Chapter 24
Emory
"Power is not in control,but in the trust you give and receive."
Our bodies are entangled before I can even catch my breath from his kiss. My legs wrapped around his naked body as he backtracks to the bathroom. I feel one of his hands leave me, then a silence that clings to the walls, joins the condensation as the temperature and tension rise. Pulling me away, he forces our eyes to meet, and growls, “My turn.”
In a moment, I am clinging to him as his hands leave my body, gripping my ass firmly. He swirls the head of his cock between the lips of my vagina until they spread willingly for him. Wide-eyed, I lookat him.
“It’s ok, my dove.” He reassures me. “I am sure you are ready, now.”
My face twists, and a feeling of ‘I could have taken him a long time ago’ crossed my mind.
What did he mean by telling me he was sure I was ‘ready’? Ready for what,him?
“HA!” I involuntarily laugh aloud, but before I can rebut, he slams into me. Every Inch of him nestles tightly inside me. He stands there holding me close to him, till his breathing stabilizes. He methodically bounces his hips, manipulating gravity to work in his favor. “Ollie-” I try to speak. I try to keep my mind focused on the questions, the questions about my sister, about the garden…
Why does he make me feel so alive?
I feel like a soul lost in the cosmos, and he is my lifeline. My nails dig into his back as I make my marks, adding them alongside those he already possesses. His massive hands are all over me, exploring every inch of me, like a homicide detective at a crime scene—treading lightly so as not to tamper with any evidence, but diligently searching, all the same.
“Oliver, please don’t-” I breathe, “Don’t think this gets you out of anything."
He pauses for a moment. “What did you say, little bird?” Lifting his face while giving me the side eye, he continues, “Don’t, what?”
Then, he slams me against the wall of mirrors. I don’t even give it a second thought when I answer, “Don’t … stop.” I plea, as he looks at me, his face free of the cloth he used to hide it, and glares at me in all his glory. “Please don’t stop.”
“Don’t stop what, my Dove?” His scars call to me, an unspoken hint to the story of his past… a past I know extraordinarily little about. His voice rings in my brain again, “I haven’t done anything yet.”
Still throbbing inside me, his purposeful pulsations act as a countdown.
One.
“Do you-” I try to play the game, “Do you know where my sister is?” My voice is shaky as I ask my first question.
“Yes.”
Two.
“Why-” I try to keep my mind clear, and questions straight forward—the fuzz from my inevitable climax creeping up on me. “Why would I have d-dreamt that?”
“Your body and mind have been through a lot.” He sighs into my neck, “It could have been stress.”
Three.
“What happened to Peter?” He yanks his cock out of me, grappling me by my nape. “Ah!”
“You want answers, Emory?” He speaks through gritted teeth. “You really want toruinthis moment with hisfilthyname.”He isn’t angry. He is frustrated, sexually frustrated.
It has never crossed my mind before, but it must have been years since he had felt a woman.
Then the real questions start rolling through my brain-housing group.
Wait, he is dead… How can he feel me?
Are we tethered in some way that allows our bodies to intertwine the way they are?
Fated—no destined?
