Little Stranger (The Web of Silence Duet, #1)

by Leigh Rivers

Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Fucking sorry. That damn word echoes in my psyche—a curse that won’t fuck off. Sorry’s just a word to try to get out of something, to dodge trouble if you’ve been caught out. Sorry’s a five-letter disgrace that shouldn’t even need to be used. It should be abolished from the fucking dictionary. Actions do speak louder than words, and if she’s as sorry as she makes out in her voicemails, then why does she sometimes look happy? Why is she going out partying with her friends? Kissing guys who—shockingly—vanish days later? Why does she dance around her apartment, singing ridiculous songs about love? Why is she living her life without me? If the bitch is sorry, then why is she only looking me up on the internet and not hunting for me? Why isn’t she looking for me?

“The itsy bitsy spider,” I whisper against her ear, sliding in and out of her cunt. “Climbed up the waterspout.” My tone is surprisingly good, considering. Maybe it’s the fact I’m distracted by my body pressed against hers, or the way her pussy clutches at my cock as I keep thrusting, her breaths gasping out of her in both fear and pleasure. “Down came the rain,” I say slowly, biting my lip and groaning as I get deeper into her depths. “And washed… the spider… out.”

Please choose me. Nobody ever chooses me.

“Please,” I beg. “Accept my v-version of love. Pl-ease. I love you, Ol-l-l—”