Page 121 of Scarred in Silence
When she sinks down between my legs again, it’s not lust. It’s reverence.
She parts her plump lips and slides her mouth down the shaft of my cock. It hardens quickly.
It’s difficult to think about anything else right now besides her perfect fucking mouth.
She strips me of the guilt without saying a word. Gives me something real to anchor to.
My hands end up tangled in her hair, knuckles white, but I don’t push. I don’t command. I just breathe, for the first time since the car.
She works herself up and down on my cock, teasing me with her tongue. She moans around it, and I let out a groan. She is so fucking hot. My little Siren.
I feel her tight throat suctioning to my length perfectly. She slides up and down, until I feel myself swell in the back of her throat. Fuck.
I release my load down her throat, and she moans in pleasure.
By the time she’s finished, my heart is racing, but the storm is quiet.
She climbs into bed beside me without waiting for permission. Doesn’t need it.
I pull her against my chest, burying my face in her hair. The smell of honey comforts me.
“I thought you’d use the gun,” I murmur.
She stiffens slightly, then relaxes. “I didn’t want to make it that easy on you.”
A short, breathless laugh escapes me. “Fair enough.”
Welie there in the dark for a long time.
I don’t want to break the peace. But I owe her honesty. So I whisper:
“You’re going to see them next week. Your parents. I talked to Gideon while we were driving to the compound.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just traces the lines on my ribs with her fingertip.
“You said I was your sentence,” I add, “Maybe I am. But I want to be the part you survive.”
Her breath catches.
And for once, we fall asleep at the same time.
Not as a monster and captive. Not as addict and savior.
Only as two broken things trying to fit together.
44
Astra
3 Days Later
Lucien’s house is too quiet when Evelyn’s not talking.
She’s in the kitchen now, yelling at the espresso machine like it personally offended her. Something about the beans being too oily. I’m on the couch, knees tucked under me, watching steam rise from the mug in my hands. It smells like cinnamon and guilt.
“I swear this thing is possessed,” Evelyn calls, banging something metallic. “Do you have to sacrifice a goat to get it to make a latte around here?”
“Try hitting it harder,” I say dryly, sipping my tea.
