"You're so fucking beautiful."
Her pussy locks onto my fingers. My cock pulses. Anticipating her recoil from the orgasm thrashing through her, I grab the side of her throat and squeeze lightly, holding her down so she remains deeply impaled on my fingers. As I curl them onto that spot twitching inside her, she cries out loudly. Fuck me if she isn't the sexiest thing I've ever seen. How she can look so incredibly sweet - innocent - while purring out her orgasm on my lap like a little kitten, I do not know.
My fingers continue to fuck her, drawing her orgasm out. Not giving up my repetitive motion, I wring every last sensation from her. And goddamn it if I'm not in physical pain with the need to bury my cock deep inside her. Feeling her orgasm on my fingers, her body vibrating, overwhelmed, I groan through gritted teeth in unison with her peaking cries.
When she finally stops shaking and the pleasure she was just riding flattens, she stares blankly at me.
My brows draw in tight at the sight of her blinking, confused expression.
That's not good.
Then her eyes widen with uncertainty. She's breathing like she's just run a marathon, and it's now apparent to me that this is a fucking bad thing. A very fucking bad thing.
Clenching my jaw, I pull my fingers from inside her. "Cassidy, what's that look?"
While my breaths mingle with anger at the crumbling state of the girl on my lap, hers are all of a sudden short. Quick. Shallow.
Panicked.
I sit up and cup her cheeks while her eyes bounce around in a kind of stupor. "Little one?"
"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine," she chants, but tears burst from the corners of her eyes. Fucking tears. And fuck me does the sight of them slice me up.
"What happened?" I growl, wanting to shake her back to coherence.
"I don’t know," she says, her voice faint and unsteady. I pull her against my chest, shielding her little frame with my arms. Tightening with the need to protect her. Too tight. Not tight enough.
I can fix this - I'm going to fix this.
Moving forward, if anyone so much as upsets her, makes her shuffle on the fucking sidewalk for them, I won't be leaving the freezer with a clean shirt.
Cassidy
I blink at the blonde girl staring back at me in the vanity mirror - her reflection strange and foreign in a way I can't explain. With her big hazel eyes and matching coloured freckles lightly dusting her nose and cheeks, she doesn't resemble the kind of girl who would shoot someone in the face. Less the type to feel no remorse in the wake of that person's death. I'm not sure what that kind of girl looks like, but it isn't this.
Max's bathroom is my favourite place in his house. Although I haven't even seen half of his home, this room is full of fun memories and love. Today, though, it looks different. I can’t explain how. That's all I know - different.
Running my fingers through my hair and scooping it to one side, I note how long it is. How wavy. I don't think I like it anymore. Flicking it back over my shoulders, I decide I'm going to cut it off. Maybe dye it.
If Max won't mind. . .
I glance down at the Carrara stone vanity top, touching the dusty brown veins that run through it like marble. Next, I stare at our toiletries all laid out together - his aftershave and deodorant alongside my many cans and creams. My toothbrush is next to his in a little navy-grey ceramic cylinder, and for some weird reason, I find that oddly painful. Which, of course, is a completely ridiculous emotion to feel in regards to the placement of a toothbrush. Ignoring my silly feelings, I pick it up and begin to brush my teeth.
As my mouth gets a good cleaning, I can’t help but let my mind wander to the events of last night. What it should have been and wasn't. How I ruined it. My emotions shifted uncomfortably fast from wary to needy. I remember his voice being raspy with sentiment as he whispered words to me. And yet, he might as well have yelled them because they held that much power. 'I own him'. We own each other. And I enjoyed that thought enough to allow the lust to take over. But then, as I came off the precipice of the man-god that is Max Butcher, a boulder of complete self-loathing dropped into every fibre of my being.
Clearly, my mind is in a state of anarchy.
Freezing my thoughts, Max strolls leisurely into the bathroom, wearing only white cotton boxers. His penis is hard to ignore in pants; in underwear it's damn right impossible. Shaking my head to try to focus, I ignore the growing need inside me. My body wants his, but my mind isn't so sure, and the two are giving me whiplash.
Last night was the first time we've been intimate since Erik attacked me, and it didn’t exactly go well. What must he think of me? Riding his fingers that desperately and then bursting into tears? Oh my God, poor Max.
Like a little voyeur, I watch his reflection as he pulls his boxers down and moves into the shower. He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. As he begins to wash himself, I find myself fixated on the ink that encompasses his strong arms, back, and shoulders. Each tattoo shares a little piece of his soul with the world and yet, no one has any idea how to interpret them. Myself included. Besides the cross on his chest, there is no real straight-forward image. It's like beautiful black, white, and red abstract art.
On a normal day, he's not the talkative type. He's the master of the single word response. And yet, the silence right now is ear-piercing. I stop brushing my teeth and spit
