Page 97 of Wicked Minds
He begins to move, and I lose myself in the ripples of pleasure he elicits with every stroke. What starts slowly builds in intensity until I’m clawing at every inch of him I can reach, and he’s ripped open my pajama top so he can suck on my skin like it’s his sole focus in life to mark me.
“This,” he rasps, breathing heavily as he thrusts into me. “This is what I needed. Do you hear that silence? Fucking bliss.”
Call me crazy, for I know exactly what he means. Gone are the voices telling me how fucking stupid this is. Gone is the doubt. Leaving only the feel of his body sliding against mine and the crashing of his heart against my palm.
Yanking my arms above my head, he pins them in one hand as his other one glides over my chest before sliding around my throat. He gives it a testing squeeze, nowhere close enough to cut off my oxygen, and when I don’t object, he does it again.
He repeats it with each thrust, getting progressively tighter, and the euphoria only heightens the sensations he elicits with every stroke. All of my awareness hones in on him. On the hard slam of his pelvis against mine. The slicking of sweat between our bodies. His harsh breaths against my cheek.
Switching up the angle, he drives deeper than before, and I ignite like a spark to a flame.
Pleasure courses through me in unending waves and I arch against his hold, my mouth opening in a silent scream as he fucks me through my release like a man possessed until his cum paints my inner walls.
I suck in a lungful of air when he releases my throat, not even realizing that the splotches in my vision were from a lack of oxygen and not the world’s most intense orgasm.
Tiredness crashes over me as I roll onto my side to face him, finding him already watching me. The euphoria from our release is intense enough still to keep any regrets at bay, though the weight on my eyelids slowly drags them down, and I’m asleep before I can ask him why he was outside my door earlier.
When I wake several hours later, I’m tucked beneath the duvet, and when I shuffle to a comfier position, I discover no sticky residue between my thighs. I even reach down to feel for myself, finding my inner thighs clean. I crack open an eyelid, and I’m not at all surprised to discover the other side of my bed empty, an indentation in the pillow from where Grayson lay.
30
GRAYSON
The plastic seat is hard against my ass as trepidation courses through my veins while I wait for the proceedings to get underway. It takes everything in me not to shuffle. I’m uncomfortable as fuck. The fact that I snuck out of Riley’s apartment with Gran’s accusations ringing in my ears makes everything ten times worse.
I don’t even remember ending up at Riley’s last night. After leaving Gran's, I went to the office, not needing to run into one of the guys and deal with that if I went home. Found a bottle of bourbon in my bottom drawer and knocked it back while going over everything Gran said… guess I must have finished the entire thing trying to figure it all out.
When I came to, it only took a second for me to piece together where I was. The smell of her was everywhere, and the little bits of girly shit sitting around… there’s only one woman’s apartment I could possibly end up in when blackout drunk.
With alcohol still sloshing around in my system, I’d stumbled into her bedroom. Intent on answers? I’m not sure what my thinking had been, but when I saw her sound asleep… so soft and vulnerable looking. So fragile. Seeming so much like the girl I remember…
I hadn’t been thinking when I’d ambled closer. Or perhaps I was thinking clearly for the first time in weeks. Since seeing her in that club. My mouth was salivating for the taste of her. For the reprieve her presence offers.
When I’m inside her, the cacophony of life’s chaos quiets to a gentle murmur. As if she possesses a magical touch, turning the disarray of existence into a fleeting symphony of peace. I can’t make any sense of it, but I equally don’t dare to question the miracle that is having her wrapped around me.
That respite she offers from the tempest that constantly rages at the borders of my sanity… I need it more with each passing day. Needed it with such a fierce desire in that moment that it drove me forward until I was pushing the duvet aside and curling my fingers in the waistband of her pajamas, pulling them down her legs.
The taste of her on my tongue, the feel of her spasming with each touch… nirvana. That blanket of deferment settled over me, and I lost myself to everything Riley. The girl I’ve never been allowed to have but have always craved with a passion I can’t deny.
I shift on the chair, my pants growing inappropriately tight simply at the memory of our night together. I’d intended to talk to her afterward. I’d told myself I’d finally listen to her version of events five years ago. It might not be something I want to hear, but I need to hear it at this point. Need to see her face as she says it instead of shutting her out and refusing to listen.
Except, she’d fallen asleep almost instantly, and I couldn’t find it in me to wake her. So I’d cleaned her up and spent the next few hours lost in my thoughts until I had to leave or I’d be late for Dad’s parole hearing.
After months of working toward this day… I can’t say I’m the least bit excited about my father’s possible release. I’m certainly not feeling the satisfaction I thought I’d feel.
Instead, I feel sick at the notion that I may be culpable in helping a vile, manipulative man get out of prison. The problem is I don’t know for sure, and I don’t know how to find out. Even if I do get to the bottom of the truth, is it too late? If my father is granted early parole, then he’ll be released in a matter of weeks or months.
I run my eyes over the parole board, taking in the bland, expressionless features of the four members—three men and one woman. They look bored more than anything else, although I guess this is just another day for them. The outcome of this hearing won’t change anything for them.
Not like it will for my dad.
Like it will for me.
Shifting my focus, I take in my father, who is looking sharp today in a tailor-made Brioni suit, his hair freshly cut and face cleanly shaven. The twisting in my gut intensifies as I imagine the fear in Gran’s eyes when she thought I was him. What does she see that I’m missing? He looks so…ordinary. He doesn’t seem evil. Doesn’t look capable of the things Gran and Riley have accused him of.
Am I so biased by the fact he’s my father that I can’t see it?
Sitting beside his lawyer, he’s the epitome of confidence, appearing collected as he straightens in his seat in front of the parole board, his posture tense yet resolute.
