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It takes no time at all to get to the edge. I slow my movements, drawing out the pain and pleasure. My balls are so tight, I’m going to explode any second. I imagine her reaction when she wakes up, when she sees my handiwork. I use her panties to cover the head of my cock. I groan through my teeth as I come. My dick twitches, pulse after pulse of cum filling the cotton panties.
But it doesn’t satiate me.
Instead, it leaves me wanting more.
7
MELODY
It’s still dark when my fingers dip into my pussy. I’m wet and aching, the need built by a dream that slips away the closer I come to consciousness. I rub my swollen clit, my hips shifting. My other hand comes up and cups my breast, pinching my sore nipple.
Waves of heat spread through me.
Why is it sore?
I knead my breast and rub my clit harder, until pleasure washes over me.
It isn’t until the trembling has passed that I realize my shirt is already up to my collarbone and my hand had easy access. I sit up and reach for the lamp. It smells a bit like sex in here, the scent of my orgasm clinging to me even as the feeling fades.
The warm light sears my eyes. A few rapid blinks later, and I examine my skin.
My breast.
There are bite marks over my nipple. Reddish marks that skirt the line of bruising.
Hickeys, my mind supplies.
I’ve never had one before. Not that I know of anyway. I touch my nipple, wincing at the tenderness of it.
Suddenly uneasy, I shift my gaze to the door.
Who would’ve done this?
I get up, yanking my shirt into place, and lock my door. I haven’t felt the need to do so before. Now, it gives me another modicum of safety.
The clock reads four a.m., and my eyes feel like sandpaper. But I can’t go back to sleep. I check my window and let out a breath when my fingers graze the latched lock.
Maybe I did it in my sleep. I was dreaming of a man mauling my breast, maybe I did it to myself.
Yeah, that’s it.
I won’t get answers on that, but Icanget answers on Jacob Rhodes. I pull out the old laptop and plug the charging cable into it, balancing it on my thighs. The fans on it automatically whir when I crack it open and fire it up, protesting after years of abuse.
I type his name into the search bar again and wait. Eventually, the search page loads…
With millions of hits.
Most are articles about him as a rookie, various news sources covering games and when he signed on to the Titans.
Before that, he was at Crown Point University in Maine. He graduated two years ago.
I search his name and mine together, just for the hell of it, but nothing useful pops up. I’ve done this before, sitting next to Thomas on his faster computer, watching as he slowly typed in my name. At the time, he was unconcerned by our lack of success.
“There are a lot of Melody Camerons,” he pointed out.
I saw it for myself in the results. Nothing about a Melody Cameron in New York. The closest I get is finding a small write up about a woman found nearly dead in an alley. I assumed it was me. It wasn’t comforting.
And it isn’t now, when I’m trying to uncover any piece of my past.
