Page 69 of Cruel Cravings

My silent message works. She goes still again, her thighs limp and splayed open.

I start to move. I’m slow, restrained, drawing my hips back and then pushing forward. I stroke into her like I’m rocking her to sleep, and as her soft thighs cradle me, I realize that’s what I’ve always done.

I’ve always soothed her like this. Provided her comfort during the darkest hour of the night. The moments where she cried and thrashed in her nightmares. The moments where I sought to make her understand she was never alone.

I was always with her in the darkest shadows.

Her pussy ripples around me, gripping at me, drawing me in.

I thrust harder and bite down on my jaw to keep from grunting. Her pussy gives untold levels of pleasure. It shoots through my cock as she kneads me, traveling through the rest of my massive, muscular form.

I can feel it coming, the climax to this secret moment between us.

Jael moans. Her head straightens and her lashes flutter.

I watch her face as I move inside her. Every drag of my hips is slow but deep. My cock reaches the back of her tight pussy and her walls clench around me.

Her eyes blink to a drowsy open. She stares up at me, caught between sleep and lucidity.

I meet her heavy-lidded gaze and slide back inside her, my strokes not losing a beat. Not pausing my motions.

“Shhhh,” I whisper. I cup her cheek and drag my hips back, then forward.

She blinks again as if fighting sleep, but then she gives in. Her eyelids drift shut and her head rolls back to the side.

I sink in deeper, bottoming out, and finally let my groan free. My cock twitches as it spills inside her. My seed fills her up, dripping from her pussy lips.

But this time I don’t clean her up. I press a kiss to her brow and rub at her pussy through the wet mess I’ve made.

Just in case she doesn’t remember tonight, tomorrow morning she will.

22.Jael

Sticky - FKA Twigs

I’m allowed to leave the bed. But the handcuffs remain.

Brontë lets me shower. He helps me change into more clothes out of Ms. Klum’s closet. He grunts and gestures toward the kitchen, and when I wander into the room, I find two plates of food set out on the table.

We sit down to share a meal together like two normal people.

We’re anything but. We’re the misfits who chain each other up and point guns around. We’re the ones who stalk and hunt and lure each other into traps.

It feels like acting to pretend otherwise.

The slightly sweet, slightly tangy aroma from the tomato sauce is enough to distract me. I haven’t eaten a real meal in over twenty-four hours and Brontëactuallycooked us spaghetti out of the ingredients he found in the pantry. A meal I hadn’t been ambitious enough to try myself during our time in the cabin, mostly because I can’t really cook.

I chose to rely on the canned soup and pouches of oatmeal for a reason.

Brontë looks ridiculous sitting down in the chair across from me. The entire dining set is too small for him. The table’s half his size. The chair wobbles under his heavy weight.

I can’t help snorting back a laugh as I shake my head and look away. When I chance a glance back, I can read his reaction despite his silence and the mask obscuring his face.

It’s become an unexpected talent of mine—picking up on his emotions by looking into his dark forest-green gaze.

I clear my throat. “Sorry. But you know you’re a huge dude. Everything looks miniature next to you. I feel like you’d need specially made furniture…”

He offers no insight either way, setting down a fork and knife for himself and then for me. His massive hand wrapped around the metal utensils make those look small and toy-sized too.

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