Page 35 of Vengeful Vows

As I strangle my cock, desperate for a quick release so I can get back to the party before Mara leaves, my spare hand braces against the sparkling clean tiles of my office bathroom. My hips piston as I think of all the ways I could take her without the restraints my hookups are never without.

Her tits will bounce when I take her hard and fast, and her lips will be cracked and swollen from the number of kisses we’ll share.

She’ll taste so good.

Moan so hard.

She will fuck me as much as I will fuck her.

And I won’t punish her for her sneaky touches, scold her, or end our exchange when her desire to touch grows too rampant for her to ignore.

I could encourage them. That’s how unhinged she makes me. How unique. She makes me think I can have my cake and eat it too.

The theory wouldn’t be in limbo if she weren’t a mother.

That is theonlything holding me back from going gung-ho on Rafael’s suggestion to make Mara my wife.

It may make me seem like an ass, but you can’t judge me until you’ve walked a day in my shoes.

My childhood was…fuck.

My cock softens.

“No.”

I thrust my hips faster, trying to strangle both my dick and my thoughts back into submission. I need this release more than my lungs need air. I won’t have a single lucid thought if I don’t release the lusty deluge Mara’s presence forever causes.

Nothing works.

My cock is as limp as it was meant to be only moments ago, and I’ve washed too much of Mara’s scent off my skin for it to convince my head into a second hiatus.

Frustrated, I throw my fist into the tile before relishing the snippet of pain it rewards me with. I’m not a sadist by any means, but pain is a salutary reminder of my goals and why I strive so hard to achieve them.

With my shoulders hanging as flaccid as my dick, I switch off the faucet and exit the shower. Blood is pissing out of my hand from where it split while colliding with the tiles. It dots the vanity sink with droplets of crimson and has my thoughts shifting back to my youth.

There was so much blood then, so much gore, yet the silence was the most painful part.

It still haunts me now.

Talking about silence, the noise booming from the den before I entered the bathroom no longer exists when I dress before entering the central part of my office to search for something to clog the graze on my hand. It soaked through a hand towel in less than a minute, so I don’t see cotton swabs doing any better.

My apartment resembles a graveyard at midnight.

It is deadly quiet.

Blood drips on my desk when I hit the intercom button and say, “Rafael?”

I don’t get a response, so I try again. “Rafael?—”

“He left twenty m-minutes ago,” replies a voice I would immediately recognize even if she hadn’t stuttered.

Mara’s throat works hard to swallow when I march to my office door and swing it open, stealing her temporary cloak of invisibility. My third-floor office hovers above the den, a perch to overlook all the debauchery below, so it can’t hide the emptiness of my apartment.

It is just Mara and me.

My cock roars back to life as the scent I’m becoming obsessed with filters through my nostrils.

I drift my eyes away from the ghost-town-like den to Mara when she says, “Y-your hand. What happened?”

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