Page 11 of Depraved

"Fuck, that's it baby girl," Alex groaned. "Come all over my fucking cock."

He gripped my hips tightly, falling back onto his back and taking me with him. I was straddling him now as he pistoned up into me hard and fast. I could feel him swelling inside me, on the edge of his own release. He cursed and stilled, pulsing as hot cum filled me up, dripping out of my pussy.

He fucked me slowly, his own thighs quivering. His moans were breathy, and his fingers would leave bruises on my skin later. I became aware of movement across the room. River stood abruptly, uncoiling like a spring finally released. Without a word, he slammed into the bathroom.

CHAPTER 4

River

My chest was heaving with every labored breath as I fought to control the raging need coursing through my veins. The image of Layla writhing in ecstasy was seared into my mind, tormenting me. My cock strained painfully against my jeans, demanding release.

With trembling hands, I stripped off my clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the bathroom floor. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—scarred, tattooed flesh stretched over hard muscle. The ugly reminder of my past carved into my blind eye. I looked away quickly, unable to take the sight for too long.

I turned on the shower, cranking the temperature as hot as it would go. Steam billowed around me as I stepped under the punishing spray. The scalding water sluiced over my skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning inside my veins.

My hand drifted down to my aching cock of its own accord. I gripped myself tightly, hissing at the contact. It’d been so long since I'd allowed myself this small pleasure. Years of celibacy, denying myself even the release of my own hand was only torture now that I had someone to crave.

I leaned my forehead against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut as I stroked myself roughly. Layla's face swam through my thoughts—her parted lips, her flushed cheeks, the look of rapture in her hazel eyes as she lost herself to bliss. The sounds of her pleasure echoed in my ears, driving me wild with need.

She was so fucking beautiful it was physically painful to look at her sometimes. The very first time I saw her, I knew she was about to wreck my whole fucking life, and I was right. Things were different now. My priorities had shifted. I found myself thinking of her night and fucking day. I knew without a shred of doubt, that if any motherfucker tried to harm her, I would end them in ways that would make the devil tremble.

The scalding water pounded against my scarred back as old images flashed through my mind. Things that kept me celibate in the first place. Rough hands gripping my hips. Strange men's grunts of satisfaction. The sickly sweet smell of expensive cologne mixed with sweat and sex.

I'd been just a boy when they took me from my grandpa. Ripped from my home and sold. A wealthy man with cruel eyes and crueler appetites. He'd kept me chained in a gilded cage, using my body for his pleasure and whoring me out to his associates.

For years, I'd endured their abuse. Learned to dissociate, to retreat deep inside myself as they used me. I became an empty vessel, existing only to serve their depravity. Not only that, but I was meticulously honed into the weapon I am now. Not only was I used to fuck, suck and tempt, but I had no choice but to kill. For them, for money, for power. I was a tool, not a human being.

Even after I escaped, and began working for Alex, I couldn't bear the thought of intimacy. The mere idea of being touched made my skin fucking crawl. So I'd sworn off sex entirely, burying myself in work and violence instead.

But now... something was fucking stirring.

I gripped myself harder, stroking with punishing force as I lost myself in the fantasy of Layla. The way her sexy as sin body had moved, writhing in ecstasy as Alex fucked her the way a woman like her deserved to be fucked. Her breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust, nipples pebbled and begging to be sucked. Those breathy little moans that had driven me wild.

My hand moved faster, twisting on the upstroke as I imagined it was her hot, tight pussy gripping me instead. I could almost feel her silky wetness, hearing her crying out my name as I buried myself to the hilt inside her. The fantasy was so vivid I could taste her on my tongue, smell the intoxicating scent of her arousal.

"Fuuuuck—" I growled, my voice echoing off the walls.

I braced my free hand against the shower wall, muscles straining as I chased my release. The hot water pounded against my back, steam billowing around me. But I barely noticed, lost in the throes of a building orgasm.

I pictured Layla on her knees before me, those plush lips wrapped around my cock as she gazed up at me with lust-darkened eyes. In my mind, I fisted my hands in her hair, guiding her movements as I fucked her pretty mouth.

I was so close—teetering on the edge of release. My muscles tensed, cock throbbing in my grip as my orgasm built. Just a few more strokes and I'd find sweet relief...

But I couldn't.

I didn't deserve it.

With a growl of frustration, I yanked the shower handle, switching the scalding spray to ice cold in an instant. I hissed and cursed as the frigid water hit my overheated skin, shocking my whole system. My impending orgasm retreated, leaving behind a painful ache in my groin.

I stood there, trembling under the punishing cold, and let it wash away my arousal. This was my penance. I didn't get to find pleasure in fantasies. I didn't get to lose myself in release.

Only Layla could grant me that gift. Only her touch could break the chains of my self-imposed celibacy. Until then, I would suffer in silence, aching with need but never allowing myself true satisfaction.

Layla lay sprawledacross the bed, her body tangled in the sheets. Even in sleep, she was breathtaking. I forced myself to look away.

Alex sat hunched over his laptop, the blue glow of the screen illuminating his face. His fingers flew across the keys, eyes darting back and forth as he scanned emails and camera feeds. He barely glanced up as I approached.

I moved to my duffel bag, unzipping it with practiced efficiency. The familiar weight of my weapons brought a measure of comfort. I pulled out my custom Glock, checking the magazine before tucking it into my waistband.

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