“Most of your cussing is very unnecessary.”
“I have to clean your feet.”
“Do you have a pedicure certification?”
“They’re a fucking mess.”
“You didn’t need to cuss in that sentence.”
“I'm not going to be able to carry you all the way to my place if I keep getting interrupted from people trying to kill us. I need you to run if we get chased.”
“I will undoubtedly escape you.”
“You’re staying with me.”
I grimaced. “I’m not attracted to you in that way.”
“I’ll get plastic surgery.”
“I can’t be doing this. I have a lot on my plate right now.”
“I can eat for two.”
“I think we’re better off as friends.”
“Yeah, boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“I’m seeing someone else right now.”
“Yeah, you’re seeing me.”
“You’re not really my type.”
“Type faster.” He undid the rope that bound my ankles.
I kicked him. I heeled his throat and used my other leg to kick the side of his jaw, making him topple into me and wrapped my legs around his head until his face pushed into my pelvis. I kept him locked there with the strength of my thighs.
He groaned.
A head scissors armbar—or at least an interpretation of it. My defence training included ways in which I would be apprehended by an oppressor, one of the most common was with my hands tied behind my back whilst lying down. Suffocating them with my thighs was simple protocol. I had been keeping up with my squats.
I smiled down at Dig, his coughs muffled into my pelvis. “People have been trying to kill me since the moment I slipped out of my mother’s womb. Do you really think I don't know the basics of self-defence training?”
He groaned, unable to speak and tried to force himself up but could not, nor could he ply my thighs apart. His hands wrapped around my thighs anddid their best, even digging his nails into my soft flesh. However, his nails were trimmed and did not prick.
He muffled cuss words—at least that’s what I assumed they were—as he started to lose breath and begin the stages of suffocation. I watched on with admiration as Dig Graves was unable to free himself from two feminine thighs. The lock was unescapable. There was nothing he could do to make me open my legs for him. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
And then his mouth moved over my clit and I heard colours.
17
I had never been tortured before, and I was certain this was the noise that would release from my throat, ragged and torn if I was. My whine reached the ceiling, starting a one-woman band.
I was lost into the clouds. I danced with angels. I drowned into old wine.
He was struggling to break free, so he did not mean to place his mouth over my clit, but I was not complaining.
“Oh… my… oh…” Burning with bliss, my eyes rolled to the back of my head. “Don’t stop… don’t stop… keep going… higher… again…more!”
