Page 74 of Wilt

Mom used to tell me old places had souls, that they lived, breathed, sighed, and remembered what happened in their walls. I think that was after I got scared once at a sound, shaking so hard, I hid with my teddy gripped tight in my hands, like some kind of weapon.

She always knew how to find me. She sat on the floor by the bed, whispering how smart I was, that I should always hide or run if my instincts told me to, that he couldn’t get to us if I hid.

It was only the house this time. With a shaking hand, I reach up and switch on the lamp next to the armchair, the golden light chasing the shadows back.

I didn’t remember that until now. She said he. Not it, not a faceless danger. He.

My father. That’s who she meant.

Mom, when she did speak of him, usually did it in sweeping, generic ways, like he was a deadbeat and she needed to get away. It’s why we ran, so he couldn’t find us. She always made it sound like my father was the kind of deadbeat nuisance who might just take her money, not a real danger.

But in my dreams, there was something, a man.

Her bleeding face, bruised, swollen, twisted in fear.

No dream, I’m thinking, but real.

Real, just like the fragments I slotted as remembered nightmares of horrible noises, of someone hurting me, of Mom screaming. Mom taking a fist to the face instead of letting that fist hit me. The dumpsters. Hiding. Pounding fear.

It all jumbles together and my mouth is dry and I’m cold and alone.

“Calm down.”

I breathe slow and steady, trying to calm my slamming heart until I can safely stand. I wrap the shirt around me tight and find the closest room with a bar, grabbing the bourbon and a glass and running back to the safety of Nikolai’s library.

Pouring a drink, I take comfort in the slide and burn of the sweet and heady liquor, honey and caramel on my tongue. It hits my belly, spreading warmth through my limbs and I sigh, setting the glass down on the side table.

I’m not sure what time it is, but it’s dark when my skin prickles and my pulse leaps. I didn’t hear the door or footsteps, but Nikolai is there, standing in the doorway.

“Found my library.”

“Clearly—I mean yes.”

He laughs softly, and there’s a needing light in his eyes. He looks tired; no shoes, and his jacket and tie are already gone, his sleeves rolled up. I want to ask where he’s been, but I don’t. That’s overstepping, and now… now the room is alive with him and I’m… happy.

“I think I have Stockholm Syndrome,” I say before I can stop the words.

He makes his way from the door to kneel in front of me, plucking the book from my hand and looking at it. “Oh, you’ve decided that, have you? I don’t mind if it means you’re here, naked and waiting. For me.”

Just like that, I’m horny and wet. It’s like he knows where the switch is.

“I’m reading about John Rain.”

“I’m aware.” He pulls my thighs apart and slides between them, kissing my inner thigh, making me quiver and jump and moan. “Were you waiting for me, Rose?”

“Yes…”

“Good.” He leans down and kisses my other thigh, then back to the first. Each time, it’s a little higher and my breathing gets a little more labored.

Nikolai pulls me to him, my legs splayed and open as he drags my pussy to his face. He kisses me there, long and slow. Then he looks up from between my thighs and I’m just lost. If I live forever, I’ll remember this moment, the power of it, the sheer lust on his face, the electric charge in the room.

“I love your fucking cunt, little Rose.”

Then he shows me just how much. He takes his time, eating me out. Even if I wanted to, no one could resist the slight roughness of his day-old stubble, the softness of his lips, the nip of his teeth, the talented push and lick of his tongue.

He sucks my flesh just right and the need ricochets to lust and pleasure and back to need. When he moves to my clit and adds his fingers into the mix, I scream and whimper, my body in overdrive, the desire building to an intense, radiating throb.

Without warning, I come hard, clenching around him, holding him to me like my pussy never wants to let go.

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