Page 68 of Trapped

She glared at me. “Just come here.”

I walked to the couch and took a seat beside her, far enough so that she didn’t feel crowded. Her head turned back to the screen as a baker applied a glossy layer of chocolate to a cake.

“You ever watch shows like these?”

I shook my head. “I’m more of a news and sports guy.”

She fell silent again, pushing the strap of her nightdress up her shoulder. Hard to believe that hours ago, I’d been balls deep inside her tight pussy.

My cock swelled as I replayed last night. She’d been angry, for sure, with the way she gripped my back. And her nails dug into my scalp as she held me to her body, her tongue in my mouth, her hips in sync with mine.

She was perfect.

It felt good to have that final layer of secrecy ripped away. She rode my cock just like I knew she would, holding me tight with her thighs, taking every drop of my cum like a good girl. Holding it inside her for ages. I researched it, and experts recommended twenty minutes to an hour. So I just kept fucking her. She’d loved it. She cried out my name and came over and over again. And when she was too sleepy to continue, I cradled her in my arms, her face buried in my neck, and she held me back. Finally, she treated me like I belonged to her.

Now she was sullen again.

I broke the silence, trying to keep things light. “What’s the show about?”

“Baking,” she said curtly.

“Yeah, I got that. Do you like baking?”

She shrugged. “It’s fine. I just like watching people make pretty things.”

“Maybe we could try it together.”

She glanced at me, her expression softening. “You bake?”

“Not really, but I can follow instructions.”

We watched the show in comfortable silence for a while. The model-thin brunette tasted the tiniest piece of a cake with intricate flowers and talked to a girl wearing an apron.

Delilah sighed, her eyes still on the screen. “I used to bake with my stepmom. Before she turned bitter from my father’s affairs. Every year, she went all out with pastries for Christmas. Tryingto impress my dad, I guess.” She pulled the blanket tighter around her.

“And your mom?”

Delilah shook her head, her gaze fixed on the flickering images on the screen. “Died when I was little.”

“I’m sorry. That’s a kind of loss you don’t just get over.”

I reached over, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. She leaned into my touch, then pulled back, her walls back up again. Delilah turned to the TV, her body tense.

The show moved on to judging, and the contestants awaited the verdict with bated breath. We watched in silence, the only sounds the judges’ critiques and the occasional laugh track.

“What about your family?” she asked.

“My old man was a gambler and a drunk. My mom did her best to protect us, but it wasn’t easy. He’d blow in like a hurricane, mess everything up, then leave again like nothing happened.”

Delilah’s eyes softened. “Sounds familiar.”

“Not all parents are what they should be.”

“And your siblings? You mentioned them before.”

“They’re a mixed bag. We look out for each other the best we can. Family’s family, right? Even when they drive you nuts.” I paused, memories surfacing like ghosts from the past. “After a fire killed my cousin, everything fell apart.”

“A fire?”

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