Page 17 of Lonely
She bit my lip to drive home the point, and I wondered if I should fear her tomorrow. Next time her car broke down, I was walking the other way. Hell, I might even take cover behind a tree.
She moaned so loud Little Mikey flicked his ears, and I dug my fingers into the countless colorful scatter cushions.
It was starting to feel good, really good, but I was scared of what would happen if I came before she did.
Maybe she would stab me with one of the tall heels she was still wearing.
Had anyone ever been stabbed to death with a heeled shoe post-sex?
I wouldn’t have put it past her, because the look in her eyes was truly terrifying, even though I was half-blind now that my glasses were lost somewhere in the sea of cushions.
I didn’t think her vagina could grip me any harder, but just as I was about to see if I could locate my glasses, she threw her head back and let out a scream.
Little Mikey bolted, disappearing into the kitchen.
I sucked in a breath as her walls clenched tight and rippled around me.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered against my lips as she finally settled down, dragging her sharp nails over my scalp. “You were so bad.”
Yeah. Bad at self-preservation, apparently.
I stayed still.
I’d seen that look before in nature documentaries, right before something got eaten alive.
She stood up and looked at my cock and then at her thighs. I almost flinched when she asked why I didn’t come.
I half expected her to reach for my belt and tell me to bare my bottom like Mother.
But instead, she climbed back onto my lap and cradled my face.
“What’s wrong, baby? You can talk to me.”
Her lipstick was smeared, her pinup hair mussed, and her pale skin glistened with sweat.
Meanwhile, I was still fully dressed, minus my glasses, with red lipstick on my collar. What a mess.
She reached for my hands and placed them on her soft breasts.
“You can touch me, you know. I want you to.”
My hands were so big they almost engulfed her entire bust.
But all I could think about, as she bit her bottom lip, was how much easier it would be to come if she were tied up. Helpless. Crying.
I loved tears.
And fear.
I had never done to a woman what I did to Chris O’Connor.
His skull and severed skeletal hands were still in a box beneath my bed. Sometimes, when I was stroking my cock, I dragged it out from behind the box of Polaroids and relived the euphoria I felt when the light left his eyes.
He was special to me. He’d wormed his way into my psyche with his cruelty.
The others were for sexual gratification. But Chris O’Connor? That was love.
I would never forget the sound of him begging for his life, or the things he was willing to do for mercy.
