Pasts That Haunt 02: The Trap by N.J. Weeks

Author:N.J. Weeks [Weeks, N.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-08T00:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

It’s amazing how the body is nature’s lie detector, fully equipped to act how it sees fit. Even if the words that spill out of our mouths say one thing and the deceptions we keep buried deep within ourselves say another, the body knows what it wants, consequences be damned. And for some reason, the cryptic voice that has been taunting us since we were dragged here has put great emphasis on how Raiden and I have a lot in common. Debatable, given that I’m not a lying, manipulative thief who apparently works for the fucking mafia. But one thing that even I can’t deny, as stubborn as I am, is that our bodies have been begging to be set free, to be unleashed on each other.

“Colson, what the fuck are you doing?” Raiden pants, trying to wiggle free from the axes that have her body trapped for me to play with.

I don’t answer her, instead opting to enjoy how pissed off she looks.

“I asked you a fucking question,” she repeats, lips pursed as if she’s about to spit…again.

Robbing her of the opportunity to cast her saliva my way, I step to her, eliminating any and all space between us.

“Ssh,” I silence her, bringing my hand to her chin, swiping the pad of my thumb against her skin.

She turns her head, trying to loosen my hold on her, but I work with her defiant motions, shifting as she does. Clicking my tongue, I lower my masked face to hers, maintaining eye contact. She’s more than capable of tearing herself free. But she doesn’t want to. She won’t admit that, though. She’s too stubborn. Too in denial that fate played a sadistic and cruel game in keeping us together, but fuck if I’m not thankful, because I missed her and all the chaos and carnage she leaves in her trail. And the fact that she isn’t shredding the silk of her robe or swatting those pretty little palms at my chest in a defiant tantrum lets me know, in her own way, that she’s just as grateful as I am.

It doesn’t matter that we are pawns in a sick puppeteer’s game. We need this for reasons we don’t understand, and I’ll be damned if I let this opportunity slip past my fingers.

With one last swipe at her chin, I finally let go, already missing the feeling of her, but what I miss more is having her sweet cunt on my taste buds. Eyes on hers, I begin the slow descent to my knees, relishing in the way the barbell that pierces her tongue escapes her mouth in undeniable lust, waiting for me to kneel before her. I feel her body quiver. Her heart is practically knocking against every inch of her body.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, purposely dragging my voice to disguise the legitimate concern that prompted my question.

She swallows, her face conflicted. “The fuck do you care?” she scoffs, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that she’s trying to deflect.

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