Page 53 of Misery
I take him in my mouth.
Not all of him—I'd choke.
But enough that he groans like I'm killing him in the best way.
His hand tangles in my hair.
Not pushing. Not demanding. Just holding. Connecting.
I find a rhythm.
Hand and mouth working together.
Probably clumsy. Definitely inexperienced.
But from the sounds he's making—these broken, desperate noises—he doesn't care.
"Elfe. Fuck. I'm going to—you should stop?—"
I don't stop.
I want to taste him too.
To feel him come apart because of me.
For me. My choice. My power.
He comes with a sound that's almost pained.
I swallow and pull back, tasting him on my tongue as I swallow.
"Was that okay?"
He pulls me up and kisses me deep despite where my mouth just was.
"Perfect. You're perfect."
We lie here, both partially dressed, both wrecked.
The panic attack feels like hours ago instead of minutes.
Like something that happened to someone else.
A girl who didn't know she could choose pleasure over fear.
"Stay," I whisper. Press against his side. "Don't go back to your room."
"Wasn't planning on it." His arm comes around me, and he holds me close.
I feel so safe right now.
"Good." I trace patterns on his chest. Follow ink lines. "Is this what it's supposed to feel like?"
"What?"
"Safe. Wanted. Like my body's mine to share instead of something to protect."
His arm tightens around me. I feel him swallow hard. "Yeah. This is how it should feel."
