Page 23 of They Call Him Reaper

She continuesto hold my head to her chest while humming and stroking my hair.

“What are you doing?” I finally ask once my heart rate returns to normal.

“Sometimes a comforting embrace and soothing sounds help with night terrors,” she whispers in my hair, like she’s afraid I’ll have another episode.

“It was just a nightmare,” I insist.

“It seemed more stressful than your other ones.”

“Other ones?”

“Almost every night.”

It’s new information to me, but I’m not surprised. Her presence and questions have stirred up memories and feelings that I’ve long repressed. He didn’t physically molest me, but he fucked my mind. My hate for Father has intensified to where I’m not sure if I want to kill him or torture him for months, then kill him. Her heart beats under my ear and I breathe in her scent. She’s comforting me when it’s the last thing she should be doing. Keeping me alive is one thing, but hugging away my nightmares is different.

Conditioning is difficult to break. The mind has to be untwisted and put back into normal reasoning mode. I’ve broken away from a lot of Father’s teachings, but it appears at least one was still present. Since my thirteenth birthday, he’s found brutal ways to remind me not to touch his daughter. I don’t know if he did it to all of us, or if he thought I was somehow special. Either way, he’d find a new way to hurt me just to relay the same message. That’s how I knew she ran. He’d shown up at my temporary home with his other thugs in tow. They held me down while he hit me repeatedly. There were so many ways I could have killed them all that day, but I’d made myself believe that this was some sort of ritual of his.

I didn’t understand the need to do this, since he’d sent her from one boarding school to another to keep us from knowing where she lived. I hadn't asked about her, nor had I fully laid eyes on her until she decided to break from her family. I still only saw her as Father’s daughter and nothing else. Each day she chips away from my perception, showing me the woman she is underneath my blinders. I already knew that she’s nothing like him. She’s too emotive and tactile to be him.

He has no feelings, but the one thing that bothers him is me touching his daughter? Too fucking bad. The concept crumbles away so effectively that I almost feel the crumbs. I’m going to touch her everywhere, inside and out, because she wants me to do just that.

Her body shivers when I kiss her throat, and she freezes when I trail those kisses to the part of her chest that’s exposed from the V of the t-shirt.

“Dante?” My name is a question and a moan.

“Hmm.” I continue to plant kisses on her exposed skin.

“Your meds...” My beard teases her clothed nipple as my hand digs into her side to keep her close.

“What about them?”

“They must have you hallucinating or something because you’re kissing me,” she whispers, like speaking too loudly will break the trance.

“I’m lucid.” My mouth finds her nipple and bites her through the fabric.

Her body jerks from surprise, but she doesn’t speak. My hand dips below her shirt, then between her warm legs. I don’t go straight for her pussy. Instead, my hand is close to it when I squeeze her inner thigh.

“Get rid of the fucking shirt,Gatita.”

She follows my order, and my mouth reunites with the nipple I met through the fabric.

“Dante, if this is some kind of test to see if I’d have the willpower to deny you while you’re under the influence, I will fail.” She whimpers when my fingers find her wetness and toy with her slit. “I’ll fail so fucking hard.” Her honesty is noted, but this isn’t a test.

I switch nipples and groan when my fingers dip inside; so hot, so wet. She holds on to my head as she rides my fingers with no shame. Her hips undulate until the movements become jerky, and I remove my fingers to coat her clit with her juices. Each of her moans go straight to my dick, sounding like a personal call to action that makes it hard until my underwear feel painful and restrictive.

Hearing her come is as melodic as her voice and sounds like my new favorite song. Her sweet body clings to mine as she regains composure.Enough of this. I move to get on top, but she stops me.

“Wait! Your leg. You’ll bust your stitches. And your underwear.”

I rip them off, and she slowly shakes her head.

“A man ripping off his own underwear is something I didn’t know I needed to see in this lifetime.”

“Get on my dick.”

She hesitates for a moment. “Wait, what?”

I pause. Maybe she just liked reaching for an unattainable goal. “Forget it.”

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