“Sara…” I can barely speak as she cradles my balls in her soft palm and wraps her other hand around my shaft. Leaning in, she licks it delicately from root to tip, sending heat rocketing up and down my spine. My balls draw up high and tight, and I know I’m seconds away from coming. Dragging in a breath, I try to think of something else, something to delay the explosive rise of tension, but she wraps her lips around me, taking me into her soft, wet mouth, and I lose all semblance of control.
Groaning, I clutch her head, tangling my fingers in her hair as I thrust all the way in, making her gag and choke as I hit her throat. It’s not what I wanted, not what I meant to do tonight, but the lust riding me is too violent, too potent to resist. On her knees, with her chestnut waves streaming over her slender back and her eyes watering as I f*ck her face, Sara is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. And knowing she’s there of her own accord…
“f*ck!” The expletive bursts out of me as her hand tightens on my balls, and the orgasm boils up, the pleasure spiking out of control. My muscles clench, my spine curving as ecstasy pounds through my veins, and with a hoarse shout, I come, my seed jetting straight into her throat.
She swallows every drop, sucking on my cock until it softens, and all the while, her hazel eyes stare into mine. It’s like she’s drinking in my pleasure, feeding on my need for her. It reminds me of the time I punished her, only tonight I don’t see the same dazed submission in her gaze. She’s doing this because she wants to, not because I broke her, and when the last of the rippling pleasure fades, I pull her to her feet and lead her to our bed, determined to make it right.
“Lie down,” I tell her, guiding her onto the bed, and she obeys, stretching out on her back. Her gaze is shadowed, her lids half-lowered as she watches me climb over her, and I know she’s still in the grip of whatever’s been driving her tonight.
The puzzle of it gnaws at me, but now is not the time to pursue it. I’m still breathing heavily with the aftershocks of pleasure, but I want more. I want to taste her as she comes, feel her slender arms wrap around me. More than a sexual need, it’s a compulsion.
With Sara, I can never get enough.
So I indulge myself. With my most urgent hunger sated, I take my time playing with her body, kissing and caressing every centimeter of her warm, sweet-scented flesh. She’s delicious, my Sara, her pale skin smooth and sleek, her delicate curves soft yet firm to the touch. Her moans, her breathy little gasps, her whimpers as I lick her—I’d give the world to stay like this forever, to keep hearing her cries as she unravels on my tongue.
Two orgasms, three, then four… I lose count after a while, consumed by her, addicted to her pleasure. I bring her to completion with my fingers and my mouth, and then take her gently, cognizant of her pre-period discomfort. She doesn’t object, clinging to me as I rock carefully back and forth, and after I come, I go down on her once more, tasting our combined wetness as I suck her clit. Her fingers clenching in my hair, her panting breaths and pleading groans—it’s like a drug I overdose on, binging on her scent and taste and feel. And when she’s lying there spent, glowing and exhausted, I take her in my arms, feeling her heart beat against mine as we fall asleep.
25
Sara
* * *
I wake up to a peculiar mixture of wellbeing and malaise, and it takes a solid minute to recall why.
Peter.
He left for Nigeria this morning after making love to me all night.
It feels surreal now, like a dream I’m waking up from. I can’t believe I came on to him like that, and then what followed… Groaning, I roll over onto my side and swing my legs off the bed. My stomach is cramping in full force, and when I get to the bathroom, I’m not surprised to discover that my period is starting. What does shock me is that we again forgot condoms last night, and no alarm bells rang in my mind.
It’s like I subconsciously want to get pregnant.
No. I shove away the horrifying thought. I definitely do not want a child like this. I just wasn’t thinking clearly last night. After listening to the men talk about the dangers they’ll face, I was so sick with worry, and so desperate to distract myself, I all but attacked Peter, seducing him despite how shitty I was feeling. I’m pretty sure he would’ve left me alone last night—he’s always considerate when I feel ill—but I needed a distraction, and that’s precisely what I got. By my second orgasm, I forgot all about Nigeria and not feeling well, and by the fourth, I could barely recall my own name.
I’m in desperate need of a shower, so I ignore the twisting discomfort in my stomach and step into the stall to wash from head to toe. Then I towel off, brush my teeth, and trudge back into the bedroom to get dressed. To my surprise, I discover a glass of water and Advil on the dresser—Peter must’ve left them there for me this morning.
Feeling pathetically grateful, I swallow the medicine and lie down, waiting for the worst of the discomfort to pass. It’s stupid, but I already miss my captor… miss his attentiveness and care. I know it’s just because I’m feeling low, but I want him here to rub my belly, to hold me and make me feel like I’m the center of his world.
I want him here and not halfway around the world, where bullets fly and bombs explode.
No. No, no, no. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late. The anxiety I thought I banished returns with a toxic blast, the panic tightening my chest and throat. It’s stupid, utterly irrational, but I don’t want to see my tormentor dead. I can’t even imagine it. His impact on my life is so absolute, so all-encompassing, I can’t picture it without him.
I don’t want to picture it.
My chest squeezes even tighter, and I focus on my breathing, trying to relax my tense muscles and slow my wildly beating pulse. I tell myself that Peter will be fine, that he can handle whatever comes his way. Danger is his comfort zone, assassinations his chosen profession. There’s no reason to think that something will go wrong, no reason to imagine he will not return.
Except he got hurt on that Mexico job.
No. Breathing deeply, I force away the insidious reminder. It’s stupid to worry just because of a one-time slip. Over the years, Peter has done plenty of dangerous jobs without getting hurt.
In fact, he killed my husband and his three guards without getting so much as a scratch.
My stomach roils, worsening my cramps, and my throat fills with bile at the recollection. How could I have let myself forget, even for an instant, what kind of man Peter is and what he’s done? Up here on this mountain, my old life may seem less real, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.
It doesn’t mean the husband I loved did not exist.