Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
But before I do, I reach one hand around and slip my fingers between us, finding her clit and circling it softly. She gasps, and I feel her walls quiver around me as she comes.
I brush my lips against her neck, sending trails of tingling sensation down her spine as I continue to thrust into her.
My breathing gets faster as I feel my climax approaching, and I grab onto her hips tightly as I plunge deeper and deeper into her, wanting to savor every moment. She cries out as her body convulses around mine.
My balls draw up and pump. I shout and grip her ass with both hands and then bury myself deep as I come. She tips her pelvis to take me deeper, rubbing her clit over my root until she comes, too. Her muscles squeeze my dick in quick pulses, and I come even harder, filling the condom.
I lean my forehead against hers, breathing with her, my dick pulsing and twitching inside her. Our mingled breaths slow. The water’s turning cold. I don’t want to ever pull out, but I do. I ease out and turn off the water, then step out of the shower to dispose of the condom. The water ran all over the floor because I opened the curtain, so I drop the hand towel down on it and wrap Hannah in the other one. She’s still leaning up against the tile looking dazed, so I help her out of the tub, supporting her in case her legs don’t work.
She points shakily at the cabinet, murmuring something unintelligible. I open it and find another towel, which I use to dry off.
“Wow,” she murmurs.
I turn to face her as I towel off my hair. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“So… Are you going to let me go now? Are we cool?”
I go still. Blink. The room swoops around me. I drop the towel on the floor. What the fuck is she saying?
A rushing sound starts up in my ears.
Did I just… rape a girl?
Did she think she had to do that for me to set her free?
“Is that what this was?” I choke, not even realizing I’m advancing on her. Not conscious of my hand caging her throat and pushing her back. “Is that why…is that...fuck!” I roar and punch the wall beside her. The plaster caves, and my knuckles go through it.
“Fuck.” I release her and turn away.
Did she just offer herself up to me in hopes I’ll set her free? What kind of monster am I?
I can’t even tell when a girl wants me or not. I’ve gotten so confused, stuck in the modes of violence and survival, I don’t even know what’s real.
I thought I could manage this situation with Hannah. Had some vague idea about how to keep her from getting hurt by me or the organization, and instead I did the most unforgivable thing.
I pick up my clothes from the floor and pull them on, my chest cracking open as Hannah opens the bathroom door and makes her escape from me.
I follow only because the steam in the bathroom’s making me dizzy, and I really fucking need to think.
I hear a stifled sob, and bombs explode in my chest, down my arms, in my gut. Hannah’s got her back to me at her dresser, trying to get her second foot in a pair of panties and missing. I should give her space. I definitely shouldn’t go to her.
But I do.
In a second, I have an arm banded around her waist to support her wobble, and I reach down to hold the waistband of the panties for her. I slide them up when she gets her leg in and just hold her from behind.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur against her hair.
Her chest shudders on a sob. She stands still for a moment, like she’s listening. “Sorry for what?” There’s a quietness to the question.
It’s some kind of test, but I don’t know what it means. Like there’s some answer I need to give that will make this all better. All I fucking know is the sound of her stuttered breath kills me.
Because all emotional intelligence I once had—if I ever had any—is long gone, I mutter, “Whatever made you cry.”
It’s the wrong answer. I know as soon as I say it. I know it even better when she squirms away from me, whirls and slaps my face. It’s a wimpy slap and half-misses me. It clearly didn’t give her the satisfaction she was going for because she curls her fingers into a fist and throws a punch instead.
I dodge it, catch her wrist and wrap her arm in front of her waist. With my other arm, I scoop under her knees and lift her into a baby-carry.
She gasps and struggles. “What are you doing?”
I don’t know what I’m doing—why I picked her up or what I’m going to do with her now. All I know is that I don’t like the chaos in my chest. In my head.