Page 86 of Jensen
“Good girl,” I murmur. “Take your panties off and show me your cunt.”
Her slender fingers dip beneath the fabric, loosening until it falls. She steps out of them. I soak her in. She’s a wet dream, breathtaking in a raw, intimate way that makes me see red, knowing Leland had her too. Part of me wants to hear everything he ever did to her body. The other part knows it would only make this jealousy worse.
“Get down on your hands and knees,” I order.
She bites her lip, hesitating. Then, she sinks down. Her spine elongates as she settles into position, tilting her head up to look at me. From my pocket, I take a knife. The half used bag of uncookedrice sits to my left. I pull it to the edge of the table and stab it, quick. Grains pour out, covering the aged floorboards.
She keeps still. I step back, boots crunching, until there are a few yards between us.
Then, I sink to a crouch.
“Crawl to me, you filthy little bitch,” I say quietly.
Her lips part in shock.
“Focus, Della,” I say, bringing her back with her name. “You know how to keep me from going too far. Say you understand.”
“I understand,” she whispers.
“Now, do it.”
She starts crawling, her cheek twitching at the pain. I’ve done this before, with other women, but not here, back where I was pretending to be somebody I’m not.
She’s wincing, but she moves until she’s at my feet, gazing up at me, waiting.
“Sit back on your heels,” I order.
She does, gasping at the pain. Her eyes are huge, her cheeks flushed. Without meeting her gaze, I circle the rice and step outside. She hung the washing on the line earlier. Some of it, worn out towels, are still there. I take one down, removing the two wooden clothespins that hold it up. When I return, she’s sitting there like a good girl, not moving a muscle.
She loves this.
I crouch before her and brush back her hair. Bending, I kiss her forehead gently. She whimpers, breasts heaving. Then, I take her breast in my hand and pinch her nipple until it fully hardens. I clip the clothespin on it parallel to her body.
She inhales sharply. Her pupils blow.
“Good girl. Look at you,” I murmur.
“It hurts,” she gasps.
“Too much?”
She shakes her head, shifting her weight. “I’m…very wet.”
I reach between her thighs and, fuck, she is soaked. It’s halfway down her leg, so wet that when I press two fingers to her tight cunt, Islide inside with ease. Her body tremors. I stroke the swollen spot inside her pussy, torturing her before pulling free.
“Open your mouth,” I say.
Her lips part, and the eroticism of her exposed tongue isn’t lost on me. Waiting, receiving freely. I put my two fingers on it, pushing inside. Her eyes meet mine as she closes her lips, lapping up the underside and sucking her arousal from the tips.
My God, she’s extraordinary.
I pull back, clipping the second pin on her other nipple. She gasps, palms on her thighs, head bowed. All the noise in my head is silent. I see her like a beam of sunlight in the darkness. My desire is a sadistic underbelly I once rejected. And yet, she lets me feel things I’ve pushed down for decades. This time, I don’t want to reject myself.
I want to consume, just as I want to be consumed.
To give pain so as to take it.
She lifts her head, beautiful and ethereal. I take off my shirt, unfastening it one button at a time until I can pull it free. Then, I sink to a crouch and cup her chin. The tension is a hushed, shared breath between our mouths as I bend and kiss her. She tastes sweet—like Della, like home.
