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Page 7 of My Violent Valentine

“No,” she whimpers. Her hips buck up against my mouth as I begin to devour her sex.

I push my tongue inside her and she lets out a guttural sound. I have always loved how responsive she is to my touch.

I pull away.

“Brian…”

“Still looking for new worshippers?”

A wide smile spreads across her face as she slowly shakes her head. “No.”

“I thought not.”

I return to my mission and lick her until she screams.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, still wanting more.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I think you can,” she whispers. “You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t.”

My mind flashes back to Halloween. Chasing her. Hunting her. Deciding in a single split second to fuck her instead of chase the madness and kill her. I shake the thought out of my head.

“Mina, I can’t.” I get up and go to the dresser and pull out the rope. “But you can.”

I see her face fall, and I know I’m never going to be enough for her because I can’t move past the fear that I’ll break her, that I can’t control the beast inside me, that all I know when it comes to sex is violence and anger. And I don’t want to do that to her. I can’t. She is the one light I have, and I can’t snuff that out.

She takes the ropes from me and I pull my T-shirt over my head. My jeans quickly follow. I lay in the middle of the bed and she begins to tie the ropes.

“Hey, look at me.”

She does.

“It’s not that I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

When she’s finished tying the knots, she straddles me. I let out a hiss as she sinks down, her warm wetness from her recent pleasure guiding her to impale herself deeper on my cock.

She rides me—rougher than normal—and I know she’s trying to punish me, but it just doesn’t work that way. The harder she rides, the better it feels. And because she just came on my tongue, I don’t feel bad that I won’t be able to hold out long.

She leans down near my ear and whispers. “Brian, I have fantasized about you chasing me and fucking me in that pumpkin patch every single day since it happened.”

And then I come. I don’t even know whether it was how hard she rode me, or the words that just tripped off her tongue, but I grip her hips and hold her in place while I spill inside her.

Her fierce gaze holds mine, and she’s flushed.

“Noted,” I say.

4

MINA

Sunday, February 6th.

My coffee cup slips from my hand and crashes to the cafeteria floor in a high-pitched shatter of ceramic. I sense, rather than see, every eye on us. And the reason I don’t see it is because a strip of black silk cloth has been tied over my eyes.

“Brian?”




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