Page 37 of Tainted Wings of Failure

"No. I hate all this," he admits through gritted teeth. "It's fucking frustrating."

After rinsing his hair, I proceed to scrub his body, being careful not to use too much pressure on the huge fading bruises that mark his skin. His eye is fixed on me as I kneel in front of him, washing his legs. In the corner of my eye, I catch a movement followed by a low grunt escaping him and he tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. "Fuck," he mutters, and I turn my attention to the movement. His cock is slowly but steadily hardening, rising a little higher with each pulse that sends blood through his length.

I look back at him, his head still leaning against the shower wall. Sex has been and will be off the table for a while. Not that he hasn't tried to initiate it; he tries every day, in the morning, afternoon or at night. But in this state, his body is simply not ready. Although it's clear that the lack of intimacy is adding to the already pent up frustration. I turn my attention back to his now fully erect cock in front of me. There is a slight chance he will feel better after an orgasm. Maybe he will be less hostile and more cooperative.

I suck my lower lip between my teeth, shoot him one last glance and without a second thought, I turn off the water before I wrap my fingers around the base of his cock, feeling his pulse against my fingertips. His head immediately jerks forward, looking down at me as I give him a few pumps with the roll of my wrist. "Dove…"

"Shut up and enjoy yourself," I say, leaning closer, holding his cock up and placing my tongue flat against his shaft, working my way up until I reach the top. Circling the swollen head with the tip of my tongue, the familiar taste of salty pre-cum floods my taste buds. A low moan escapes his throat, and his hips buck forward, thrusting against my lips. Instead of complaining as I usually would, I place a soft kiss on the tip before parting my lips and easing him into my mouth. One of my hand’s lands on his thigh, just in case, while I wrap the fingers of the other hand around the base of his cock.

With my tongue pressed flat against his shaft, I begin to bob my head, making sure my tongue brushes over the sensitive head with each stroke. He throws his head back against the tiled wall with a bump as one of his hand’s lands on the top of my head, grabbing a handful of my hair.

His hips jerk every time I lower him a little deeper into my mouth, and with each bob of my head, my throat muscles relax to meet the anticipated goal. "Eve," he moans, pushing my head down and hitting the back of my throat without any further resistance. My muscles contract around the tip of his cock as he holds my head down. Tears sting in the corners of my eyes and I look up to meet his hazy green eye staring back at me. His jaw drops, and he struggles for air, his chest heaving with every breath.

His hand holding my head down begins to tremble and loses its tight grip, allowing me to lift my head before lowering him back down into my throat. With every bob of my head, heat pools between my legs, the stickiness of my own arousal coating my thighs. It's not that I don't miss sex. No matter which toy, no matter how satisfying the orgasm, it doesn't compare to the heat of him inside me, keeping me warm from the inside out. The comfort of his body draped over me like a cozy blanket, enveloping me.

Blinking away the tears that trickle down my cheeks, I close my eyes and pick up the pace. With each swallow, he hits the back of my throat, drawing low moans from him. Through my hand on his thigh, I feel his muscles loosen as he melts into the bench and finally lets go.

Rubbing my thighs together, I suppress the aching emptiness that desperately begs to replace my mouth with my cunt, to have his cock where my body has craved it for weeks. But instead, I continue until I feel Noah's muscles flex under my hand and his cock throbs in my mouth. His grip on my hair tightens and he forces my head down, eliciting a wrenching grunt from me as my throat muscles clench around his cock, pumping his cum into my mouth. The sheer amount is too much to swallow all at once, some squirting out of my lips wrapped tightly around him.

The moment his grip on my hair finally loosens, I pull away, gasping for air. My chest heaves as I lean against his leg before turning to look up at him and find him gazing down at me with a hazy, satisfied smile on his lips as he fights for air himself. My heart flutters at the sight of the first genuine smile in days.

Raising his hand, he wipes my lips, which stretch into a smile at the gentle gesture. "I love you," he says through heavy panting. My smile widens and I rise to my feet, pressing my lips to his. But he breaks the kiss, his hand slipping between my legs, caressing my inner thighs, spreading my sticky arousal. "Do you—"

"No, it's okay," I say softly.

