Page 43 of Beautifully Wounded

I shift on the seat, rubbing my thighs together as the flutter increases.

I shouldn’t be watching their private moment. I know that. It’s a sinful act, yet for some reason just knowing that makes me not want to look away.

Besides, others are watching. Some have pulled chairs up as if they are watching a show. There are a couple of women grinding on men’s laps doing some sort of lap dance.

I spot one of the men that was with Ringo when they kidnapped me. The one that drove the truck. I think his name is Stocky. Like Ringo, he’s not a bad-looking man for someone that looks like he hasn’t done his hair today. He has a cigarette hanging from his lips, and as he stands watching, he begins to undo his jeans.

He’s not going to…

Oh.

Heck. He is. He just got his penis out.

Ringo’s words come to me from earlier.

“This thing isn’t a penis. It’s a cock.”

My lips part as I take in Stocky and the way he wraps his hand around his appendage.

Ringo is right. Penis just isn’t the right word for something that looks like that.

“It’s a cock,” I whisper to myself, the word feeling weird to say. “Cock,” I say louder, before snickering to myself.

I’m losing the plot. Now not only am I spying like a peeping Tom, but I’m talking to myself about cock.

When one of the women steps up in front of Stocky, I’m almost annoyed that she’s blocking my view, but then, he points to the ground, his lips parting as he speaks to her, and the next second, she drops to her knees.

Bad memories try to rush me, but even as my lip trembles, I will them away because even if what I’m doing right now is wrong, I don’t care. It’s the most normal I’ve felt since I first got together with Daniel, back when I thought he actually liked me.

Maybe I shouldn’t be watching like a creeper or feeling that flutter that I never thought I’d feel again, but I need this. I don’t know why, but I just need to see these acts happening with both parties willing. Both parties getting pleasure.

As the woman wraps her lips around Stocky, I take a risk and move my hand to press between my legs, desperation guiding me to see if I can ever feel pleasure again.

The shrill of Ringo’s phone ringing forces a squeal past my lips, and the chair nearly falls backwards as I leap up and spin to face the noise.

Over on the bed is Ringo’s phone screen, lit up brightly as the ringing sound increases.

Shit.

He’s waiting for an important call.

Dashing forward, I scoop the phone up to see the name flashing across the screen.

IMPORTANT.

That’s it. No othername to say who it is, and I guess names probably aren’t used so much in organised crime.

Placing the phone on the table as it stops ringing, I move to the door and lift on my tiptoes to see through the peephole. I can’t see anyone immediately in front of the door, but Ringo said Brody, the crude guy that I walked in on yesterday, was the one he tasked to stand by the door, so I carefully unlock it before gently cracking the door open just a smidge.

The sounds of the party flow in loudly through the small crack, and so do some moans of pleasure so close I can’t help but see who they are coming from.

Brody. He’s just outside the door, his jeans around his ankles.

He’s having sex right there, pounding into a woman up against the wall.

“Oh my god,” I whisper and hurry to close the door again, spinning to press my back against it.

He’s such an animal. Couldn’t he have waited until later to do that? Like once Ringo had returned?

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