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I refuse to be another person who disappoints him. Or maybe it’s because, deep down, part of me still hopes I can love him to recovery. That if I don’t give up on him, he won’t give up on life. On himself. I’m wrong, of course. So unbelievably fucking wrong. Some people just don’t want to be saved.
The sudden urge to push her against a wall and ruin both of our lives hits me like a brick, and if I weren’t already seated, the force would certainly double me over.
“You’re hardly in a position to be negotiating,” he says, voice thick. “Should I get on my knees then?” His free hand finds the button of my jeans, pushing it through the loop. Hooking a thumb in the waist, he gives a small shake of his head. “I’d much rather be on mine.”
“All night, I’ve imagined how you’d taste, little thief.” Another lick and the flat of his thumb follows. “Imagined what this view would look like. How it’d feel to worship a deviant.” I shudder. “And?” Teeth nick my clit again, causing me to cry out. “Fucking divine.” As he finishes his sentence, his tongue spears inside me.
I’m not used to being affected by anyone so viscerally, but I suppose that’s what love is—soul-deep and catastrophic. The kind of thing that has the power to effectively ruin you, but that you trust isn’t going to.
