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“She’s like… the way it feels when you visit the ocean for the first time. Or…” I hesitated, considering. “Like the moment you see the light behind a person’s eyes go out, and you know it was at your hand,” The corner of my mouth lifted of its own accord.
Beck feeds the depraved parts of me all the wicked things they’ve never eaten before.
Beck. Like you’re actually going to find her stuck in a dryer somewhere.”
God, I just knew she’d look so fucking pretty on her knees for me, my hand twisted in that gorgeous black hair.
She was mine. Mine to kiss. Mine to taste. Mine to touch. Mine to fuck, in every way imaginable. And I was about to show her just that.
“I was just keeping it wet for you. Like you asked,” she smirked.
If I’m yours, I’m yours to do whatever you want with.”
"There are no other girls, cuore mio. Just you. And I want to get it right for you. I want to fuck you in every way possible. Your mouth. Your pussy. Your tits. Your ass.” Her breathing hitched at the last one and I made a mental note
"Mmm," he growled. "I could do this all night. Watch you fall apart over and over."
“So good for me, cuore mio,” he crooned. “Such a good fucking girl.”
He gathered what had leaked out on two fingers and shoved it back inside me. “So fucking pretty,” he muttered.
He kissed my forehead, our sweat-slick bodies fitting together like two pieces of a fucked-up jigsaw puzzle and my mind was quiet.
His eyes were glued to the pages of a book, so lost in it that he hadn't noticed I’d woken up. My book. My smutty WHY CHOOSE novella.
Thank god he didn’t find the potato shifter book I’d stuffed down into the bottom of my bag.
guess I just really like the idea of being so loved and cared for that three whole humans would make me the center of their attention like that.”
I went into great detail about how third act breakups were the bane of my existence, and how miscommunication in books should be illegal. By the time I stopped talking, Beck was looking at me with apparent affection.
Justin fucking Carson.
I wanted all the pieces of her fucked-up soul threaded into my very existence. I wanted what was left of mine threaded into hers.
I found the baseball bat outside the door. I’ve already named him François. I’m keeping him as a souvenir.”
I’d dreamed of having a love like this for most of my life — having someone so utterly obsessed with me. I’d worried the way he treated me would fade with time, but almost a year into our new life together and he was still just as enamored with me as I had always been with him.
