Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 109096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
"Just a notification," Dove giggles. "I'll check it later."
This pisses me off. I want her to look at it now, so I leave another comment.
"Looks like one of those fans is pretty insistent," Raphael laughs. "You should reply, Dove."
"Oh, alright." I imagine her picking up her phone. The surprised expression on her face when she sees my comment. I imagine her fingers moving lightning fast across the screen to type back the reply.
I stare at my own comment as I wait.
Nice image. Is that you on the cover of this month's Void?
Her reply comes a moment later.
How did you know that? There are no photos of me on my profile.
I grin to myself, quickly typing another reply.
Let's just say I'm your secret admirer. I know lots of things.
Okay... Well, I'm glad my work has a fan.
I'm not a fan of your work, I reply. I'm a fan of you.
"Almost done?" Raphael cuts in, and I realize the three others have been sitting there in awkward silence waiting for Dove to finish up, which makes me grin even wider.
"Of course," Dove says hurriedly. I picture her pocketing the phone. "I'm sorry about that. Let's get back to our evening."
Yes, let's, I think to myself, smirking as I wait for the cat to leap out of the bag. This is getting fucking better by the goddamn second.
Chapter 13
Dove
I want to touch myself.
The desire to do that has been missing from my life for a long time. Being raised fairly traditionally, I could never get past the guilt that surrounded pleasuring my own body. And yet as I lie in bed this morning, I find myself yearning for pleasure only I can give myself.
Tentatively, my fingers find their way between my thighs, brushing against my overheated center. My teeth dig into my bottom lip. It's been a long time since I've had an orgasm, and the urge to bring myself closer and closer is overwhelming. Closing my eyes tightly so I can pretend it's someone else doing this to me, I start massaging my clit and getting myself to the edge.
But just like every other time I've done this, the same thing happens. Parker appears in my mind, his darkly handsome face twisted into a painful grimace. I can't help it. My obsession with the fucker is unrelenting, even eight years after he carved my face. I wish I wasn't so obsessed with the man who ruined my life. But the fact that his body was never found makes me think he's still around somewhere. Watching me. I can't get rid of the feeling, and it only makes me more excited as I breathe out a moan, my fingers trembling over my exposed wetness.
I'm getting closer, my fingers working more frantically as I try to get the image of that bastard out of my head. But nothing is helping. Parker Miller is firmly lodged in my brain, refusing to leave.
I'm so close now I can taste the orgasm on the tip of my tongue. With a moan, I plunge two fingers inside myself, working my dripping pussy to an orgasm that escapes me if I don't think about him. I try to trick myself, force the image of Raphael into my mind, but it doesn't work.
My body doesn't want Raphael, it wants Parker.
My lips part as I feel the orgasm ripping itself from my body. But it doesn't bring any relief. No, instead it fills me with guilt, reminding me just how broken I am. That I'll never be able to feel better, not until Parker's body is found.
Frustrated, I get up from my bed. It's early morning, but I'm exhausted by the thoughts in my head. I take a scalding hot shower to wash away the remnants of my sins. The beating water colors my skin in shades of red, and I groan, avoiding the area between my legs. I'm afraid any more stimulation will bring me close to an orgasm again.
The intense need to punish myself for what I've just done is fucking overwhelming. My eyes find the razor in the shower, the one I use to keep my pussy bare. It would only take a moment to take it apart. To hold the gleaming silver razorblade in my hands. To sink it into my skin again, slicing, cutting, relieving the pressure underneath my complexion.
With trembling hands, I reach for the razor. The voices ring in my ears. Robin. My mother. My father. My therapist. Sam. Dear, darling Sam. They would judge me for what I'm about to do. They'd be so disappointed that I'm back to my old habits, the ones I've spent years running away from. But I can't help myself. The guilt is too much.
The blade slices into my skin. I cut deep this time, because nothing but the most overwhelming pain, the darkest blood, will soothe my nerves.