Page 68 of Feed Your Fiends

“Gant?”

She’s calling me, but how can she? She’s dead.

One moment my ass is on the cognac leather seat, the next I’m tumbling onto the cement floor. The cold radiates up my hip bone and spine, but it’s quickly replaced by warmth as Elle’s arms cage me in.

Elle.

A pretty plum pattern, draped over impossibly silky smooth legs, catches my attention first. I tug on Elle’s skirt hem and pull myself tighter into her embrace.

“Gant? Are you okay?”

“You’re already dressed?” I ask, fiddling with the fabric to ground myself.

Had the physiotherapist already left? Hazel was sixty-eight, with supernatural healing techniques. She’d helped me and my mother through several ballet injuries, and now she’s helping Elle twice a day, in between her podiatrist follow-ups and right before her massage therapy. I’d learned the latter, to help with the swelling in the mornings.

“Houndstooth,” I say, rubbing the fabric faster.

“Hounds tooth?” She strokes my hair, giving me space to stall. Such a good little doll. “Is that what it’s called? I knew it wasn’t a chequered print, but that’s how I described it. Fuzzy, offset checkers.”

“It looks good on you.”

“It…it doesn’t look cheap, right? I mean it is, but it doesn’t look it, does it?”

She’d painstakingly agonised over the‘right’outfit for hours.

I pull back, just enough to look into her angelic face that’s etched with worry.

“Damn, it’s wrinkled now,” she pushes at my chest, but I put more of my weight on her, and force her legs wider to accommodate me. The motion makes her skirt roll over her thighs, where it pools around her hips.

“Fuck me,” I rasp, eyeing the matching, semi-sheer plum panties. It’s a pair I’d picked out before the break. One of the pairs she’d refused to wear because she didn’t think she deserved them.

I slide my fingers over the soft lace, and she grips my wrist, though it’s useless. I’m between her legs, and she can’t shut them.

“When since do you care about your clothes looking cheap?” I ask, stroking her slit and bringing her fingers along for the ride. “You never cared before when you insisted on dressing my pussy in rags.”

She swallows. “I don’t care…normally. It’s just…”

I flick her clit and she grips me tighter.

“Just what?” I ask, rolling her clit beneath my fingers as I take in her expression suspended between pleasure and… “Are you nervous about meeting my family?”

“Of course I am. We need answers,” she says, pushing me away, but I hook my fingers through the gusset and tug.

“I’ll break it,” I say, using my knuckle to continue my ministrations on her clit and she whimpers. “And that’d be a shame because I know you put a lot of effort into colour-coordinating everything. But why?”

“Because they’re your family, and I’m…”

“My girlfriend.” My heart flutters in beat to her quivering cunt as I slide my knuckle up and down her slit.

She doesn’t agree or disagree, which makes me attack her clit with my thumb. Her stomach contracts, her breath hitching. “I need to make a good first impression, and clothing is a major factor,” she pants, a pink blush creeping across her cheeks as she trembles against me.

She cares about my family accepting and liking her; no matter how much she pretends, it’s solely to get answers.

“You look stunning, Elle. Beautiful.”

“What—” Her breath hitches as I sink my knuckle into her hot hole just a fraction. I promised I wouldn’t break her barriers.Yet.“What if my presence stops Delphine from opening up? It’s a delicate situation you’re approaching with her, and I’m a stranger.”

“So am I.”

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