Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Somewhere, a camera blinks. Somewhere else, a man curses softly and tells himself to be better than this.
I curl into the ache and the promise and let sleep drag me under by the ankle.
If he isn’t safe, I think as the dark takes me, why do I feel safest when he’s the danger?
FOURTEEN
GAGE
She says my name in her sleep and I forget how to breathe.
It hisses through the Riverside speakers at 2:13 a.m., soft and wrecked—Mask—and every part of me that has been pretending to be a better man evaporates. I’m sitting alone in the back room, lights low, monitors washing me in grayscale, and the sound drills straight through my ribs.
I type the only thing that will keep me from making a nuclear mistake:
MASK: Don’t dream of me. I’m not safe.
Her reply—Too late—is a hand around my throat.
I shut the feed. Not the cameras—never the cameras—but the audio, before I make a choice I can’t unmake. Then I sit there, fist pressed to my mouth, and wait for my pulse to stop acting like it’s heard good news.
I care about her. That’s the whole problem. Caring turns smart people stupid.
And I’m already halfway there.
My body hums with excitement and need as I watch her fall back asleep. Fuck, I’d give anything to know what she dreamed about. I’d love to tell her how I dream about her every fucking night.
My cock hardens the longer I stare at the screen. I lean back, spreading my thighs as I think about the way she whispered my name. I’d give anything to have her whisper my real name. I undo my pants, pushing them down as I pull my cock out.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, wanting more than anything to bust through the door that leads to the room she’s in. What would she do if I went in there? Kissed her. Made fucking sweet love to her?
I let the thoughts manifest, turning into a reel of images. River on her knees before me. Her smile. Her eyes gazed up at me like I hung the moon.
I fist my cock, stroking up and down. Lazy. Not wanting this feeling to end. I watch the way her blue hair is splayed across her pillow. How I’d love to have my fist wrapped around her hair instead of my dick.
I think about what she’d feel like. How wet she’d be for me. She sighs in her sleep, and I nearly lose it.
I’m going straight to hell. I don’t care. The thought of her, of what I could do to her, is all too much to ignore. I keep stroking, my heartbeat ramping up. Blood floods my system, heading straight to my engorged cock, and I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about what I’d like to do to River. All the things I’d do to make her feel so good.
“River,” I groan out, my hand picking up speed as I allow my thumb to gather the precum at the tip. I slide it over my dick, picturing it’s her saliva, sucking me deep down her throat.
I’d feed her my cock, begging her to swallow it whole. Begging her to let me taste her too. She’d let me. I know she would. I spread her legs, and dive between her silky thighs. I’d swipe my tongue through her wetness, and wait for her to moan my name. I’d make her beg.
I’d make her scream.
I’d make her come all over my tongue. All over me.
And I know I’d never be the same. She’d ruin me. And I want it more than my next breath.
I keep stroking, images of River flashing behind my closed lids. I picture her, legs wrapped around my back as I slam my dick deep inside her. Her nails raking down my back. Me whispering how I’ve never been so in love in my life.
Her begging me to never let her go.
My balls tighten as I lean my head back against the chair. My breathing’s labored, and I'm almost there. I want to barrel into her room, toss her legs over my shoulders, and fuck her deep. Hard. A little rough.
I keep pumping, my cock leaking precum with each stroke. “Oh fuck,” I whisper into the stillness of the room. “Fuck, River. What are you doing to me?” I give one last final stroke as ribbons and ribbons of liquid heat shoots across my stomach. I don’t stop pumping until my breath evens out, and all the demons have been chased away.
Because as much as I want her, I know I can’t have her.
Not yet.
Morning hits on a silent count of three coffees and four texts from Arrow. Cathedral chatter is up. Some mid-tier troll is taking credit for the garage stunt, bragging about “making the Whale run.”
He calls himself Sopranette. Thinks he’s funny.
He’s a nobody with a mod’s attention, which makes him useful.