Page 49 of Filthy Beautiful

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I didn’t see him again until just a few days ago, when I moved into my brother’s house. But I thought about him.

Every fucking day.

I thought about that night. And everything he did and said to me.

It was mean, gross… and grotesquely intriguing. I couldn’t stop thinking about it… and not because it upset me.

Nope.

I’d accepted the uncomfortable truth long ago—that it totally turned me on. Every time I touched myself, I thought about the look on his face when he’d said those words to me.

Should I fuck that mouth of yours…?

The way his eyelids got heavy and his eyes softened, burning into me.

… or should I bend you over the seat?

Just fucking once, he’d really looked at me.

Don’t try to bite off more than you can chew, sweetheart.

I could still remember everything about the way he looked, the way he breathed, when he squeezed his dick in front of me.

You might choke.

When I thought about it now, I slid my hand between my legs. I knew it was an empty threat. He wasn’t going to do anything.

He didn’t really want me.

But…

I imagined his dick in my mouth. I imagined his hands on my body. I thought of that look in his eyes. I touched myself, and I pictured him, looking at me that way he did.

I couldn’t even help it.

I just had to get off, so the ache would go away.

But it never really did.

* * *

Afterward, I found tears on my cheeks. I was a panting, sweaty mess, and I’d made myself come three times.

I’d told Xander I was fine, and I was.

More or less.

The whole truth was I didn’t even know what to feel. I felt too many things, and somehow… not enough.

I wanted to feel less about Xander.

Way fucking less.

I wanted to feel more about Joseph Fetterman. About his death.

But I didn’t feel any of the right things.

I never had.

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