There’s something about his hands—the same hands that hurt me—touching me and pleasing me that’s more rewarding than being touched in any way by any other man.
He hoists my leg over his hip—opening me up. The movement causes me to shiver in anticipation when the cool air tickles the inferno between my thighs. My mouth is parted, my eyes are closed and I can feel his lips closing in on mine. When they touch, something ignites inside me and I can’t hold back.
I struggle to free my hand that is trapped between our bodies, but he doesn’t allow it. I want to grab the back of his head and force him to kiss me harder. I want my hands free so I can roll him to his back and straddle his waist. But I can’t. I’m forced to lie here, completely immobile, and move at the pace he sets.
Torturously slow, he simultaneously slides his tongue between one set of lips and his finger between the other. He kisses me with a soft, lazy passion a man as large as him shouldn’t be capable of. I can taste a hint of whiskey on his breath and it’s so heady, my head swims.
His long, thick finger pumps slowly inside me. On each thrust, his palm roughly massages my lower cheeks—mixing the sensation of both pleasure and pain into a delicious, orgasm-building concoction.
He’s the only man that’s ever brought me to orgasm by simply fingering me. But then again, he doesn’t have your average-sized hands. Every time he pushes inside me, I feel him graze that sweet spot he seems to find every time he touches me. Then I get the twist of pain, all while he makes love to my mouth—kissing me as if we’re intimate lovers.
The slow build is infuriating, yet I don’t want to ever hit my peak. I want to continue to feel what I’m feeling for as long as I possibly can, even though the anticipation of what it will be like is killing me. I choose to not overthink the moment and just let the tsunami of emotions crash through me. I feel the full impact of them all—pleasure, pain, sadness, anger, guilt, shame, peace…
Then it happens. My whole body clenches with each wave of ecstasy that pulses through me. He doesn’t move faster, or thrust harder—he keeps his pace, milking every last ounce of each sensation from me. It’s euphoric, liberating and completely consuming. I can feel it in every fiber of my being.
Pulling his lips from mine, Bryce looks down at me. His green eyes are smoldering—burning with an intensity I’ve never experienced from him before. But as always, the fog fades and I’m no longer the weak, vulnerable girl who needs him. I’m just Delilah.
“I need a cigarette.” My confession shatters the moment and his eyes soften as he gives me a lazy smile. I feel like I can breathe a little easier now that the connection isn’t so powerful.
He doesn’t speak as he unfolds my leg from around him and stands. Grabbing my pack of smokes from the dresser, he lights one and ambles back over—a little too cocky for a guy who didn’t even get off.
“Glad to see you in a better mood,” he says, all throaty and sexy like as he hands me the cigarette. I smile up at him, stretching and rolling to my back before taking my first drag. It’s perfect.
“Why were you trying to cut yourself?” I cut my eyes at him, surprised by his question. He looks back at me from his seated position on the edge of the bed. He’s expecting an answer, and to be honest, he’s more than deserving of one—even if I don’t want to give it to him.
“It was stupid.” I shrug, focusing on the swirl of smoke above me.
“That’s not good enough.”
I take a couple more long drags, hoping the nicotine will give me the courage to say something that will pacify him. “I’m not really sure myself. I just know the pain makes me feel better.”
“You do that often?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ve tried it before but it never works. I end up causing myself more pain, which leads to even more self-loathing.”
He sits silent, waiting patiently for me to continue. I’m not ready to tell him everything. I’m not sure if I ever will be. But he wants more and talking to him isn’t as uncomfortable as I thought it would be.
“I’ve always had this…need for something,” I start, trying to understand it myself as I attempt to explain it to him. “It’s like a hunger. But even though I eat, I’m never fully satisfied. I haven’t lost it like this in a really long time. I think it just finally caught up to me.”
“So if cutting don’t work, what does?” In hopes of distracting him, I smirk.
“Having an officer of the Devil’s Renegades spank me. That seems to do the trick.” He’s not amused. There’s not even a hint of a smile on his face. Frowning, I let out a breath. “I deal with it, okay?”
