turn to see someone in a bed leaning up on their elbow. Her blonde hair cascades over the skin of a man in bed with her, the person she speaks to. The thin sheet barely covers her exposed skin, draped over her curves.
A man’s hand caresses her back, trailing fingers through her hair, and cups the back of her head. His fingers close into a fist and he pulls, making her arch her back. She lets out a noise of strained pleasure.
“Stop talking,” Dean orders, and he yanks her down his bare torso by her hair. I expect her to object, scratch at his chest, or complain, but her response is obedience. She crawls down his body with enthusiasm and seats herself between his spread legs.
His cock stands at attention, and he pushes on the back of her head with a grunt. It disappears into her mouth, her blonde strands cascading over his stomach and thighs.
There’s the steady bob of her head and he keeps hold of her, freely fucking her mouth with force. The sounds of her gagging and sucking get louder, her long fingernails digging into his bare thighs.
I can’t tell if she’s choking or coming by the way she’s moaning on his cock.
“You love how I fuck your mouth, you little whore,” Dean spits. “Swallow it. Open your fucking jaw, you slut.”
She groans and touches herself with one hand, her fingers working between her legs. They don’t know I’m here, but I see everything. I think of turning away, but as the seconds tick by, I’m still watching, unable to move.
Both Dean’s hands pile her hair behind her head, never stopping the steady pump of his cock into her mouth. When the messy strands form a knotted ponytail at the back of her head, he uses it to thrust his cock down her throat. She stops touching herself, and at this moment, I imagine her impending orgasm has slipped away. She clutches onto him and the bedsheets, her hands searching for enough grip to slow him down or stop him.
I step closer, invading their private moment, knowing they can’t see me. I’m still passed out above ground or maybe dead, but I’m not really here. I can’t stop him or help her, and I’m still not sure if she’d want my help. There’s a thin line between pleasure and pain.
Her moans have stopped, replaced with the hum of her pleas. He presses her face to his groin, her lips held against the base of his cock. This is when she scratches him, pressing her nails down his stomach, and she screams the best she can with his entire cock down her throat.
It’s pointless.
I know because I’ve been where she is in a past life. All she can do is focus on breathing while she waits for his cum to stop pumping into her stomach. Dean enjoys these moments of power, and even though she could bite down, do something real to make him release her, she won’t.
I never did.
His hands slip from her messy hair, his arms fall limp at his sides and she rises, coughing and spitting, his cum running down her chin.
“Swallow it, whore,” he demands. She fights the urge to tell him off. I can’t fully see her face, but I know in the way her back muscles tighten as she wipes her mouth with her hand.
She catches her breath and tries to rest at his side, but Dean lifts an arm to separate them, pushing her away and dismissing her embrace.
“The ship stopped because we’re here,” Dean says, answering her earlier question.
He sits up in the bed, swinging his legs around the edge, and he stands naked in the room, stretching his arms above his head. He wipes off his limp cock with the sheet and I notice the scar from the bullet wound Luke gifted him with last year. It’s an ugly patch of skin, grown over with pink tissue and messy white lines.
“Goodbye, Lea,” he yawns, stepping toward the window. I move to the side, not wanting him to pass through me, but I don’t shy away from him.
“What a view,” he smiles.
“It’s Linda,” she huffs, throwing the sheet aside and displaying her perfect body. He doesn’t respond, hitting a few buttons on a coffee maker and grabbing a cigarette from a drawer.
She lingers, putting on her clothes, glancing his way every few moments, but he doesn’t turn around.
When the door shuts behind her, he takes a long drag of his cigarette. The end burns red, and he exhales the smoke over the window that looks out at the cliffs.
It’s the underground.
