Page 59 of Sorrow

The sound of his hand slapping against the slick wall brings my attention back to him. “You goddamn hurricane,” he growls, sliding out to give me a second to breathe, but he’s back to using me before I can get my fill. “Suck me so fucking good now. Show me how wet you are.”

I’m fucking drowning, Hayes. You can’t see that I’m wet?

Deflating a little, I swipe my fingers over my messy pussy and wave them at him. I hate it when he’s right about things.

The dark chuckle he releases makes me shiver. “Good girl. You want my cum? Prove it.”

He keeps me caged under the water but lets my head go, giving me free reign to suck him how I please. Part of me wants to bite him, but the rest? Maybe it’s something primal in me, but I want to be a good girl.Hisgood girl. So despite the burning in my nose when I inhale water, the ache in my jaw, the cramp in my leg and every ounce of logic I possess, I blow him like I’d rather drown right here for a chance to get his cum than pull off and breathe.

“Samara,” he moans, hips canting toward me in a way that tells me he can’t help it. “Such a good little whore. This is all you. Some shit can’t be taught — fuck, I’m close.”

Thank god. My lungs are screaming at me to stop, to breathe, to save myself. But pain is what he’s after now, and I’ll never forget the way he sounded when he told me I was supposed to cry.

I’ll be damned before I disappoint.

Reaching up, I gently tug his balls as I open my eyes to meet his. I can’t really see him through the water, can’t hear him anymore, either. All I know is the pounding of my own heart, the desperation in my chest, and the slippery flood between my legs.

It’s enough. Whatever he sees, it’s enough.

His hands fly to the back of my head as his hips thrust forward once more so he’s buried inside, and when I feel his cock pulsing with his release, I realize I won’t be able to taste it this time.

This bastard is coming in my fucking lungs.

At least the poor things are getting something.

The second he relaxes even a little, I squirm out of his grip and do my best tostay alive. Breathing hurts now. My throat is so raw it feels like I’m drawing in pointy little ice picks instead of air, and my eyes and nose burn so badly I want to rip them off my face. “Fuck,” I hiss. “Add drowning to the list of ways I don’t want to die.”

“Not even if it’s with cum?” He helps me to my feet and lets me slump against him as I catch my breath. “You did good,” he praises. “Can’t even tell you were a virgin when you moved in here now.”

I was a virgin like four days ago, but whatever. “Now who’s the comedian?”

“Thought I was the clown.”

The way his jaw clenches tells me he still hasn’t let that one go, so I rock up on my toes to kiss the knot just below his ear.

“You’re not a clown, your feet aren’t big enough. It was just a joke.”

Snorting, Hayes starts cleaning my body with a shake of his head. “You’re on a roll today. You’re lucky it’s impossible to be mad right after a blowjob like that.”

My phone rings from the bedroom, making me jerk, but Hayes doesn’t let me get out. His grip tightens and his eyes tell me everything I need to know.

He’s the only one who matters right now.

My cheeks explode with heat when he deliberately slips his hand down to wash my pussy. Usually, he saves that for last. I guess he’s proving something. His lips claim mine possessively as he continues to bathe me without looking, borderline playing with me. It’s intimate enough that I gasp into his mouth and nearly beg him to just finish the job and make me come, I’m just aware I’m still being punished.

He proves it when he pulls away the second I allow myself to moan, and then he goes on cleaning the rest of me like I don’t look as desperate as I know I do.

Seems like he was serious about that whole control thing.

When he’s done, I take his washcloth from him and click my tongue. “I own you too, remember? My turn.”

Surprise flashes in his eyes before he drops his hands to allow me full access. “I didn’t think you’d care to.”

“Honestly? Neither did I.” Yet as I lose myself in circular, repetitive moments, I begin to understand why he likes it. It’s soothing, even for me. Like a thank you I don’t have to say out loud. It gives me a chance to trace the hard lines of muscle, thesmooth expanse of skin. The body I tried so hard not to look at for so long.

It also gives me a chance to study his tattoos — the death-themed full sleeve on his right arm, the rib cage script of a Tennessee Williams quote.“‘The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks,’” I read aloud. “What does that mean to you?”

He runs his thumb along my bottom lip. “Maybe one day I’ll explain it better, but to give you the short answer from my perspective, it means that something soft can be just as powerful as something that might seem... unyielding. What’s your interpretation?”

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