Page 44 of Make Them Cry
Her begging me to never let her go.
My balls tighten as I lean my head back against the chair. My breathing’s labored, and I'm almost there. I want to barrel into her room, toss her legs over my shoulders, and fuck her deep. Hard. A little rough.
I keep pumping, my cock leaking precum with each stroke. “Oh fuck,” I whisper into the stillness of the room. “Fuck, River. What are you doing to me?” I give one last final stroke as ribbons and ribbons of liquid heat shoots across my stomach. I don’t stop pumping until my breath evens out, and all the demons have been chased away.
Because as much as I want her, I know I can’t have her.
Not yet.
Morning hitson a silent count of three coffees and four texts from Arrow. Cathedral chatter is up. Some mid-tier troll is taking credit for the garage stunt, bragging about “making the Whale run.”
He calls himselfSopranette. Thinks he’s funny.
He’s a nobody with a mod’s attention, which makes him useful.
I message River before I can overthink it.
MASK:Want to help hunt?
Dots. Then:
RIVER:Yes.
I put on the Ghostface mask, and use the front entrance. She pads further into the room—hoodie, bare feet, jaw set—I feel something settle in my chest I didn’t know was loose.
“Briefing,” I say, voice filtered through the modulator clipped to my collar. I keep the hood up, the mask on, hands gloved. Distance. Rules. Boundaries I intend to honor right up until they kill me.
She takes the chair opposite, curls one leg under her, and looks at me like she could dismantle me with a semicolon.
“What’s the plan?”
I push the laptop toward her. “We baitSopranetteinto a private DM, then trace the route when he grabs the prize.”
“What’s the prize?”
“A file he thinks is the uncut interview. What he’ll actually get is our tracer. And a very bad day.”
A corner of her mouth lifts. “So… mean girl, but make it cyber.”
I shouldn’t find that hot, but I absolutely do.
I pull up a Cathedral mirror in a sandboxed browser. “We need bait that sounds likeyou—but not too much like you.”
“Because they’ll smell the switch if it’s perfect,” she says, already typing. She drafts a post in sixty seconds: just spiky enough to yank a troll across the room by his ego. It’s playful, irreverent, threaded with that sharp kindness that drives men like Sopranette insane.
I watch her hands and pretend I’m watching the words.
“Good,” I say. “Now add three mistakes.”
She shoots me a look. “Excuse me?”
“On purpose. A typo. An extra space. That weird double-sentence thing you do when you’re excited.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t?—”
“You do.” My mouth gets ahead of my good sense. “You also overuse em dashes when you’re nervous. And you drink coffee too hot, then pretend you didn’t burn your tongue. And you hum when the unit tests pass.”
She stares at me for a beat that lasts a year. “You pay attention.” She’s cautious as she keeps staring at me.
