Page 58 of Quiet Rage
I spit in my hand and rub it over my cock, making my hand slide up and down with ease. Thanks to the cocaine having my blood pumping, it doesn't take me long to get hard. Spitting in my hand one more time, I wipe the wetness over my tip before I bring it to Tamson’s pussy.
Grinding my teeth together, I push my hips forward, forcing my cock into her unwilling body. She starts crying, her small form shaking with each sob as I shove myself inside of her until there is nowhere else to go.
I don’t give her time to adjust. Pulling out a few inches, I thrust back into her. Ignoring her pained whimper, I concentrate on how good she feels, how tight her walls are gripping me.
Tamson’s weeping is momentarily drowned out by a blood-curdling scream coming from the living room. I ignore that, too. I let all the noise around me fade away and focus on the pleasure building inside of me.
Thinking of nothing besides my impending release, I fuck her roughly. Driven by carnal need, my thrusts are hard enough to scoot the table across the linoleum floor. Closing my eyes, I chase my orgasm, driving myself into Tamson over and over again until euphoria overcomes me.
Digging my fingers into Tamson’s thighs, I hold her in place as I thrust deep inside of her one last time. My balls draw together, and my cock throbs as I shoot ropes of come into her tight cunt. I stay buried inside her warmth as the last ripples of pleasure work their way through me. My mind is clouded with the rush of endorphins when I blink my eyes open and reality comes crashing down on me.
Fuck.
I peel my fingers away from her thighs, where my touch has left red marks behind on her skin. Taking a step back, I let my cock slide out of her pussy. I can’t bring myself to look at her, as I stuff my dick back into my underwear and zip my pants back up.
Dante walks around the table, reaching to undo his pants. “Switch. You hold her down for me now.”
“No,” I blurt out, my eyes immediately searching for Dante’s knife. It’s not in his hand anymore so I’m guessing he put it back in his boot.
“No?” Dante asks, like he isn’t sure he heard me right.
“We’re done here. It’s time to go,” I order.
“I haven't fucked her yet,” Dante shoots back at me.
“I don’t give a fuck. I’m ready to leave, so we’re leaving.”
Dante walks right up to me, puffing his chest as if he is trying to match the size of mine. “What’s your problem, kid?”
Instead of giving him an answer, I shove at his chest, making him stumble back and crash into the cabinets. He might be ten years older than me, and he’s known me since I was a boy, but I’m not a child anymore, and Dante is realizing that fact at this exact moment.
He stares at me in shock. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Don’t get in my face like that again,” I warn.
Dante glares at me for a few seconds. Tension builds before he decides he is not going to take the chance in fighting me. “Fine. We’ll leave, for now.” He walks past me, into the living room where he tells Paul and Vinnie that we are leaving.
I turn my back to Tamson, still unable to look at her. I wait for the guys to come out of the other room. Dante speed walks to the back door, anger contorting his features. Vinnie is covered in blood, whistling like he just had the best time of his life. Paul comes out last, rubbing his swollen and bloody knuckles.
Glad that this is over, I follow the others outside and into the night. The small relief I’m feeling for getting Dante away from Tamson is overshadowed by everything I couldn’t protect her from.
Dante is seething by the time we get into the car, but he wisely chooses to stay quiet. We pull away from the house, and I slowly process what I’ve just done. Guilt slams into me like a ton of bricks, making it hard to take my next breath. The feeling is only rivaled by the immense grief settling in my chest. No one died today, but Tamson and I both lost something we are never getting back.
Chapter 26
Tamson
I’m notsure how much time has passed since they left, but I’m still mostly in shock. My mind is numb, my body too. I stopped crying a while ago, but my eyes still feel swollen.
My mom hasn’t stopped sobbing, her body shaking as she wipes more blood off the floor. I’m on my knees next to her, doing the same. I swipe the rag over the red puddle before wringing it out into the bucket.
My father is sitting on the couch, breathing heavily while holding a towel tightly over his injured hand.
They cut one of his fingers off. I cringe, remembering my dad’s scream. I quickly push the memory away. I’m not ready to deal with this yet.
“We should go to the hospital,” I say, my voice coming out raspy.
“No,” my dad groans. “They would call the cops, and we can’t involve the police. That would just make it worse.”
