Page 78 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
“You’re crazy,” I said, my voice shaky.
“Am I?” he said in a mocking tone.
“Because I left the house. That’s why you’re doing this. You’re punishing me.”
A rush of air and then he was on me, pushing me up against the wall. His hands were around my wrists, pinning my arms to the cold wall. His breath was against my temple, harsh and heavy. “Punishing you,” he repeated slowly. “Is that what it feels like when I touch you?”
“No, I—” God, I hadn’t meant it like that, but it was. It was how I felt—punished and cherished all at once. “I didn’t mean—”
“I’ve taken it easy on you,” he murmured.
That was easy? I imagined him moving me, invading me, surrounding me. It had been overwhelming, so much more than I had ever thought sex could be. Not simply a kiss. Not merely intercourse. He had become my breath in those hours. He had owned me.
His zipper echoed loudly in the dark cavern. Then his hand fisted in my hair. He cocked my head to the side, and I waited, staring into the darkness, panting in fear and illicit arousal. We were under a church!
He patted my cheek, and I flinched—it wasn’t a slap, not really, but it was harder than a caress. Something in between, somehow both tender and harsh. That was Philip, a contradiction.
Then the hand in my hair tugged me down, and I sank to my knees. They landed on rough pebbles, and I cried out softly. He didn’t let up, instead guiding my mouth to his cock.
It came to me in a burst of salt flavor, in the velvet silk of his skin.
I couldn’t see. I could only taste and smell and feel, the sensations so much stronger because of it.
I sucked him as if I could apologize—for saying that being with him was a punishment, for breaking free of his bonds to come here, for pulling away and for wanting him all at once, using every ounce of skill I didn’t have. He tasted of salt and of the earthy dust swirling around us. He tasted of man and danger, and I pulsed with a primal desire to please.
“Take me,” he murmured. “Oh fuck, take me deep, kitten. I need to feel your throat.”
And then I didn’t have a choice. He pushed deeper, until the head of his cock pressed against the soft flesh at the back of my mouth. I gagged once, and he pulled back—only to push forward again. I sucked in a breath, and then he was there again, pressing into my throat. It was all I could do to breathe and swallow, the muscles of my throat clenching around him until he groaned.
He kept his cock in my mouth, my throat until I fought him—pressing his thighs with my hands, pushing him away, yanking my head back in a desperate panic. Only then did he let me go, and I sucked in air, my eyes watering. This was like the panic I felt sometimes, unable to breathe or think…but also completely different, because this didn’t come from inside me. It came from him. And this wasn’t a weakness, a helpless response to some ancient trigger. This was strength.
“That’s right,” he muttered. “You’re so good for me. You feel so fucking good. Put your hands behind your back now. Hold your wrist for me.”
I did it, taking one wrist in my hand, feeling the cold wall against my back where I knelt on the floor. The muscles in my arms protested the position; my knees ached from the floor. My throat was already sore, and he’d only been there a few seconds each time. My whole body hurt, but the place it hurt the most was between my legs, covered by panties and jeans, protected by my closed thighs. It hurt there, deep inside me, an ache that wouldn’t be filled.
And he wouldn’t fuck me; that was the punishment. Not making me suck his cock, not forcing it deep. Refusing to fuck my sex, where I clenched around nothing—that was the pain.
I made a low sound, a moan, despairing, and his cock flexed in my mouth.
“Fuck yes,” he murmured. “You’re getting it now. All those times you let me fuck you, let me come in your pretty little cunt without a condom. Because you thought you could change me. You thought you could fix me, didn’t you?”
I shook my head, mouth still full of his cock.
“Yes, you did,” he said, low and sure. “With your sociology bullshit, your textbooks, your studies. Like you can figure me out with a fucking statistic, solve me like a puzzle. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, kitten?”
And it was the worst possible thing, what he was saying—this was the true punishment. Not his cock in my mouth or the ache between my thighs, it was those words raining down on my head, and I was unable to deny them.
Because he was right. I wanted to figure him out, not just the men in ill-fitting suits and shiny bald heads, grown-up frat boys. Why had they seemed so innocent out in society when they were really monsters?
Except that wasn’t the hard question to answer, not really. Because they were acting in their own selfish interests, contorting themselves so that people would trust them—and then taking advantage when they could. But Philip…
God, Philip.
He presented himself as a monster. He wanted people to be scared of him. Except when he’d had me in his study, my body bared to him, he hadn’t taken advantage. Because I was a broken little girl, he’d said—except why should he care? Shelly was beautiful, more beautiful and glamorous and knowledgeable than I would ever be. But I saw in Philip’s eyes that day a lust that went deeper than beauty and glamour, that longed to take me as I was.
Even the broken little girl had recognized it that day.
And then, without knowing it, I’d constructed my entire life to find my way back to him—never dating or getting close to a boy, never having sex or even a kiss. I was always prepared for this moment, to find him again, to be able to fix him, even knowing that was impossible. And the most shocking part of finding him outside my door t