He pauses for a minute, narrowing his eyes on me as if he’s trying to read my mind. Good luck with that. “Okay.” What? Can it really be that easy? “But I need you to make me a promise.” Well, that’s a loaded request. It could mean anything. I knew this wasn’t gonna be that easy. Hoping he’ll drop it, I nod my head in agreement.
“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself anymore. If it gets to be too much, you’ll call me.”
“That’s two promises,” I quip, but the joke is on me. He’s very serious. And he wants my word. So I give it to him. But it doesn’t count. Unbeknownst to him, I’m crossing my toes. Surely that excuses me of the lie. And if it doesn’t…well, he can just spank me again.
CHAPTER 14
I wasn’t sure why Bryce left in such a hurry. I was actually a little wounded that he didn’t try to fuck me while I was lying there all vulnerable and half naked. I mean, he could’ve had it. All he had to do was ask. But he didn’t. I gave him my toe-crossing promise, he gave me a smile, then left.
That was two days ago.
Now it’s Sunday and I have shit to do. Just like I’ve done for the past two years, I head toward Baton Rouge. I’m not sure what to expect. This will be the first time I’ve visited without that heaviness in my chest. Well, the first time since Mario left…died…whatever. Anyway, this time I’m hoping to have a decent, normal time with my family. Test the waters and shit… Who knows? We may even hug or play Scrabble. It’s possible.
When I arrive, I’m not surprised to find a yellow notice taped to the door warning that the power will be turned off tomorrow if the past due balance isn’t paid. I yank it free, knock twice, announce myself and receive the usual greeting from my mother—screaming at me to come in and asking why the fuck I always knock.
“Hello, family.” I’m smiling as I walk in. Even the filthiness of the kitchen and the stench of week-old garbage doesn’t get me down. My optimism about today is unwavering.
“What the hell you so happy about?” my mother asks. The question sends her into a coughing fit and I wait patiently for her to die or regain her breath before speaking.
“Nothing, really.” I shrug, joining her in the living room and taking a seat. “How’s your week been?”
“Shitty. Same as last week,” she mumbles, snatching the notice from my fingers.
“I found that on the door.”
“People these days have no sympathy for the disabled.”
“But you’re not disabled, Mama. You could work, you just don’t want to.”
Ever heard of putting your foot in your mouth? Well, if you Google it you’ll find my name in the description of the phrase. Even in a cheery mood, I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut.
“You sassy little bitch. Why you think you better than me? What the fuck do you do for a livin’, huh?”
“She’s a prostitute, Mama.” My brother opens his eyes to look at me. His evil smile tells me he’s hoping to wound me. Unlucky for him, I don’t feel like being wounded today.
“I’m not a prostitute. I’m a bartender.”
“Same shit,” he says with a shrug. Dumbass.
“Whatever.” I turn to my mother, plastering a smile on my face that for once is genuine. “Hey, I was thinking of going out shopping today. I thought maybe me and you could get some lunch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Delilah.” She looks over the top of her reading glasses at me. “Dr. Phil’s coming on in a minute.”
My smile falters a little, but I force myself to remain positive and try another tactic. “How about after Dr. Phil?”
She heaves out a breath and looks at me annoyed. “What the hell’s the matter with you, huh?” My brow creases in confusion as I shake my head. “Are you on drugs?”
“No, Mama. I just thought it’d be nice to get out of the house a little while.”
“Well,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “That’s what you get for thinkin’. Why don’t you think your ass in there and make me some coffee.”
Like the obedient child I am, I do as I’m told. While it’s brewing, I start my routine of uncluttering the kitchen sink. By the time it’s empty, the coffee is finished and I pause my cleaning to bring her a cup.
“When you mop the floors, don’t put that waxy shit on them again. I nearly fell twice last week. And don’t use bleach either. Your brother don’t like the way it smells. Use that pine stuff.” I stand beside her, next to the table filled with a week’s worth of cigarette butts, glasses and empty food wrappers—feeling just as disposed of as everything else she’s used and thrown to the side.