Page 15 of Release Me

ChapterEight

RICHARD

“Fine,”she starts, and I am a little surprised it was that easy.

I know full well I am going to have to draw the answers I need from between her delicious lips, but I’ll gladly do it for as long as it takes. She’s going to be proud of herself at the end of this hour, thinking she’s stopped me from digging into her past. But she is in for a rude awakening. I’m going to take pleasure in making her stay until I say she’s free to go.

“I was born and raised in a small, piece of shit town in Massachusetts. I ran away from home when I was fourteen and haven’t gone back.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

She rolls her left shoulder slightly and uses it to rub her chin. A nervous tic?

“Next question.”

“Do you,” I stare at herpointedly, and continue, “have any brothers or sisters?”

She looks at me like I slapped her, and fuck, I want to. I want to haul her petulant brat ass over my knee and spank the shit out of it before sticking my fingers in her pussy like she did last night.

She rolls her shoulder again and cracks her knuckles before pulling her legs up onto the sofa. She is nervous and upset. Watching her squirm and upsetting her are two completely separate things. I don’tenjoymaking her feel this way, but Iwillget her to open up to me, and I will takegreat pleasure in watching her bloom.

“I used to.”

“Used to?”

“That’s what I just said,Dick.”

I shouldn’t let her call me that, but every time she saysDick, mine twitches to life a little more.

“What happened?”

She rolls her eyes as well as her shoulder and breathes in and out loudly. The annoyance written all over her beautiful face doesn’t go unnoticed. I wonder why she isn’t fighting me like she did with Dr. Lewis? I make a small note of it.

“I used to have a half-sister, but she…she died.”

“I’m truly sorry to hear that, Brynn.”And it’s the honest truth. I can feel the pain emanating from her body floating in the space between us.

“What happened?”

She begins bobbing her left knee up and down, another nervous tic. She looks down at her hands and begins inspecting her cuticles. I am about to ask again when she finally answers.

“My mother’s boyfriend beat her. For protecting me.”

“Protecting you from what?”

More silence, but I am going to give her the time she needs.

“From him and my mother,” she explains, painfully.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen,” she whispers.

“How old was your sister?”

“Seventeen.”

“What happened, Brynn?”

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