Page 20 of Sinful Sacrifice

“Come for me, Pippa,” I say.

No, I fucking demand it. I’m so close to my release.

I need her to finish first.

Her pussy contracts on my dick before her entire body starts shaking.

My heart beats faster and faster, pounding against my chest like a caged monster begging for release. I clench my muscles to give myself more time, but it’s impossible. Pippa feels too damn good.

My mind goes blank, all my troubles and problems erased, and my veins feel like they’re burning as I come into the condom. I pull out of her, remove the condom, and release on the blazer.

I’m nearly energy-deprived as I scoop up her release with my finger and mix it with my cum on the blazer, swirling them together.

“Never wash this,” I say. “I want it to always smell like us.”

Then, I let the exhaustion take me. I collapse on her, no longer the ruthless man I’m expected to be. She accepts my weight, pulling in thick breaths. A few seconds pass before I fall on my back, cradling her to my body, as if she’s all that’ll keep my heart beating. My goddamn lifeline.

How the tables have turned.

I’m no longer her savior.

She’s mine.

Neither of us says a word, and it doesn’t take her long to fall asleep.

When a light snore leaves her, I carefully slip away, collect my clothes, and leave.

7

This morning, I woke up to an empty bed with no signs of Damien.

No phone number scribbled on a napkin.

No last night was great note.

No breakfast.

A cliché one-night stand who left nothing but confusion, sore legs, and a dark hickey on my thigh.

At least he left the blazer as a reminder of him.

The blazer he pretty much decorated with our cum.

Now, it’s three in the afternoon, and still no word from him. I never gave him my number, but given how resourceful he seems, he could easily find it.

“See you tomorrow, Jane!” I shout, waving goodbye to my boss.

The bell above the coffee shop door chimes as I leave. I’ve been a part-time barista at Brew Bliss since high school, but I’ve had to pick up more shifts after my mother's studio fire. Rent is due in two weeks, and my landlord doesn’t take IOUs or lattes as payment.

I’m also sure as hell not offering up a lap dance for it.

Seventy-five-year-old Roy would have a heart attack.

After my two-hour dance practice, which only makes me sorer, I walk home.

Fingers crossed Damien somehow broke into my apartment and is waiting for me.

I frown when I find it empty, and spend the next three hours doing dishes, laundry, and anything else to get my mind off him.

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