Page 4 of Cursed to Be Mine
And then I comehard, spasming around my fingers –his tongue.
I want to scream, but instead I bite my cheek as my body heats, thenfloods. My thigh muscles bunch together from the strong current pulsing through me. Controlling me. Holding me down, at its mercy.His mercy.
A scream builds in my throat despite myself, and I grab the extra pillow on my bed and smother it over my face as his name erupts from my lips. As I imagine his cum leaking down my thighs in place of my own.
God, I would let him fuck me raw. Down my throat,up my ass, whichever way he wanted me. As long as he kept his intense eyes on me and his large hard cock inside me.
Moaning, I remove the pillow and sigh into my empty room. My arm flops to the side, the pillow in its loose grip as I slowly withdraw my fingers from my pussy. Breathing heavily, I open my eyes, finally releasing his image, and take a moment to stare at the ceiling.
Fuck. Why can’t Aaronmake me come this hard?
He has a massive cock – longer and thicker than my forearm, but the only time I see stars with my boyfriend is when he leaves to take a shower or go to work and I finish myself off in his absence. Not even thinking about him most times either.
But I need to be seen as a family woman because as Benjamin, my ‘hip’ PA, keeps telling me, the voters respond better to a woman who ‘honors the traditional role of family,’ which doesn’t include being a single mom. I need to be career-focused but also an involved parent, harsher on crime than my male opponents to prove I’m ‘not too soft’ but still warm and caring to the public eye.
Which means going to depressing hospitals to read to dying children. I would prefer to just give the hospital a giant check like Mark Reynolds, the democrat running against me does, but Benjamin is adamant I must attend and be photographed…hugging–ugh–the sick before the election in three months.
My alarm blares right on time, and I roll over to glare at it before smacking it off. Picking up my phone, I pull it off the charger and shoot Benjamin a quick message. The smear of my fingers coat the screen, and I smirk for a second, envisioning Khalid’s face betweenmy legs again.
Hannah:You’re sure none of the fruit is rotten?
I stare at the screen, waiting impatiently for his reply. He makes us talk in code so if ever our phones get hacked, nothing incriminating will see the light.
Fruit: sick kids at the hospital.
Rotten: contagious.
Benjamin PA:Yes, ma’am.
But despite his assurance that none of the kids I’ll be seeing today will have anything infectious, I pull a face as I put down the phone. It’s not that I don’t like kids. I love kids. I just don’t like spending hours in a clinical hospital room surrounded by them when I know most won’t be breathing in a couple months. It’s fucking depressing and taints my whole day.
But knowing there’s nothing I can do to get out of it, I roll out of bed and head for my en-suite, phone in hand. Pulling off a piece of tissue, I dampen it and wipe the screen of my phone before laying the mobile down on the teak counter surrounding the white farmhouse sink. The phone’s case is a light blue with a black edge. Nothing elaborate or overly feminine. But not too masculine either. This whole marketing myself business annoys the shit out of me, but it’s a game I can’t afford to lose.
Re-elections are coming up soon, and Mark Reynolds will see this city destroyed if he’s elected. He isn’t strong enough to deal with the monsters hunting our streets. He’s one of those ‘modern’ men. Those ‘feelings’ men who willingly tie a rope around their own balls and give that lead to their girlfriends. He’s too soft, thinks peace is a fucking option when dealing with the gangs terrorizing our beautiful country.
He keeps talking about rehabilitation programs and“cleaning up the streets at the source” – two options that will see hundreds dead during the time it takes him to attempt implementation, hundreds, maybe even thousands more before he accepts his foolish dreams will never work. Maybe they would work somewhere in California – one of the hippy cities that don’t see horrific crimes, but they would never work here.
St. Augustine, Florida, is an old town with old crime.Trueold crime that goes back centuries, full of dark grudges and acts of revenge that see these streets bleed by the gallons. Death haunts this city, twists it so much even God himself has abandoned it to the devil.
But not me.
I love this city too much to leave it to monsters who’ll watch it burn.
And thereareactual monsters here.
Werewolves, vampires, and witches. Each head of one of the three old gangs terrorizing this city.Mycity.
Glancing up at the mirror, I shift uncomfortably as memories of massacred corpses and hundreds of news clippings assault me. Vampire bites and werewolf claws hidden under the cuts of knives and the thick spray of bullets. Blood-drained corpses simply ‘killed elsewhere and moved.’ Death by magic written off as undetectable poisons or ‘natural’ heart failure and brain aneurysms.
A shiver runs through me. If they justsuspectedI knew about their secret world, the truth behind their masks… I could be dead in an instant.
The security on my home would mean nothing.
Vampires don’t need permission to enter.
Werewolves can change form at will.
And witches can be miles away, casting some demonic spell.
