Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I don’t know if it’s the room shaking or me when the eruption begins low within my stomach, spreading like fallout from a nuclear bomb. I’m screaming and crying, clawing at his back, tearing his skin.
This only urges him to thrust harder. Faster.
I want to hurt him. Mark him. I want his flesh under my nails and blood running down his back. I need to scar him. Remind him of me and this and us for as long as he lives.
Nothing outside the sound of the slapping of his skin against mine or the way he moans my name matters. Not now. Not while his lips are on my skin and he’s deep inside my body.
The orgasm is so hard and rough and painful that I’m crying. Genuine tears are rolling down my face as Smoke’s pace quickens and he slams into me. The thickening of his cock inside me causes another wave of pleasure crashing into this one like two hurricanes meeting in the ocean.
“Smoke!” I cry out.
“God damn this fucking tight pussy of yours,” Smoke rasps sounding turned on and pissed off. “Open your fucking eyes,” he demands.
His voice is a distant echo in my lust-riddled mind, but I hear him, and it calls me back. And because I’m all out of challenge when it comes to my body and Smoke’s control over it.
I do as I’m told and open my fucking eyes.
Smoke holds my face, dropping his forehead to mine. He keeps his eyes on mine. His thrusts become wild. We breathe each other’s air as Smoke’s hips pound against mine over and over again.
It’s rough and hard and everything I never knew I wanted it to be.
“Frankie. Oh Fuck. Frankie!” Smoke cries out. His muscles tensing, his cock twitching before releasing everything he has inside me. Warm spurts fill me, coating my insides, dripping out onto my thighs.
I’m still convulsing around him, tightening my internal grip like a vise until he sags against me. We’re both panting for air. Smoke wraps an arm around me as he catches his breath.
My brain is muddled. I’m high on lust and Smoke.
“You were right,” I say, unspilled tears in my eyes. I stare up at the ceiling.
Smoke answers wordlessly by gripping me tighter.
I lower my voice to a whisper. “You broke me.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I wake up alone. Immediately, I feel three things.
Rejection, dread, and an aching soreness between my legs.
I throw on one of Smoke’s t-shirts and my Converse, and when I’m sure Smoke isn’t in the house, I go search outside.
I’m worried about him. The thought is laughable, but it’s true nonetheless.
At first, I don’t see anything until I spot a light in the far end of the yard up by the main prison. I walk toward it, and I find Smoke, staring down at the ground. He doesn’t look up as I approach.
My eyes follow to where Smoke’s staring blankly down at two large stones atop an overgrown mound of dirt on the otherwise flat land.
Those aren’t rocks.
They’re headstones.
“You can ask,” Smoke says, reading my mind.
I think for a second it could be a trap of some sort, but I ask anyway. My curiosity getting the better of me. “Who is buried here?”
“My parents.”
“Who…who buried them here?” I ask, dreading the answer.
He looks up slowly. Our eyes meet.
“I did.”
“My parents were really young. Too fucking young. Teenagers. Runaways. They were both stuck in the cycle of partying and drugs when I came along. We’d move around from couch to garage to abandoned building. We were homeless, for the most part. They were good parents when they weren’t fucked up. From what I can remember, anyway.”
“What happened to them?” I ask. I can’t help myself. I feel for him. I reach out and place my hand on his arm.
He looks at our connection then up to my face like he’s deciding if he’ll approve of my touch. He nods and I leave my hand where it is.
“They always went to this house. It was one of the old outbuildings around the prison. I went to there to search for them after I woke up in a prison cell all alone. They weren’t there. No one was. I hated that house. Hated what the things in there were doing to them. So I crawled on my hands and knees under the crawlspace. I cut the gas line and pushed it up into the main water pipe and lit a match. I almost didn't make it back out, my pants snagged on a nail and I had to tear away the fabric to get free. The force from the blast sent me sailing into a tree. I dislocated my shoulder. Broke my arm. But I barely felt the pain. All I felt walking back to the prison cell was happiness. But then they never came back.”