"But…"

"No. Let's clean up and go downstairs for dinner. We shouldn’t keep Kyle waiting for too long." I place another fleeting kiss on his lips before grabbing the showerhead. His hand falls back to his side. The light in his eye that flickered with his orgasm fades and his shoulders hunch.

Chapter 23

Noah

I focus on the clock on my office desk, illuminated by the warm glow of the lamp next to it. The second-hand jumps in circles as it counts down the last seconds to midnight. I raise the glass of whiskey to my lips and take a small sip, the liquor burning on the tip of my tongue. Closing my eye, I lean back in my leather chair, savoring the tingling sensation.

If Evelyn saw me drinking, all hell would break loose. I'm not allowed to have any alcohol while I'm on these mighty painkillers, but since I'm fighting another sleepless night, I'm hoping it will knock me out and allow me to catch up on at least a few hours of sleep, hopefully without nightmares. It's been four weeks since they rescued me, two weeks since I fully woke up. And still, every time I close my eyes and try to sleep, I'm haunted by the paralyzing fear of waking up in that concrete hole again and realizing it was all just a fever dream.

Evelyn is already out cold, sound asleep, enjoying the company of a stuffed animal I slipped into her arms as a replacement for me. She didn't even stir when I snuck out of bed, and I don't blame her. Usually it takes her forever to fall asleep, tossing and turning until she finds the perfect position, either in my arms or touching me in some way. But over the course of the last few weeks, in which she has spent every waking minute taking care of me, it seems to have become the norm for her to pass out the moment her head hits the pillow.

Like a weighted blanket, guilt drapes itself over me, suffocating me. My throat tightens and it becomes harder to breathe. She shouldn't have to deal with this, shouldn't have to take care of me like this, when it's all my…

My mind drifts to Kyle resting peacefully in our guest room. What happened was my fault. I knew Evelyn was against it, had her doubts about the whole ordeal, but I took the chance anyway. However, it is not solely my fault. He was the one who came asking for help, he was the one in charge, in contact with our client and contact person; he should have seen something was off.

With each beat of my heart, my guilt transforms into frustration and slowly but surely into anger. As if on autopilot, I push myself off the chair, kicking it back, raise my glass to my lips, and swallow my drink in one big chug. Then I pull open my desk drawer and grab one of my trusty Butterfly knives before stepping around my desk and leaving my office, heading down the hall to the guest bedroom where Kyle is sleeping.

Instead of knocking, I twist the handle and the door swings open without a sound thanks to the perfectly oiled hinges. Inside the room, illuminated by the dimly lit hallway behind me, my sight lands on Kyle's heavily tattooed back, lying on the bed. His shoulders rise and fall in a steady, calm rhythm.

I clutch the handle of the knife as I take four long steps toward the bed. It's cowardly to kill someone in their sleep, but right now I'm at a disadvantage and if he was awake, he would overpower me in no time. So, my only option is something as dishonorable as this.

The moment I raise my arm, gripping the knife tightly as I get ready to swing, Kyle jerks, shoots up to his knees, and his hand jumps up to grab my wrist. "Ah, not so fast!" He grins at me.

"Let me go." I glare at him.

"So you can stab me in my sleep? I was expecting more creativity from you."

I curl my tongue, collect a good amount of saliva, and spit in his face. "Shut up." He just grins at the impact of my spit striking his face.

"Come on, you're stronger than that, even if you're injured and have to use your weak hand," Kyle barks, squeezing the wrist of my right hand. My arm in his grip begins to shake as he squeezes harder and harder, preventing my blood from reaching my fingers. My left hand tingles, my fingers twitching nervously with the need to punch him. "Come on, Noah, show me your old self, I know you're in there." Gritting my teeth and ignoring the fact that my fingers have just healed enough to bend again, I push through the pain, which is nothing more than a faint sensation, swallowed up by the raw intensity of my rage brewing inside. I clench my left hand into a fist, my short nails digging into my palms, and I strike, aiming for Kyle's jaw and hitting him with every ounce of strength I can muster. His head whips to the side; his lip bursts and blood splatters on the beige sheets. A sickening crack runs through my bones, followed by a sharp, searing pain that shoots up my arm like a bolt of lightning.

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