Page 46 of Rooke
I sweep and swirl my tongue, running it over the head of his cock, and he shudders again, jolting violently. “Holy. Fucking.Shit.” He wants to come. I want him to so badly. The taste of him is dizzying; I can’t seem to get enough. Rooke finally locks eyes with me, stroking his free hand down the side of my face. “You’re so goddamn perfect,” he growls. “You’re mine. You’re fucking mine. I won’t let anything else happen to you. I won’t ever let anyone else touch you. I promise. Fuck, I’m getting close…” His head rocks back, and I moan. He’s so fucking hot, I can’t contain myself anymore. I pump my fingers in and out of my pussy, cold, spiraling pins and needles working their way through my body. I can feel it building inside me. I know I’m going to come if I keep on doing what I’m doing, and in this moment nothing on this earth could make me stop.
Closer…
Closer…
Closer…
I want to close my eyes. I want to sink into this euphoria, allow it to overwhelm and encompass me. Rooke told me not to, though. I keep my eyes trained on him as my climax slams into me like the bullet from a gun. I cry out, moaning, thrashing on the bed, and Rooke reacts in kind. “Fuck. That’s it, baby. That’s it. Come for me. Come all over your fingers for me.”
His movements quicken, his cock driving deeper and deeper into my mouth, and then there are fireworks going off in my head and he’s coming, too, so hard that he roars, his head kicking back, his back curving to extreme degrees as he flounders in his orgasm. I swallow him. I don’t want to spit out the come he leaves in my mouth. It’s part of him, a vital part of him, and I want it inside me.
“Holy shit.” He swallows thickly, releasing his grip on my hair. I lie back on the bed, still staring up at him, completely stunned by the fury of what just happened between us. Rooke looks like he can’t really believe it either.
“Give me your hand,” he whispers. I hold up my left, but he shakes his head. “The other one.”
“That one’s covered—”
“Give it to me.”His eyes are stormy, dark and dangerous. He’s not to be messed with right now. I slowly raise my right hand, conscious of the fact that my fingers are slick and wet with the evidence of my own orgasm. “You think you can just swallow me and there wouldn’t be consequences? There are consequences to every action you make, Sasha. This is what happens when you swallow my come.” He sucks my fingers into his mouth, first the index finger and then the middle finger. His eyes close as he licks and sucks, taking care to clean each of my fingers. If I’d read this in a book, I might have accepted that it would be hot and moved on. But let me tell you now: Rooke Blackheath sucking your slick, wet fingers after you just made yourself come with them is not something you can move on quickly from in real life. It’s the most erotic, sexual thing that has ever happened to me, and I fucking revel in it.
“Your pussy is mine, Sasha,” he says quietly. His eyes glitter, a small, perilous smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Don’t ever deny me. I’m going to want to fuck and lick and play with it every day. If you try and stop me, there will be consequences tothataction, too.”
TWENTY-TWO
THE RITZ
ROOKE
“I can’t tell you something I don’t know, man. Come on!Please! This is fucking crazy, Rooke. Youknowme. I deal in prescription meds and pot. I don’t get caught up with crazy dudes that break into museums.”
Mike Maurizio, my sometimes friend and drug dealer, flinches as I raise my fist in the air. My knuckles are killing me. I shouldn’t have used my hands on him but I lost my temper. It’s been a long-ass time since I’ve done that. They teach you an awful lot of anger management techniques in juvi. I didn’t think I was paying much attention at the time, but in hindsight some of those techniques must have worked their magic on me, because it’s been years since I’ve really lost control.
Mike hasn’t put up much of a struggle as I’ve thrown him around the dingy basement of his mother’s walkup. I start to feel a little remorseful as he tries to back away from me, hands raised. “You may not work with people like him, Mike, but you know fences and you like to run your mouth. The cops said this guy wanted to steal something valuable from the museum. Something he could sell to make a profit. Guys like that usually have a buyer already lined up.”
“I read the papers, too, dude. That guy was fucking crazy. He hadn’t thought any of it through. Why do you think he would have had a buyer lined up?”
This is a really good point. I’m just bullshitting Mike at this stage, trying to scare him into spilling anything he might know. It’s a futile task, I’m aware, but I’m at my wit’s fucking end. I combed the city while Sasha was in the hospital, looking for the redheaded motherfucker that hurt her, and I haven’t been remotely successful in finding him. I’ve found pimps and hookers, plenty of meth addicts and shady pawnbrokers, dealers, thieves, and con men, but I haven’t found a ginger guy with a hole in the side of his head.
I wanted to ask Sasha for a more detailed description of the bastard earlier, but I took one look at her and knew she wouldn’t approve of this. Her beautiful face was black and blue. Her lip was swollen and angry, and she seemed completely worn out. Asking her to talk about what happened some more was the last thing she needed. She probably didn’t need me coming in her mouth quite so violently, but shit. She took over. I could easily have not touched her. I could have left her well alone, but I could tell that would have made things worse. She needed the release.
I grapple hold of Mike by the collar of his shirt, jerking him toward me, almost tearing him off the sofa he’s sitting on. “Tell me where you’d take something you wanted to sell, then. Something rare. Something easily recognizable.”
“I don’t know. The Ritz, maybe? Arnold’s been paying out a lot for things recently, not asking as many questions as usual. And even if he hasn’t bought anything, he’ll probably have a better idea of who has.” I let go of Mike and he runs his finger around the inside of his shirt collar, scowling. “Didn’t need to be so damn rough, man. Now my mom’s gonna be asking what the hell I’ve been up to again. I got enough going on without you showing up here like a crazy person, thumping me in the face for no reason.”
“Do you have any pot?”
“When do Inothave pot?”
“Point.” I slump down onto the sofa next to him, holding my head in my hands. “Sorry, dude. Feeling a little mentally frayed right now.”
“I’m mentally frayed every day. I don’t go around hitting people.” He’s salty, and I don’t really blame him. Thanks to all the drugs he’s done over the past fifteen years he has a five second memory, though. All I have to do is sit here long enough and he’ll forgive me. Rummaging around in a small wooden jewelry box resting on the arm of the sofa, Mike takes out a joint and sparks it, sending a plume of thick smoke up in a cloud over our heads.
“You’re so ghetto,” I inform him. “Haven’t you heard of a bowl before?”
He holds onto a lungful of smoke; his body starts to jerk and he releases it, coughing. “Haven’t you ever heard of asking nicely, asshole? I would have given you that information without you having to wale on me first.”
I take the joint he offers me and I take a deep drag on it. “Have you ever…just…lost your fucking mind? Like, completely just lost it. Like you have no idea where it went, or how to get it back?”
“Only once. At summer camp. My cousin Brenda. She kept flirting with my best friend Damien, and dude. I wanted her bad. She was the first kid in our year to get boobs. Not ittie bittie tittie committee boobs.” He cups his hands in front of his chest, squeezing imaginary flesh. “Realboobs.”
