He pulled back, leaving me wanting more as he sucked his cum into his mouth and stared at me as he inserted his fingers into his mouth. I couldn't pull my eyes away from him. From the raw look of hunger on his face.
His fingers slipped from between his lips with a pop, the digits covered in his cum. The white liquid made his lips shine, and as a result, I found myself licking mine.
With me pushed against the wall and my legs open and wrapped tightly around his waist, he reached between us. His sticky fingers brushed my pussy lips, still puffy from my last orgasm. He pushed inside me, the force brutal and unloving, and yet, somehow, I still craved more.
I felt empty when he removed them.
I forced my legs apart wider, my heat so close to his naked skin as I waited for his next intrusion. He looked even more sexual this time, coating his fingers in the cum to push inside me.
“This is where my cum belongs,” his broken voice told me. “No matter what. . . my cum belongs right here.”
Chapter 21
Hell—present day
The drive was long. Too fucking long when I felt like fucking shit. My throat was fucking raw. My chest was fucking killing me—I almost wished it already had. My stomach was fucking rolling. Everything inside me ached. And that was enough of my problems to be thinking of.
Jolie sat in the passenger side of the car I’d rented when I first picked her up, her feet on the dash and her eyes towards the window like she didn't have a care in the world. She looked nothing like the scared little thing she was when I first found her and had to resort to chloroform to transport her.
She was happier now. Free. And the smile on her pretty as fuck, pouty lips—lifting as she took in the sights of the highway; boring long roads and the mountains sidelining them—proved that. The same expression was on her face when she watched Las Vegas fade into the distance as we slipped from its vibrant colors to miles upon miles of gray.
And I loved it. But I hated this journey and we were barely into it.
Driving this road was a challenge for any respectful vegetarian. The glare of daylight was blinding me, and many suicidal birds had tried to end their lives on my windshield.
I swerved for the second time in ten minutes, causing a minivan overloaded with people to honk its horn in agitation, before it overtook me when I drifted back into my lane. The driver shouted a few obscenities through his open window and into mine, and thatmade Jolie laugh. Which resulted in him giving her the finger and her laughing harder.
I couldn’t watch her amusement, or his lack thereof, which was a good thing for him. . . because I didn’t need a fucking excuse for wanting to kill someone.
My gaze lay straight ahead, as always, missing their interaction. The fact I couldn’t turn my head made driving harder than it needed to be. . . and illegal, as I could never apply for a license with such restrictions. But, oh-fucking-well, because I had places to be. Luckily, Woodrow learned a little as a teenager. A perk of growing up with acres of land and a beat-up truck as the family vehicle—it was disposable, just like we were. Our father didn’t love us; he didn’t teach Woodrow from the goodness of his heart.
He couldn’t—he didn’t fucking have one.
He taught him to drive because he knew it would be beneficial if he were to go into the family business.
I side-eyed Jolie as the car ate up more of the road, understanding a little more why Woodrow was so wrapped up in her well-being. I watched the rise and fall of her chest, her relaxed slouch in the seat. She hadn’t tried running from me, and that brought a sense of calm that paraded through all my other shitty feelings.
We barely made it 20 miles before I had to pull into the shoulder to retch up half of my guts on the side of the road. Woodrow didn't like the sickness he had to deal with today, that was why I had to fucking deal with it. I'd been sick multiple times and it wasn’t even midday. Anyone would swear I'd drank too much last night, but my wife, who had done just that, hadn't been sick once.
“Are you okay?” she shouted back to me through the open window.
I waved her off, crouched over myself, my face staring down at the vomit-covered grass as the rear end of the carsupported me. I didn't want help or an audience.
Cars whizzed past me and the gray rental where Jolie sat, their speed making me feel dizzy.
Another heaving hit the floor, splashing the boots that were making my feet sweat. Chunks of stomach lining and drops of blood became blurry as I stared at it, holding my stomach as I tried to straighten. I could feel my bones, and I fucking hated it. I reminded myself of the skinny kid who was beaten by his father.
I reminded myself of the trauma we faced. . .
The trauma that created me and all the rage I felt.
And I didn’t like that.
I didn’t like violence, as hard as that was to believe. I just liked control over every situation, and my parents had proved to me, the only way to get that was by igniting fear.
So, that was what I did.
What I still did.
