Page 61 of Devils' Day Party
“Oh, that's even better,” Raz hisses, reaching around to cup one of my breasts and kneading the small pert mound with assertive, ambitious fingers. His touch is just this side of cruel as he tweaks my nipple, and I cry out. “You know, when you asked to be a part of the Knight Crew, I just about lost my shit. I was going to show you everything that you've been missing.”
I'm not entirely sure what Raz means with that statement, but it doesn't matter. My body is greedy, aching, and all I can think is: what's the timeline on this? At what point does my day stop—regardless of sleep or unconscious spells or deaths—and I wake up at the gas station again?
I'm not ready for this day to be over just yet.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I whisper as Raz moves his cock to my opening, hesitating briefly there and making me curse myself for asking a question like that in a time like this.
Instead of answering me, Raz thrusts in, balls-deep, a long, low groan of relief escaping him in a rush.
“Why are you so wet for me, Karma?” he asks, and I notice that he doesn't call me Trailer Park while he's fucking me. I'm glad. I'm not sure that I'd let him touch me if he kept calling me that. “If you hate me so much?”
It's my turn to ignore the questions, pushing my hips back against Raz's hot pelvis. He grabs onto me with one hand, holding me tight, fingers a punishing pressure against my overheated flesh. With the other, he grabs the long, purple strands of my hair, rubbing them between his fingertips before giving my hair a hard yank.
My cry is a mingled sound of pleasure and pain as he moves inside of me, working up fervid friction between us. The pain in my scalp turns into delicious pleasure, and I realize that I may very well have some masochistic tendencies.
When the water goes cold, Raz and I move to the twin bed downstairs. It's in the corner of a sitting room with a whole wall of shelves filled with German-themed knickknacks. It seems like a weird place for a bed, but since this is an Airbnb and guests always seem to want more beds, my aunt put one in this little nook.
It's a cozy place to spend some time naked—even if that time is with Theodore Rasmus Loveren aka Raz. His nude body is all the hell over me, thrusting between my thighs, our fingers tangled together, his mouth claiming mine.
He's a strangely skilled and possessive sort of lover, leaving me in a panting sprawl beside him, the sheets a mess of our mingled juices as Raz cracks the window next to the bed and lights up a joint he dug out of his pants pocket. He exhales smoke out the window before turning back and passing the joint my direction. I’m surprised he was even able to light it, considering how wet it was.
Our fingers brush, sending an electric tingle through me as I sit up, tugging one of my aunt's quilts over my body to hide it from Raz's view. Him looking at me now is nothing like being naked when we're both sweaty and swept away by hormones. I feel our old dynamic locking into place between us like an iron gate and open my lips, desperate to break old habits.
“It's like nine o'clock,” Raz says, before I get a chance. “We could head back to the party.” He reaches up and, for the first time since we got here, pushes his mask up his face to sit in his still-wet dirty blonde hair. “Sonja is blowing up my fucking phone.”
“We could head back to the party,” I suggest, biting my lower lip and looking down at my fingers twined together on the blanket. This might be business as usual for Raz, but this is only my third time having sex. It’s all still new to me, and I’m struggling a bit. “Or we could stay here.” I pull in a drag on the joint and pass it back, being careful to keep my fingers to myself this time.
“You want to stay here?” Raz asks, clarifying as he turns to look at me, his red eyes catching a bit of silver moonlight and shining like the eyes of a demon. I move my own mask up my face to sit in my tangled hair. “With me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I'll make new coffee,” I blurt, taking the quilt with me as I stand up and pad into the kitchen. Oddly enough, he follows me, still smoking the joint, still naked as the day he was born. He doesn't seem to give a shit, yanking out a chair from the table and folding himself into it with every bit of arrogance and self-aggrandizing privilege as usual.
