Page 66 of Wicked Vile King
The air fills with slurping sounds and the hiss of his breath between his teeth.
Faster.
And faster.
Harder.
And harder.
"Fuck yes," he says with a groan, jerking into my mouth, his fingers twined into my hair. "Show me how much you love my cock, pet."
He rams his dick down my throat over and over again, until finally he stills, both hands on my head, shooting his release down my throat. It tastes like salt, and there's something so powerful about it, that even barely breathing, I feel the knotted heat in my belly clench in satisfaction.
He jerks once more before his dick falls from my mouth and he looks down at me.
"Such a good pet, pretty girl."
All of me glows beneath his praise, but beneath that glow, deep down in the center of me, is a southern girl raised on good manners and sweet tea, who wonders what went so wrong to bring me to him.
18
WILLOW
Friday arrives quickly, without fights, lockdowns, or scuffles with the guards. Everything is quiet, normal even. Well, as normal as it can be given I'm in a mental institution and Saint expects me to follow him around like I'm his own personal lapdog.
I eat with him, go to class with him, let him trace my scars, and see him from the time I enter the dining hall each morning to when I head back to my room for roll call each night. In exchange, he protects me. No one bothers me, not the brutes with more brawn than brains or the butcher I have yet to meet.
Saint Laurier satiates the craving, the one deep inside of me, drilling down to the marrow of my bones and demanding comfort and safety, all I have ever wanted for so long. He may be scary—downright terrifying even—but he keeps my nightmares at bay, and for now, I tell myself it's enough.
After our last class of the day, I am packing up my things as Saint gathers his belongings at the desk next to mine, when a guard walks into the room.
"Cadelle?" she calls to the room.
"Yes," I answer.
"Come with me," she orders. "You have a call."
I look at Saint, but he just looks mildly interested and gives me a singular nod.
I hike my book bag over my shoulder and follow the guard.
She leads me across the hall and down the stairs to the first floor, her radio crackling now and again with announcements from other guards. We walk to a small room across from the Administrative office that holds a row of old phones built into the wall, the stations separated by thick plastic dividers.
She plucks the first phone from the wall and hands it to me. I accept the phone as I feel Saint arrive behind me.
"Hello?" I say.
"Willow," my father replies on the other end of the line, "you didn't answer your cell phone."
"I have to leave it in my room," I tell him. "I'm not done with classes yet today."
He breathes in sharply through his nose, annoyed.
"Your doctor said you missed your last therapy session," he continues, barreling forward, not acknowledging my excuse. "Why?"
"I was sick," I answer.
He inhales through his nose again like a bull preparing to charge.
