Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
And I know that a second later, he moves, he walks.
A second later, his fingers on my ass knead me the hardest so I arch up and moan, and then I’m lying flat on my back. I’m opening my eyes and dragging in gulps and gulps of air as his kisses really, literally move to other places on my body.
As I feel his kisses on my cheeks, my nose, my chin, my arched-up neck.
But more than that, I feel his tongue.
I feel it licking my skin, my tears. I feel him lapping them up and my heart squeezes so hard and in such a vice-like grip at his tenderness that I have to physically translate it into a hard squeeze of his body with my thighs and my arms.
Crossing my ankles at his back and amidst his tender kisses, I whisper, “You came back. You came back. I knew y-you would… I…”
His fingers that have come to bury themselves in my hair shudder and flex, as he looks up, his lips all red and parted, his eyes liquid. “I never should’ve left.”
I dig my heels into the small of his back, trying to bring him closer, trying to lock us together. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t care. I don’t —”
His pelvis crashes against mine and his fingers on my scalp tighten. “It’s not okay, Poe. It’s not fucking okay.”
I bring my hands to his harsh jaw. “But it doesn’t matter. I —”
“I’m not okay,” he bites out gutturally, regret and anguish slashing his features. “The things I do to you are not okay. The things I do to you are not fair. They’re not fucking fair, Poe. They’re mean and cruel and demented. And the truth is…” He digs his pelvis into mine. He even goes so far as to bring his hands down and grip my thighs, pushing them up, adjusting them so we’re entwined even tighter. “The truth is, Poe, that I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how else to be. I don’t fucking know.”
My lips are parted now.
My lips have to be parted.
So I can breathe. So I can stay awake and not pass out under the sheer pain that he’s inflicting on me with his words.
The sheer pain that I feel at the sight of his pain.
“But you’re making it better,” I tell him. “You always end up making things better. You gave me my first kiss.”
He did, didn’t he?
My mouth is still tingling with it. My tongue is still alive with his taste. All the parts of my body are still buzzing with it.
Because he gave me a kiss that I not only felt in every part of my body, but I know that whenever I’m alone from now on, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of it and it will come alive on my lips.
He gave me a timeless kiss.
A kiss of magic. A kiss of stars.
A kiss of the devil and his harpy. The tyrant and his siren.
He gave me a kiss that a guardian gives to his diva.
He doesn’t think so though, no.
He doesn’t think it was magical in the least. I think he thinks that it was a curse. Because the loathing, the self-recrimination is so thick in his eyes that his chest burns with it. I know that because mine is burning as well.
He brings his face even closer, to the point where his mouth is hovering over mine as he growls, “That’s because I didn’t want anyone else to give it to you. That’s because I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else giving you your first kiss. That’s what I kept thinking…”
“What?” I prod when he trails off. “What did you think?”
“This whole time,” he rasps as if to himself, his eyes black, possessed. “Ever since you told me two days ago that you were going to that bar. That is all I kept fucking thinking. I kept thinking that she wants it. She’s asking for it. Which means she’s ripe for it. She’s so fucking ripe for picking, her mouth is so fucking ripe for picking that it’s written all over her pale, creamy face. It’s written in her big blue eyes. It’s written in the way she laughs, she smiles, she talks. It’s written in the way she moves. The way her thighs jiggle, her tits bounce, her fucking ass dances. It’s written everywhere on her tight little body that she wants a kiss. That she wants someone to fucking give it to her. And what if,” he says, his fingers digging into my thighs, clutching my dress, as if he’s imagining it right now, “and what if someone does? What if some drunk asshole who can’t even remember his own name gives it to her? What if some drunk asshole puts his chapped and diseased mouth on my Poe? On my little doe-eyed Poe. What if he dirties her? Sullies her, scares her. What if she doesn’t like it?