Page 29 of Moth
He’s not the monster I spent my entire life training to fear.
This beast asks for permission first. “Show me how to touch you,” he commands, but his voice sounds bitten out. Angry. Irritated. He has to make me move. React.
Show him.
I try to push him off, but somewhere between my hand and my brain, the signals mix up. I push. He pulls.
I gasp.
With every move I make, he interprets the motions in all the wrong ways. Like I’m goading him. Telling him how. Pressure here. There. Lower…
My panties are a teasing barrier, the lace dragging over my skin, warmed by his touch. Over and over again. With every stroke, my breaths feather, and my brain shuts down. There’s no room for shame or alarm in the tiny sliver of consciousness I have left.
Just breathing. Sensation.
Survival—whatever it takes to play his game. Hetoyswith me, letting his fingers drag over the gusset of my panties, teasing me with their weight—the pressure. The inherent wrongness their presence brings…
“W-Wait,” I rasp, struggling to remember…something. This is wrong. Just when my senses start to return, he flexes his wrist, stroking along the flesh between my legs. Just once.
And my nerves go haywire. My hips jerk, then my lips part, allowing a startled sound I’ve never heard myself make before escape.
An answering growl revs in his throat. “Shit…” He bucks against me, splaying my legs around his hand—all chance of escape vanishes. I can’t move, and any air in my lungs dissipates, leaving me devoid of a scream.
In silence and tension, I suffocate as one thick finger hooks beneath the lace shielding me, letting him underneath without permission. I flinch, gripping his shoulder, my mouth open, my throat dry.
I swear a refusal forms on my tongue.
Only to die in the face of his startled grunt as his finger continues its search of me unabated. “You’re wet?” He says it like it’s some rare, terrible, dirty thing. Something so unexpected, it makes him press his mouth against my shoulder as if to keep the confession inside. But he can’t. “Fuck.You’re so fucking wet…”
“S-Stop!” My face is on fire, embarrassment so thick I cringe, clamping my knees together. But then I see his face, how those eyes are unfocused for once. As if from miles away, I hear him grunt, then feel his fingers twitch again. Stroke. Caress.
Ignite.
My head rears back against my shoulders, my eyes staring toward the sky. I stop thinking. Caring.
It feels…
Good. So damngood. It’s as if every stroke feeds some inner part of me I never knew existed. Every bit of friction enhances my perception, alerting me to each nerve connected to my spine. Every quivering bit of muscle drawn taut by his touch.
“Fuck…” His mouth attaches to my neck, his teeth scraping as in punishment. I’m making him reckless. Ruthless. With unsteady motions, he cups me against his palm. Rubbing. Harder. More.More.
When our eyes meet a second time, I quake. My throat dampens, every inch of me thrumming with an awareness that I’m on the verge of something horrible. Vital. Some distant, looming thing only he can bring to fruition.
He accepts that duty with his teeth bared, eyes narrowed with focus. His free hand snatches my waist, forcing me to arch my back and give in to him. One of his feet kicks mine, nudging my legs farther apart.
Taking advantage before I can regain my senses, he slides one rigid finger inside me.
My body clamps down, resisting him at first. He has to ease his way in, forcing my inner muscles to relax around the invasion. Relent.
A million reactions go off all at once. Sparks. Fireworks. Cliché, stupid words that cease to matter in the face of the pleasure that has me gaping. Gasping. Icy, harsh brick bites at my scalp as I writhe, forced to grip his forearms for stability and to keep my sanity. At the same time, my hips move of their own accord, rocking, taking.
And he steadily thrusts his hand, giving me dose, after dose, after dose…
“Fuck.” All at once, he pulls away. Dazed, I stagger against the wall, grappling against the brick for balance. My knees are quivering, my stomach jelly, my pants around my ankles.
A persistent, throbbing ache resides in my belly. It’s too much. Unbearable.
My eyes latch onto his fingers, glistening in the dim glow—but then he clenches them into a fist. And when I look up at his face, the expression hits like a bucket of ice water.
