Page 107 of Twisted Pact
She finally moves from the doorway, crossing to where I sit. Her hands come up to frame my face, and she pulls me up until our foreheads touch.
“I need to feel something other than this,” she whispers. “Something other than guilt and fear and the weight of knowing people died because of us.”
“Mila—”
“You heard what Dr. Orlov said. I need rest and relaxation.” She gives me the most seductive smirk I’ve ever seen as she adds, “This will relax me.”
I suppress a groan and retort, “That’s not what he meant.”
“Are you going to argue with doctor’s orders? Please. I need you to make me forget. Just for a little while.”
The desperation in her voice breaks something loose inside me. I cup the back of her neck and crush my mouth to hers. She responds immediately, opening for me and meeting my tongue with hers.
This isn’t gentle or tender. This is two people who watched death up close and need to remember what it feels like to be alive.
I stand from the chair, and my shoulder screams in protest with the movement. I ignore it. Pain means I’m still here, still breathing, and still capable of giving her what she needs.
I back her toward the wall as my good hand goes to the hem of her sweater. She helps me pull it over her head before reaching for my bloodstained pants. Her fingers work at the button with shaking hands.
“Wait,” I tell her, stepping back slightly.
“No waiting. I need this. I need you.”
“You’re sure? After everything you saw today?—”
“I don’t want to think about what I saw.” She grabs my belt and yanks me closer. “I want to feel something real right now.”
The honesty in those words destroys any remaining restraint. I reach behind her and unhook her bra, tossing it aside. WhenI see her breasts, fuller now from the pregnancy, hunger roars through me.
“Turn around,” I tell her.
She does without question. My hand goes to the waistband of her leggings, and I drag them down along with her underwear. I press her palms flat against the wall and nudge her feet apart with mine
“What are you doing?” she asks, though I hear the breathlessness in her voice.
“Tasting you.”
I drop to my knees behind her and spread her open with my thumbs before dragging my tongue through her folds. She gasps and pushes back toward my face instinctively.
“Oh, God,” she breathes.
I circle her clit with my tongue before moving lower to push my tongue inside her. She’s already wet and ready for me despite everything we just witnessed.
Or maybe because of it.
Sometimes, the body’s response to trauma is to seek pleasure and connection.
I alternate between fucking her with my tongue and sucking on her clit. Her legs shake, and she braces herself harder against the wall to stay upright.
“Don’t stop,” she begs. “Please, don’t stop.”
I have no plans to stop when she tastes this good. Not when every sound she makes goes straight to my cock and reminds methat we’re both still here. We’re still alive and capable of feeling something other than grief.
I slide two fingers inside her while my mouth focuses on her clit. The angle lets me hit the spot that makes her cry out, and I feel her inner walls flutter around my fingers.
“I’m going to come,” she warns.
“Then come for me, Zaika.”
