I close my eyes, my imagination firing so strongly that I can feel the puff of cold air against my forehead.
In my head, the dawn creeps above the horizon, letting the first rays of the dismal morning sun hit my body as it waits for someone to discover it; some kind soul to recognise what’s happened and cut me down.
Caylon moves his hand lower, gently covering the aching bruises where the knot hit under my jaw. The deep scratch marks where my lizard brain forced me to attack the rope, desperate to get free. “The rope’s still cutting off the blood to your brain and the breath to your lungs. They’ll never inflate again. You never need to say another word.”
Next, his attention returns to my hands, stroking the backs then massaging my individual fingers. “These dangle limply beside your body. You don’t need to fend anything off any longer. The worst things that will ever happen to you are in the past. Nobody can ever do anything bad to you again.”
I close my living eyes and open my dead ones, seeing through them as they stare at the expansive view over the city. The place that’s always been my home. The place that holds everyone I’ve ever loved, ever hated.
A morepork cuts through the dawn on silent wings, landing in a nearby tree and sending out its querying cry while I hang there.
Caylon bends his head and kisses his way along the length of my navel. His tongue swirls into my belly button, making me jump, my laugh stifled behind the tape.
Where he touches me, my skin burns with a pleasant warmth; rivers of tingles and sparks flowing across my nerve endings, twisting around each other, coming together then shooting off in different directions as they spread the deep sensation of wellbeing across my entire body.
I feel more relaxed than any time in recent memory. My muscles melt into the bed, seeping into the covers, soaking through the mattress, and puddling upon the floor.
He tugs down my sweatpants, freeing each leg stroking my calves, massaging my feet, pulling my toes. He presses a kiss into the sensitive curve of each ankle, a frisson shooting up each leg.
“My beautiful, dead girlfriend. You don’t get a say any longer. Not until you’re willing to come back to the land of the living.”
The words sound like they should send a shiver careening along my spine but I feel a sense of warmth.
No more decisions.
No more bad choices.
No more responsibility.
Caylon kisses his way up my shin, the inside of my knee, my inner thigh, then releases a soft breath as he reaches my aching pussy. My hips gently thrust towards him, granting him permission he doesn’t need, giving him access he’s already taken.
His thumbs spread me apart, leaving me on display. A sensation I’ve always hated but not now. With one wrist cuffed, one hand lying loose on the pillow, I spread my legs wider, giving him a clear view, the sigh of appreciation absorbed and sent in a love letter straight to my soul.
“Such a pretty pussy for such a pretty girl.”
I tense, wanting his touch, straining towards the lips and mouth and tongue that areright there, ready to go to work but still waiting for the command to proceed.
Then his tongue laps at me, slipping into my folds and licking me from bow to stern, dancing in a circle around my clit before venturing back down to thrust its tip into my entrance.
A moan catches on a sob in my throat, making a sound halfway between pleasure and supplication.
Caylon makes that low chuckle again but this time it doesn’t make me want to scream with frustration. The vibration of it across my core is better than the buzz of any rabbit. He flicks his tongue across my swollen clit again, making me buck against him.
He grabs the outside of my thighs, holding me steady while he feasts on my core, sending rapturous signals out to dance, coaxing any wallflowers to the floor to play.
My hand finally wakes enough to be useful, reaching down to grab a handful of his hair, guiding him where I need him. That low chuckle again and I’m climbing the walls, needing release, the slow stroke of his tongue not quite getting me there. I greedily shove him deeper, but he resists, batting my hand again when I try for the third time… and fail.
“Dead girls don’t get to set the pace,” he murmurs against my thigh, losing contact for so long that I fall down the wrong side of the wave, watching the break recede until it’s blurry with distance. “Dead girls get what they’re given and say thank you.”
He moves up my body instead of down and I growl in frustration, wanting what he gave me on the night of Nate’s party. What he gave me last night. Wanting more.
I can feel the smile on his face as he attaches himself to my nipple, sucking at it like it’s sustenance. The rough of his tongue laps at the tender flesh of my areola, back and forth until my body arches towards him, face flushing with shame at my obvious need.
When he switches sides, he grabs my abandoned tit hard, the flesh squeezing between his fingers. The pressure after so much stimulation sends a bolt of white light spinning across my mind. My pleasure centres don’t know whether to concentrate on the ache or pay more attention to the calmer stimulus of his tongue. Splitting apart when it tries to do both.
“You’re so sensitive,” he whispers, moving his attention upward again, dragging the tip of his nose over the curves and angles of my collarbone, nudging into the dip of my throat. “So greedy. Are you on the pill?”
I nod before the question hits home. By the time I understand his intentions, my thighs are spread wide, the head of his cock nudging inside.
