Page 115 of Take Her
“So what does that make you?” I asked her, taking her in dick-length strokes, feeling myself hit the back of her.
“B—bad!” she stuttered, in my time.
Her dress was wet, her hair was tangled, somewhere along the line she’d lost her shoes, her eyes were glazed, she could barely breathe—and she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Luckily for you, I like bad things,” I told her. I leaned forward, letting go of her hips to cover her against the stone, pounding myself into her as she wound up, the sound of me fucking her brutally echoing all around, as she opened her mouth and silently screamed—and then she was coming, jerking against me, and that was all I needed to explode.
I shouted, rutting forward with my dick, fighting for the same space inside her that tried to push me out, shoving relentlessly, that muscle behind my balls clenching again and again as I pumped her full. I kept shouting and thrusting until I was done and she was whimpering below, an exhausted, sodden mess.
“Don’t move,” I growled, and she weakly nodded. “I want to fucking fill you,” I said, and then gasped, as the last spurt wrenched through me, and I was done.
I put my hands on either side of her and caught my breath, while her pussy gave me one more quake.
I bowed my head, and wet pieces of my hair fell forward.
Fucking her hadn’t changed a goddamned thing.
It would just be something we would torture ourselves with from here on out.
It didn’t matter how good it felt to be together—this was too fucked up to last.
I took a step back and pulled out of her with a hiss, while she stayed collapsed, like I’d stolen all her bones. I tucked myself away, zipped up my slacks, and fished in my suit for something dry to give her to clean up with—and then I saw the pearly white drops of my returning cum beading on the dark folds of her pussy.
Part of me wanted to kneel down and lick them off of her—the rest wanted to take my fingers, push all of it back in, and will for it to take.
But I’d already learned that lesson before.
I moved to the side of the sarcophagus she was facing. She was flushed and her endorphins had her a million miles away.
“This is for you,” I said, handing her the square of fabric. “Don’t worry—I’m clean, and I’m shooting blanks.”
She blinked—and I pulled her keys out of my pocket, to set them down as well. I’d grabbed them when we were wrestling, afraid she’d try to poke my eyes out.
“I think we’ve both been punished enough today, Lia. Go home.”
49
RHAIM
Lia didn’t come in on Monday.
I kept her PI watching her apartment—I might as well make use of the man—but she didn’t leave it, either. Her door let me know she’d opened it twice, even though the cameras were still blocked. I assumed she was accepting deliveries.
Tuesday was the same.
People were too frightened to comment on it, but I knew they noticed that it was just me, swimming in the big empty cage by myself.
Wednesday came, and her own father wandered down to look at me, having surely heard of her absence. He didn’t say a thing; he just made his disapproving presence known outside the glass.
He would probably give me twenty-four hours before demanding to give me an “I told you so,” so I waited until seven that evening, went home, changed, and then drove over to her apartment complex.
I’d decided not to fire the bribable doorman—to instead pay him enough to keep track of anyone else coming into the building for Lia but me—and that served me in good stead, because he waved me on to her elevator and I took it up to her apartment.
After that, I started working on her door—but then it swung open, taking my picks with it, and Lia was standing on the other side. She looked almost as bedraggled as she had when I’d left her at the cemetery, only now she was in a tank-top and sweatpants and holding a phone.
“Were you breaking into my apartment?” Her tone was accusatory, and I noticed she hadn’t stepped aside.
“Yeah.”