Page 50 of Grift

Her legs are wrapped around my waist, and I catch one ankle, hooking it over my shoulder. She goes from tight to unimaginably molded around me. As if by instinct, her other leg moves to my shoulder and – Christ. There’s no greater perfection that’s ever existed. She’s stretched so far, too far.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You,” she pants. She tries to slide a hand down between her legs, to relieve the rising ache there. But I won’t allow it.

“No.”

I pin her hands beneath mine.

The tightness in my balls isn’t like anything I’ve ever felt, a weight begging for release. Her eyes are practically rolling back in her head as I drive my hips in, down, around. Anything to get more sensation, more sound, more connection.

“Eyes open.”

Fuck, I can barely speak.

Every deep thrust makes her cry out. Instinct makes me slam into her, fucking like every sound of pleasure is my salvation. Pressing into her, against her, I want to be with her, consume her, disappear into her, use her, be absolved by her.

I feel her go seconds before the scream rips from her lips, then she’s pulsing around me and taking me with her. The world is all sensation, release, the need to keep moving and moving inside her, and then finally peace.

“Wow.”

I blink down at her, unfocused eyes slowly taking in the silvery depths. Right. The thought strikes me that she’s much more attractive than I am, and that if we ever had a kid, I hope it would look exactly like her.

Oh my god.

I’m still inside her when it hits me, and I ease out. No need to panic her. Every other time, we’d used a condom. Every other time. Fuck.

I’d been so distracted, so enthralled.

But I have to ask.

“Jessica, are you on birth control?”

I should know this. An eternity passes before a comprehending look dawns and she nods. “Yes, yes I am. You didn’t…”

“I’m sorry. That won’t happen again.” No it won’t, because this shouldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be happening at all.

There’s something I need to do. Something I need to see.

She’s yawning, and I manage to convince her to go back to sleep. Thank god she’s got a generous vacation policy at her office. Ninety minutes later I’m in my office at the casino, door locked and safe open.

I don’t want to watch it.

Part of me wants to just destroy it. The problem is, I don’t know what’s on the tapes and I don’t know if other copies exist. And getting to a real solution means facing this head on.

In the end, I don’t watch the whole thing.

I don’t need to. Two minutes tells me everything I need to know. Bile kicks up my throat and I leave my desk to puke. Killing men is less brutal than watching her subjected to that.

You don’t see the guy’s face.

You don’t see her face either. It’s obvious she’s been drugged. In my conversations with Jessica, she’s alluded to the idea that she thinks she did something terrible and it was filmed. That she got drunk and made a sex tape. While she needs to know that she doesn’t need to be ashamed if that’s what happened, something else entirely is going on here.

That’s not what happened. Not by a long shot.

It’s hard to say. It’s hard to face. But I have to: Jessica was drugged. Jessica was assaulted. Jessica was filmed.

And instead of hunting down the person that did it, and eviscerating him, her family had swept it under the rug and told her that it was her fault. They’d ruined her life, when they should have found out who did it to her, and ruined his.

Seeing this would destroy her. But that’s not going to happen.

I might not be able to go back in time and prevent this. But I’m going to bring the full weight of every resource, every avenue, and every possible mode of justice to go back and find out who did this.

Then I’m going to tear them limb from limb, set the remains on fire, and piss in the ashes.

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