Page 21 of Unwrapping Deviance

Then there’s Christian and the whole dumpster of unresolved shit neither of us want to unpack. Ever. Stubborn refusal is a family heirloom passed down through the MacAllister bloodline the way cancer is hereditary. We both have it in spades. Only, I have Mira to worry about and a past I don’t know how to tell her about.

I know Christian won’t tell her. At least, I’m hoping. Maybe. Part of me is, at least. The cowardly part of me that wants to hide Mira from everyone and everything until I can get her back to our apartment, away from my guilt.

But that isn’t realistic.

I’ve always known there would eventually come a time when I would no longer be able to escape her questions, and I know it isn’t fair. She’s told me everything. Every fear, doubt, hope, guilt, shame. I know her better than I even know myself. Still, there is a whole life, a whole part of me I can never bring myself to unpack with her.

Now, there is no escape.

Even if Christian doesn’t say anything, Jefferson does not keep secrets like mine for very long. I just need to tell her before someone else does.

Accepting that I am playing a losing game, I push out of bed. I shove ten fingers back through my hair and groan. I’m already exhausted, but I pad to the door and pry it open to poke my head out and listen for the rush of water from the bathroom. Itisn’t necessary; the door is open and the lights off, signaling that Christian isn’t there.

Good. Fucker always hogged the hot water.

I’m about to duck back inside for fresh clothes when I hear the whimper. It’s low. Barely audible but I’ve had a year to train myself to recognize Mira’s sounds.

Shower forgotten, I stalk to the end of the hall and reach for the knob.

It gives silently in my hand, and I nudge it open softly, careful not to startle her.

But Mira isn’t in the throes of a nightmare. She’s not even asleep. She’s completely naked, face down in the center of the bed, supple thighs wide around the pillow.

Something small and pink hums softly between her wet lips. It’s barely noticeable, but she holds it in place as she grinds against the pillow. Her hips bump and rise with unhurried pumps, the same way she rides the length of my cock at night. Even her sounds are consistent with the ones she makes in her sleep.

But I’m enthralled by her pussy, by her smooth lips and swollen clit. I’ve never seen her folds before. I’ve never seenherlike this. Everything was always covered, always protected and layered in darkness. But, God, she’s beautiful. Soft, flawless skin like the fresh pages on a sketchbook waiting for me to paint her pleasure.

“Daniel...” she groans into the mattress where her face is fully embedded.

Fuck!

My hand fists around the throbbing dick poking free through the hole in my boxers. He’s ready to get up behind her, lift her hips and slam home in that tiny hole she’s breaching with her toy. The silicone lives my dream making her moan and beg.

Mira clutches the spare pillow next to her head and shoves her face into it and I know she’s about to cum.

“Oh God!”

She grinds faster, back arching, hips rolling. The rest of her words are muffled by feathers as she whines my name again and cums.

I watch her cunt flutter and leak. I watch her clit pulse. Her back shudders as her orgasm flitters through her.

She sighs and stays that way, pussy on perfect display, begging to be filled. Stretched.

Destroyed.

Instead, I gingerly shut the door and hurry with my cock in hand to the bathroom.

I am not a masochist. I don’t like self-pain or undue hardship. Resisting my hunger for Mira is a new and unfamiliar terrain I’ve subjected myself to. Any other woman, any other pleasure, I would have already sampled every inch of her, but Mira...

Mira is something else. A temptation I have no right to taint. A weakness I know will take me under. She’s a walking drug and I am ready to cut my vein open on jagged glass just for a taste. I am so fucking weak for her she’s become a thorn in my chest I can’t dislodge.

It pangs viciously when I descend the stairs forty minutes later, my sins washed off my skin and catch sight of her standing at the far wall, a tiny figure bathed in a curtain of morning sun. It toys with the hidden strands of gold woven through the wavy cape spilling down her slender back.

Her head is cocked to one side as she surveys my father’s legacy displayed prominently across the entire expanse of wall between the kitchen and the living room, across from Dad’s favorite chairs, directly within eyesight of the front door.

Above the collage of Dad’s life, mounted in gleaming prestige, his trophies are arranged by year and size alongside a custom-made stand to contain his ribbons and medals.

Mira studies each one, hands at her back. I think she’s searching for me, maybe Christian. There are a few of Mom; their wedding day when Dad snagged the prettiest girl in town, the girl every guy wanted. There’s one of Mom winning best pecan pie at the fair, but Dad is next to her, holding up his ribbon for champion arm wrestler two years running. But she won’t find me or Christian on there. Even before the incident, Dad saw no point sharing his wall with children who haven’t done anything to deserve it.

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