Page 89 of Devils' Day Party
Lifting my gaze up, I can see his reflection, one brown eye and one blue studying me in the glass. Sweat drips over his pecs, making the butterfly tattoo on his chest shiny in the moonlight.
We stare at each other through our reflections as Barron buries his cock deep inside of me, making my toes curl inside my shoes. I end up dropping one hand between my legs to rub at my aching clit, and my body clamps down around him, milking his body of its own accord. Biting my lower lip, I struggle to control my panting breath, leaving little clouds of fogged-up glass in my wake.
My knees begin to buckle from the rush of pleasure, but Barron doesn't let up. He fucks me harder and faster, grabbing hold of my hair and pulling my head back so he can keep looking at my reflection. The way his eyes roll up to the ceiling when he comes nearly undoes me, watching him shudder and pump into me, spilling every last drop of seed he has.
He lets us both fall to the floor then, covering me with his body and kissing his way back to my clit. Barron uses his mouth to bring me to another orgasm, his hands keeping my pelvis from bucking too wildly against his face.
Even after I come, Barron continues his assault of lips and tongue and teeth, until I'm shaking, my eyes shimmering with tears.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, stretching his body out alongside mine. “You taste too damn good.”
He runs a finger down my sweaty forehead as I bat his hand away, my body worn-out, but not entirely sure that I'm ready to call it quits. “I'll take it slower next time.”
Next time.
“If there is a next time, you won't know it,” I say with a sad smile. “Once I fall asleep, everything resets. I'll see you at the gas station, holding a bag of snacks and hating me, your sketchbook tucked under your arm.”
Barron chuckles, the sound warm and deep and low.
“Hate you? I never hated you. Perhaps, I judged you too harshly sometimes, but hate was never the name of the game. Karma, stop giving a fuck about the Knight Crew. That's all I ever wanted.”
I say nothing. He really is a bit too judgy, but then, nobody's perfect. Most definitely not me.
Barron's phone starts to vibrate, still lying on a pew near the front of the room. He ignores it, stroking that single finger down my forehead and nose as I stare up at him, marveling at the beauty of our locale, and the way my tired body feels sated and well-taken care of. When the phone vibrates for the third time, he curses and moves to stand up.
“I'll be right back,” he says, but I just smile softly because I can already feel my lids drooping, because I know the video of me and Calix is out in the world, because I know our time is already coming to an end. “Holy shit.”
I hear the words come from him in genuine shock and horror, laying my head back against the stone floor and closing my eyes.
Heavy footsteps follow Barron as he moves over to stand beside me. When I open my eyes, he crouches down to look at me.
“What?” I ask, trying to pretend like my heart isn’t beating a million miles an hour. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“Pearl Boehringer killed herself,” he tells me, and my eyes widen. Holy shit. Again?! Even when I take different paths, Pearl's seems to remain relatively the same. Guilt curdles in my stomach, but I swallow back the nervous lump in my throat. Tomorrow, it won't matter, right? Because everything will go back to the way it was. “That … and there's something else.”
“I don't want to talk about it,” I say, sitting up suddenly and looking him straight in the face. “Whatever bad news there is, it can wait until tomorrow, can't it?”
Barron's mouth flattens into a thin line, but, to my surprise, he nods, tucking his phone in the back pocket of his ruined leather pants. There are … love juices, so to speak, all over the front of them. His and mine both.
“Do you want to see my art studio?” I ask, feeling breathless suddenly, desperate to keep this night going, if only for a short while. The surprise reflected back on his features is second only to the sudden look of triumph and pleasure on his face.
Barron wants me to want him.
“I would love to see your art studio,” he says, his mouth curving into a vicious smile. A small spark of fear ricochets through me as I remember his signature personality trait: light and shadows. Nothing Barron ever does is white or black; he's all shades of gray. Instead of disappearing out the door and leaving me alone and naked in the chapel—something I wouldn't have put past him before—he retrieves my dress and helps me pull it over my head, tightening the laces as I struggle to pretend that his presence is having no further effect on me.
