Page 61 of Unwrapping Deviance

Christian puts his hand up, stopping me. “I don’t want the money. Donate it or keep it. I don’t care, but I want nothing from that prick.”

I don’t blame him for his anger. Dad was a monster. He brutalized Mom until he pushed her into an early grave. He terrorized and tortured us until we finally escaped. Life in thathouse had been a nightmare. I understand not wanting any memory of it.

“Donating it sounds nice,” I decide. “We’ll get the lawyers to put the paperwork through and sell the place. Best offer. We’ll donate it to a women’s shelter.”

Christian says nothing, but there’s a deep frown furrowing his brow and turning his mouth down at the corners. The sugar packet smacks a little too hard on the table and the thin paper splits. Fine, white crystals erupt across the surface. He lets the tattered remains drop from his fingers.

“Let’s go. Now, I’m stressed about leaving Mira alone over there.”

He’s already out of his seat before I can respond. A crumpled bill is dragged from his pocket and chucked down next to the mess.

Clare glances up when we stand. Her gaze jumps hopefully to Christian, and I think she wouldn’t be that hopeful if she knew who we were. Regardless, I offer her a slight wave as we leave and make our way to the truck.

We return to the cabin in moderate silence. It sits crouched in the center of the wilderness, a dark silhouette illuminated by the hazy glow radiating from the light on the porch. The steps creak as we ascend to the door and let ourselves inside; I make a mental note to change the locks first thing. Maybe even locks for the windows, or nails to nail them shut. I add extra bright light bulbs to my list and a deadbolt. I’m almost considering bars for each of the windows, but stop myself.

A humming silence greets us. It lingers in the mute darkness pooling in every corner, held at bay by the lamp Mira must have left on for us.

I think.

My theory is only semi correct when Christian nudges my arm and motions with a jerk of his chin towards the curled bundle on the sofa.

My heart catches on a skip.

Mira half sits, half slumps against the armrest. Her eyes are closed, her breathing soft and even. A book hangs open in her lap, but her phone is in her hand like she’d been expecting a call only to doze off.

I hurry towards her, kicking myself for not texting her. We hadn’t been gone very long. But I should have known she would worry.

Careful not to wake her, I pry the items from her grasp and set them aside. She doesn’t stir until I try to tuck my hands beneath her.

Mira gives a start and jolts awake. Her eyes snap to me, wide with confusion.

“Daniel?”

I hoist her up high against my chest. “Hey, baby.”

She melts against me. Her arms looping around my neck. “You’re home.”

I crush her closer. “I’m sorry I didn’t text.”

Her face nestles into the side of my neck. “It’s okay. I was reading.” But her hold is too tight. “Christian?”

“He’s here, too.”

She yawns quietly. “Good.”

I move past Christian and up the stairs. I hold her until the very last second, when my knees bump the side of her bed.

“Help me?” she murmurs quietly, her lips hot against my skin. Against my pulse. There’s no doubt in my mind she felt it quicken. “Please, Daniel?”

Little brat knows I’d do anything for her. Anything. Even set her down on her feet and reach for the pathetic straps keeping her dress in place. My heart thumps wildly between my ribs,a desperate surge of need and panic. But my hands are steady drawing the threads over the smooth slopes of her shoulders and along her arms.

Mira watches me, sleepy eyes alert and pinned on my face. I can feel their laser focus even while mine are fixed on the neckline of her dress sliding down her chest. Over her breasts. I’ve never seen her naked. That morning in her room doesn’t count because I didn’t really see her. Not like this. Not beyond the dark outlines of her nipples through her top, this will be my first glimpse of her soft mounds.

They’re rising and falling quickly, shallow pants that match my own desperation. I almost stop when the fabric catches on her nipples. When the only thing stopping me from feasting on her perfect flesh are her sensitive, little peaks.

Christ.

I’m so fucking hard I’m ready to embarrass myself and she’s not even naked. This barely legal eighteen-year-old has me so addicted I’m ready to fall to my knees and beg her to let me taste her. I’ve had women, but not in thirty years have I ever once needed, wanted another person with every fiber and molecule of my being. So completely and painfully that I feel deranged.

---