Page 175 of Feed Your Fiends

I piston my hips so she can feel and her pussy flutters around me.

“If I stay in you, I know I can do it.”

“Do what?” I shift the gears, and we pull off from the parking spot.

She tenses, trying to pull away from me, but I won’t let her move an inch.

“Gant? Where are we going? We don’t have any clothes—”

“No one will see us,” I assure her as I move toward the utility lift.

“Gant—” “Just trust me, dove. You trust me enough to spray your cunt. Trust me to take you somewhere.”

I grab the key card from the console between the seats and push it into the slot that will give me access to the penthouse.

Dove’s quiet, but her eyes are wide, her dripping pussy clenching around me all over again as we move up, then out of the lift as I drive the reinforced car. The hood splits the curtains, and suddenly, we’re faced with the living room.

“Gant…” she trails. “What are we…” But it hits her as her eyes dart toward the ramp I’m in perfect alignment with.

“Bart needed this lift for heavy equipment when he designed the penthouse. He needed a forklift to install it.”

She doesn’t ask with the‘it’is.

“He also reinforced this car for my sake. To help me get over my fears of driving. It didn’t work until now.”

“Gant.”

“It has steel bars. You could run through a cement barrier, and this thing wouldn’t break. That’s what he told me: Glass is softer than cement, isn’t it?

“I think so,” she says finally.

“Hold on to me tight, baby.” I lurch the car forward, and she screams.

“Gant!”

“Fuck! That’s right, squeeze me with your pussy. Grip me tight.”

We burst through the ramp and straight into the glass case, faster than she can finish her scream.

It shatters into a million pieces, raining down on the windscreen and hood, without leaving so much as a scratch.

The portrait tumbles onto the hood with a bang.

We stay locked together for an eternity before I gently lift Dove with me out of the car and let her slide to her feet. Immediately, I crave her heat, but a different warmth is spreading through me as I grab the portrait from the hood, link our fingers and walk us up to the living room, where the fireplace roars.

I stare at the portrait, at who isn’t my mother.

“You’ll see her again,” Dove whispers after an entirety has passed. “And she’ll be whole.”

“It’s that thought that makes this easier,” I say, before finally letting go and letting the memory burn. Flames eat at the canvas until the image Bart wanted of her is gone. The corpse is gone, but she isn’t.

Bye, Mum.

Elle

The sun’s dipping below the horizon, rays of orange, pink and lavender streaking through the gothic-style pointed ceilings of Beaulieu’s many roofs.

Long golden shadows stretch across the sprawling campus and bounce off the stone walls, bathing Aria and me in a dream-like glow as we head for Maple House.

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