Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Inside, the world is cavernous and echoing. The entryway is a glacier of marble and glass, the chandelier above us dripping warm amber light in molten puddles across the floor. The rest of the house is darkness, every door shut, every lamp off except for the single beacon above our heads. His footsteps ring out, sharp as gunshots, but the sound dies quick — eaten by the cold and the hush of the dead.
He doesn’t hesitate at the base of the staircase. He takes the steps two at a time, and I cling tighter, the rush of air hiking my skirt to my hips. I should feel ridiculous, a child being carried to bed after a nightmare, but I don’t. I feel powerful. I feel chosen.
He reaches the landing, turns, and kicks open the door to his bedroom.
I’ve never seen it from the inside. Not really. Once, when my mom still lived here, I peeked through the doorway — just enough to see the edge of the bed, the wall of books, the ghostly blue of the TV in the far corner. But tonight the room is transformed: it’s a bunker, a den, a lair. The curtains are drawn tight, velvet the color of dried blood, the bed a black ocean of pillows and linen, the air thick with cedar and the aftershock of Kent’s cologne. There’s a fire in the grate, but it’s almost out — just a few sullen embers painting the room in strokes of orange and midnight.
He puts me down at the foot of the bed. My legs go wobbly, knees barely holding, but he catches me by the hips and steadies me.
Then, with his hands still clamped to my sides, he says, “Last chance, Mary Kate.” His voice is low, ruined. “If you want to stop—”
I kiss him, hard, and pull him down onto the bed.
His weight knocks the wind out of me, but I don’t care. I want all of him, every ounce, every scar. He tastes different here, in the dark: less whiskey, more hunger, something primal that rises off his skin and makes me tremble.
He rips off my t-shirt, and the sound of the tearing cloth is so loud it might as well be thunder. He leaves my bra on — for now — and slides his hands up my ribs, thumbs catching at the underwire. I arch into him, the heat blooming everywhere his skin meets mine.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says in a voice that’s almost tortured. “My sweet, slutty girl.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I pant. “I belong to you. Make me yours.”
Fire flares in his blue gaze and his hands move in a flash. My skirt is a joke, an afterthought; he shoves it up to my waist, palms bracing on the tops of my thighs, and pulls me flush against him.
He’s hard, already. I can feel the shape of him through his pants, the blunt weight of it pressed between my legs. I whimper, and the sound seems to shock us both. He looks at me, eyes wild, and for a second I think he’ll back away.
Instead, he says, “You’re so fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Sweet and slutty, just the way I like it.”
I can’t answer. I just grab at his shirt, buttons scattering, and drag it over his head. He’s all muscle and hair and old, half-faded scars. The kind of body you only get from fixing things, from breaking things, from fighting and healing and fighting again.
He undoes my bra with a snap, and I shiver as my giant Double D’s spill out into his hands. He groans, looking at them, and then takes one in each palm, thumbs circling the nipples until they’re hard as glass. He lowers his mouth to the left, then the right, licking and biting until I’m panting, my whole chest on fire. My hands knot in his hair, hold him there, make him do it harder.
“Oooh, Daddy!” I cry out, my lashes drifting shut. “Mmm, your mouth makes me so achy and wet! It’s like I can feel your lips on my pussy when you do that!”
Kent growls deep in his throat, tugging even harder at a nipple with his lips.
“Good, because your pussy’s getting fucked tonight, sweetheart, so it needs to be ready".”
He slides down, dragging his teeth along my stomach, pausing at the waistband of my skirt. He looks up, grins, and pulls it off in one go, panties with it. The air on my skin is so cold I swear I can see steam rise.
He parts my thighs and settles between them, hands kneading at my hips. “Let me taste you,” he says, and the words make me jolt. He ducks his head, and his tongue finds me, slow at first — a lazy lap, like he’s savoring the moment. Then deeper, faster, flattening his tongue and then flicking it, again and again, over my clit. I cry out and he laughs, a low wicked sound. He brings a finger to my entrance, then two, pressing and circling, but never pushing in. He wants me to beg.