Page 28 of A Trap So Flawless

“What?” she pants.

“You heard me. Ride my fucking hand.”

“Are you crazy?!”

“Yes,” I mutter. “Next question.”

But I guess she doesn’t have any questions left for me now. All she has left is her will, and it is buckling. I can literally feel it happening. I can feel the rhythmic twitching of her swollen inner walls. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I make a rough, involuntary sound of need. As if worried someone’s heard me, her eyes skitter away, scanning and vigilant.

“Don’t look at them,” I groan. “Don’t look at anything but me.”

She closes her eyes, the stubborn little thing.

But then, with a nearly shy sort of subtlety, she rocks her hips against me. She inhales softly at the same moment that I let out a haggard breath.

“More,” I demand, skimming my lips along the edge of her ear. “You can do better than that.”

Her head tilts back against the bark of the trunk. Sun slides between branches. She’s all gold and brown and pink. Cheeks and lashes and lips. She looks like some sweet forest nymph or glittering fae. Are there Sicilian faeries?

I guess so. Because I’m looking at one. I’ve got my finger inside one, and she’s starting to rub herself on me more greedily now. I refuse to move my hand, refuse to help her in any way as she slowly fucks herself onto me.

“Oh!” she suddenly gasps. “No! I-”

She tries to stop, tries to pull my hand away, but it’s too late. Her fingers lose all force at my wrist as she comes.

Jesus fuck. Holy Mary, mother of God.

My whole body lights up like I’ve just taken a hit of the most potent shit in the universe. So profoundly perfect, and so fucking addictive, that no one could cook this sensation up in a lab even if they tried. Valentina’s in my veins without so much as a syringe to do it.

This is what I should be trying to escape. The spasmodic nirvana of her hold on me. The caustic clarity she brings me. Vicious fucking bliss.

Valentina’s got her hands over her face. For a moment – a moment that feels like a blow – I think she’s crying again. But when she speaks through her fingers, her voice is croaky with exhaustion, not teary.

“I’m so fucking tired.”

You and me both.

I haven’t slept properly since before Halifax. More than three weeks now.

She probably slept like a baby this entire time. Knowing I was gone.

The agony of absence – this destructive withdrawal – is pain that only goes one way.

I need Valentina rehab. I need some fancy fucking program with steps and sponsors and someone to save me.

But as I pull my fingers from between her legs and lick them clean, feeling both savage and serene under the clear light of St. Stephen’s Green, I don’t think I actually want to be saved.

I want to be damned.

So long as she’s the one to do it.

So long as I get to drag her down with me.

Chapter 11

Valentina

Darragh takes me through the gorgeous area of greenery, water, and trees to a street of nice buildings on the other side. The buildings are all attached, like townhouses, with beautiful red and grey bricks and wrought-iron fencing between them and the sidewalk. The doors are painted bright, fresh colours that remind me of sweet things. Like hard candies or Easter eggs. Leaf green and robin egg blue. An especially wide grey building with rows upon rows of large windows and steps leading up to its doors has fluttering banners outside that say MoLI – Museum of Literature Ireland.

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