Page 39 of The Bitterness of Venom

"Hold tight, Freckles. I need to book us a room for the night."

I think the scary moment in all of this is not that he kidnapped me and drugged me, but allowing myself to acknowledge the fact that I like it. Giving up my self-control to him. Allowing him to steer my life. I like that Desmond takes what he wants from me. No matter the degree of deranged it might be.

And I think that is the most scary part. The self-realization.

My door swings open, Desmond peering down at me. “Up.”

I see we are back to him being a dick. Yay me.

I stand on shaky legs, and he slings an arm around me while his other arm carries two duffle bags. I recognize one as mine. Did he seriously pack my bag? What the fuck? That can’t be good.

The doors to the hotel slide open, revealing a lobby. He steers me to the left and into the elevator. The sudden jerk of the machine makes me fall into Desmond. I feel his nose glide across the top of my head, breathing me in. I watch the numbers ascend until we stop on floor five with a ding.

The hall rug is red with blue and beige swirly patterns through it. Abstract art and modern light fixtures line up and down the hallway. We finally stop at the last room in the hall, which also has the biggest door. He scans the key card and the light beeps green. Pushing through, I take in the entirety of the room. Only one bed, but I'm not surprised.

Desmond tosses our bags on the couch, pulling me by my hand to the bathroom. I'm not sure if the fight has left me, or if it's the lingering effects of the drugs, but I follow him easily. Allowing him to strip me and put me in the shower. I movethrough the motions, not really thinking of much as I surrender to the situation I'm in.

When I climb out of the shower, I find my contact case and glasses, his shirt, my toothbrush, and my wide-tooth comb waiting for me by the sink. It's a nice gesture but I'm not going to swoon over it. It's the least he could have done considering the circumstances he keeps putting me in.

I go through my nighttime routine with one thing on my mind. Now that I know he is single, do I want to be with him? Can we truly ever be anything but enemies after everything we’ve been through? Am I willing to put his life in danger because I selfishly want him to myself?

I have been lying to myself this entire time. I've always loved Desmond Rickman. And a part of me always will. Which is why I could never put him in Cliff’s sights.

I finish brushing my teeth and braid my hair. Turning off the light, I walk to the bed and climb in. Tucking myself deep under the covers. I pull off my glasses, sitting them on the nightstand beside me.

And I fall asleep.

White-hot lust rushesacross my body in the form of goosebumps and an intense sensation throbbing in my pussy. A velvet tongue thrusts against my clit, making me moan. My hands find thick hair and I grind against the face between my legs.

"Good girl, Freckles. Come for me, baby."

The vibration of his voice against my clit and his fingers buried inside of me hitting my G-spot bring me to an intense orgasm. My body spasms, and I grip onto Desmond’s hair harder as I ride my orgasm out.

Once I begin to stop trembling, Desmond crawls up my body. Pinning me down with his weight on my chest. His dick is large, precum glistening on the head as he rubs it across my lips. I can't help it, I let my tongue out and taste him. The velvety texture under my tongue, the salty taste of his precum. He growls, his thumb skating over my nose and down my cheek. Without warning, he wraps a hand around my throat, lifting my neck as he thrusts past my lips. I moan around his length, swirling my tongue around him.

Instead of pulling out like I thought he would, he pushes in farther, hitting the back of my throat and making me choke. His free hand massages my breast, pinching my nipple as he watches me with rapt attention. His pupils are blown, like he's taken too many drugs. He bites on his bottom lip and I can’t help but be turned on. His abs flex as he thrusts, his hand around my neck shakes as he holds himself back from making me pass out.

"Fuck, baby." He groans, thrusting faster into my mouth. "You're so fucking hot with my cock in your mouth."

I blush because I'm deranged like that. I should be appalled that he woke me up with his mouth on my pussy, but I like it. I like that he takes my control away from me. Like that he takes care of me. He always has, and that's why I can't allow him to become an obsession.

He thrusts a couple of more times before pulling out and spilling hot, sticky cum all over my face. And… I like that too. I don't even want to wash him off of me.

When did this happen? Why is this happening?

He doesn't clean me up, he just lays down, throwing an arm around my waist and pulling me into his hard, ridged body. I try to sleep but I can’t as I try to narrow down the exact moment I realized I needed Desmond Rickman back in my life again.

Fuck.

There issomething so nostalgic about returning to the place that built you. Seeing the trauma up close and examining it. I had Desmond drop me off at my old house on the way to his parents’. It took some convincing but finally, he caved.

The house hasn't changed, same shattered windows and broken porch. The yard is overgrown. No one seems to have taken care of the place since we left. Not that I would want to move into a house where someone overdosed.

The door opens easily, the smell of mold assaulting me as I tread through the living room. It's like it's frozen in time. Old shag carpet and seventies-style couch. We couldn't afford anything from the decade we were in. The coffee table still has old cups on it, some fallen askew. The blue chair my dad used to sit on rests next to the entryway. Old crime tape is still stuck to the counter. A kitchen window is open.

Shards of glass across the floor crunches under my boots as I make my way to my old room.The door is still a light yellow. I remember the day Momma was sober enough to paint it with me. There are still little finger smudges at the bottom of the door serving as my tribute. My chest aches as I look at those small, innocent fingerprints. That girl was too young to understand the hell she lived in.

I push the door open and pause.

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