I squirm, trying to yelp at him. Something about safe sex. Something about protection. He didn’t use anything last night, but twice in a row is tempting fate.
Without speaking a word, I already know what his response will be.
Dead girls can’t catch diseases.
Dead girls can’t get pregnant.
After Caylon slowly buries his girth inside me, filling me to the brim, I can name one dead girl who doesn’t care.
My fingers return to their plunge into his hair. His cock withdraws just as slowly as it entered, pausing for such a long moment I want to scream with frustration, then thrusting back inside with one long stroke, making me scream for an entirely different reason.
Caylon palms my breast, nuzzling into the side of my neck until his thrusts grow so intense that he rests his weight on his elbow, staring at me through his devouring eyes instead.
My legs curl around him, trying to force him deeper with every stroke. Our bodies slap together, and the wave is back, me climbing its side with ease, poising on the precipice, then tumbling with joyous ecstasy down its other side.
Caylon pauses as the orgasm takes hold, clenching my muscles as it elongates, shuddering through me and wiping out my senses.
“Fuck,” he mutters underneath his breath, holding me close, one giant palm pressing in the middle of my back, so our chests flatten against each other. “You’re so fucking incredible.”
When he starts again, he’s slow. Drawing each inch of his raw length out before carefully easing it back inside me. The tease that would have been torture a minute ago is now exactly what I crave.
The moan as he speeds a little, leaning into his own orgasm, sends a delicious tremor along my spinal cord, like a zap of electricity. He grazes his teeth against my neck, nipping then tugging as he rides out his completion. Marking me. Leaving bruises so obvious they can’t be mistaken for anything but what they are. A sign of ownership.
Not that there’s anyone in our hideout to see. As Caylon collapses to the side, hauling me into his arms and wrapping me so tight I belong in an ancient sarcophagus, I feel contentment. A feeling so alien I take a long time to recognise it.
For the moment, we’re hidden away, where no one can find us. Where no one else can see.
As I doze, I know that somewhere out there in the world, Wilbur is probably releasing images of me across the internet. Creating a wave of shame that I won’t survive.
Not with all the other garbage already crouching in my brain.
But for the moment, I’m like a child playing peekaboo. If I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.
Tomorrow, maybe. For now, there’s just Caylon, the surrounding refuge, and me—the dead girl lying in his arms.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
CAYLON
When I wake from my light doze, I take Em through to the bathroom where we share a shower. While the water’s running, I wet a flannel and hold it against the tape before peeling it away from her mouth. Even with the moisture, I wince as it clings so hard to her lips that they pull out an inch while I tug it free.
“Sorry,” I whisper, holding her against the shower wall while I kiss them better, my touch light enough that I won’t hurt them any worse than I have already. “I got a bit carried away.”
“You think?” she croaks.
Her sarcastic retort eases the worst of my panic. Still, I’m scared the pleas she made yesterday, for me to let her finish the job, still apply. Unless she’s free to speak, I won’t know either way.
I can’t stand to see her in pain. Her discomfort is only tolerable when I’m the cause.
“What’s your favourite meal?” I ask while towelling her dry. After three attempts to do it herself meets a stern reprimand, she stops fidgeting and lets me take care of her without further objection.
“Chicken and coleslaw.”
The simplicity makes me frown. “You mean, like from the Colonel?”
“No. Grilled chicken, skinless, and coleslaw without dressing.”
“Wow. Can I just check something?” When she gives a hesitant nod, I gently pull her lower lip down to stare into her mouth. “Just as I thought. Not a taste bud in sight.”
