Page 42 of Fiery Little Thing
Why did I raid the kitchen to bring her food in case they starved her?
But she wants my brother instead?My father?
The second my eyes fall onto the bed, I see her long legs tangled within the sheets and her perky nipples poking through the thin fabric. The thought has my cock hardening and pressing against my zipper.
My pants still feel soaked through from the way she rode my thigh; it’s like the shape of her has been imprinted in my hand, and if I concentrate enough, I can still feel her warmth and hear the needy moans she made for me.
She can be sickened by me all she wants, hate every part of me that has turned me into who I am, but this isn’t over. Whatever reality she’s concocted where she ends up with anyone but me doesn’tmatter.
Unbuckling my pants, I take my cock in my hand as I stand over her unmade bed. The first stroke has me grunting with primal need. I want to mark every inch of Blaze’s space while imagining it’s her on her knees and wrapping her slender fingers around my girth.
Her pussy would be dripping as she takes me in her hands, wishing I was abusing it and making her come like she knows only I can. I bet she’d love what I’d feel like down her throat.
Blaze can tell me she hates me and wants nothing to do with me; the reality is that her body knows what it wants, and it wants me.
How often do her pupils have to blow out every time I stand close before she realizes that she’s been dreaming of getting my dick in her? The little minx was the one who pushed herself against my length when she was humping me.She’sthe one who bites her lip when she stares at my arms or looks at my hips for a beat too long.
My breathing comes out hard as I fist my cock, imagining her splayed out on the bed whimpering for me to fuck her. If she’s been with Kiervan, I’ll kill him then lock her up. I’ll tie her to the damn bed if that’s what it takes. I don’t care. There’s no hesitation about that. If she can’t hate me more than she already does, I can’t go any lower, right?
Does she think that I don’t fucking hate her too? If I could get over this, I would have years ago. None of the shit I’ve gone through would have even happened if not for her.
She’s lucky I’ve been as nice as I have after the stunt she pulled. Moaning my brother’s name? Admitting that she’d happily give herself over to him? I could have gotten her on my lap or finally felt what she’s so willing to give to anyone with drugs.
My grip tightens, and my movements become jerkier as I try toshove the image of her with someone else out of my head. The things I could do to that girl would make a nun have a heart attack. I’m not into exhibitionism, but maybe the next time Elijah thinks he can go near her, I’ll fuck her brains out right in front of him. Or perhaps I’ll keep her to myself, get her bent over a table and punish her for all the shit she’s done.
I can picture it; the way she’d scream when I slide into her and how she’d claw at the table and arch her back to take more, even though she’s at her limit. She’d scrape her long nails into the wood as her skirt bunches around her waist. I’d wind her long copper hair between my fingers and pull it back so I can feel her pulse hammer against my skin.
I pump my fist faster, delving into the fantasy as my balls tighten. Blaze would cry out her hatred for me at the same time she comes, and she’d do it all over again. Except she’d be up against a wall wishing I were dead as she kisses me with her legs around me.
Then she’d be curled on her side, taking every inch because she’ll love how it hits her just right, and then she’d come all over again, and the name that comes out of her mouth will be mine. There won’t be a single thought about any man in existence but me.
A feral, guttural sound slips from my throat as hot, white ropes of come shoot out, sending lightning zapping through my veins. The ribbons fall onto her sheets, drops spraying over her blankets and cheap cotton pillowcase.
I breathe heavily as I grab a pair of her panties from the top drawer. Using it to wipe my hands clean, I stare at the mess I’ve made over the place where she’ll be sleeping in twenty-four hours.
What’s that saying? She made her bed; she can lie in it.
This is nothing like the times I’ve woken up hungover, like I’ve been out partying with Dionysus for three working days. For one, there’s no nausea, and thank thegodsthere are no chills or muscle spasming.
I have a subtle, gnawing headache instead, and I feel like I ran fifty miles through the Arizona heat without pause. I think my heart might be missing a beat, but that may well be in my head. Apart from that, there’s something even more off-kilter with my equilibrium than usual that I can’t quite put my finger on.
Yesterday, I felt like death. Today, I feel like her counterpart: violence and loathing.
The soft drizzle of rain pebbles over my hair and the ugly orange umbrella I found in someone’s open locker. I’m not sure how long the good doctor thinks it will take for me tomiraculously be cured of my demons and become the picture-perfect image of an exemplary young woman who says her prayers, and considers what the bearded men upstairs will say about her actions when everything—every devilish impulse—is still alive and breathing.
Dr. Van der Merwe never gave me a ballpark figure. Placebo effect and all, I still don’t think that shit is going to work. Well, at least today isn’t the day for rebirth. Besides, I have a feeling there’s a long road to recovery ahead of me, with no expressway to get there.
At least I’m guessing the treatment hasn’t kicked in yet since I’m walking around school with a blowtorch in my backpack.
Mrs. Crichton from chemistry class writes down all the lock combinations in her diary. She’s practically begging for someone to break into the room where the school keeps all its potions and elixirs.
It’s truly marvelous that this school doesn’t add more safety measures for cupboards containing items that would make astunninginsurance claim.
There’s a little skip in my step as I move from class to class. Sure, the teachers look at me like I’ve gone crazy, and I keep feeling like someone is glaring laser beams into the side of my head, but this girl is on a deadline, and I am nothing if not an innocent princess going about her day.
And by deadline, I mean that on this rainy Thursday afternoon, right after track practice, my ass is going straight to my bedroom, where I’ll hole up, leave for dinner, and nothing else. I won’t even be leaving for any leisurely activities over the weekend.
Dr. Van der Merwe called it a probation period.
