He withdrew his finger and bent between her legs. He licked her slowly, but nowhere near her clit. Instead, his tongue ran over her lips and inner thighs and around the rim of the plug, until she felt like she’d die from not being fucked. She wove her fingers through his hair. “Please, Patrick, please fuck me? I want your cock more than anything.”
He flashed her a cold smile. “Good. Open that pretty, lying mouth.”
Gripping her hair, he knelt beside her and opened his jeans. The feel of her mouth being full while she was so empty was agony. She tried to pay him back, tried to make him come, but he had superhuman control—as if she didn’t already know that. Every time she thought he might be close, he pulled out and tapped his wet cock on her cheeks. “You want it, honey? You wanna get railed?”
She always said ‘yes’ and he always plunged back into her mouth. It was a symphony of sexual torture, and he was the conductor. The mastermind.
“You treat me like I’m your kid brother,” he snarled, pushing his cock down her throat. “But I’m not your kid brother, am I, Cheryl?”
“Nurghhhhh,” she moaned.
“Grab your tits. Push them together.”
She did and he plucked at her nipples while she sucked him. “Good girl. More, now. Deeper. You can do better than that.”
When he pulled out for the millionth time, she scratched his stomach hard enough to leave red lines across his abs. Patrick laughed, patting her on the top of her head. “That’s not nice, Cheryl. Don’t you want to be nice for me?”
“When did you get like this?” she sobbed.
“I’ve always been like this. Mouth open.”
She was going to cry soon. Really cry. She could feel the tears building as he thrust into her throat. The sensation rose up, and then through her, and everything changed. She… softened. Melted down and into the mattress. She looked at Patrick and saw everything. Her former best friend. This evil sex demon. Then she just… gave in. Relaxed. Nothing really mattered. Patrick could do whatever he wanted to her, forever.
He frowned, withdrawing from her lips. “You okay?”
She nodded, opening wide so he could fuck her again, but his warm hand cupped her cheek. “There’s my good girl. I’ve got you, baby.”
His voice was so tender she was sure it was a trick, but then he was on his feet, shedding his boots and jeans and moving toward the desk. She watched, unblinking, as he grabbed the pack of condoms and tore it open. She felt a low throb of excitement at the sight of his powerful body, but it was far away. Most of her was just watching and waiting. She felt clean. Pure, almost. Ready to be whatever he needed her to be.
Patrick turned, rolling the latex down his cock. Her trophy. Then he squinted, walked back to the window, and pushed open the curtains. Light shone in, and not from the shitty motel floodlights.
Cheryl gasped. “Is it morning?”
“Looks it.” He checked his watch. “It’s gone six.”
“Shit.” She sat up. She and Patrick had been at this for hours. If she called in sick to work, Bridgette would kill her. There were already redundancy rumours around the office and if she lost her job, she couldn’t afford to help her mum…
She dropped to the floor, hunting desperately for her clothes. “I’m so sorry but I need to—”
“Go?” Patrick yanked the condom off his dick. “Okay.”
She found her underwear and pulled it on. Bruises were already rising on her hips and thighs like tattoos.
“Maybe we can meet up—” she began.
“Nope.” He didn’t say it meanly, but he wasn’t being nice either. He scooped up the Chivas bottle. “We’re done.”
“But—”
“Go.”
She left without saying anything. But, really, what was there to say? ‘That was amazing,’ like a breathy groupie? ‘Please let me come back?’
She and Patrick had too much bad blood to get down to the sex. He’d needed to test her. To punish her. To get her to that soft, accepting place. But reality had come calling, as it always did. Today it was the sun, tomorrow it was sickness or some other thing.
She walked to her car on wobbly legs, not caring who looked out their window and saw the slut who spent the night getting her brains banged out in suite twenty-three. As she drove out of the parking lot, she let herself look back at Patrick’s room. He was standing in the doorway watching her, looking as miserable as she felt.
9
