Chapter 27 #3
The only reason I’m brave enough to take the next step is because of the sound of his ragged groan. My fingers dip beneath his waistband, and he grabs my wrist before I get the chance to gasp.
“What? You think you deserve my cock after what you did?” There’s something sharp in his hoarse breath. It’s tipped with a sinister sort of excitement.
Guilt eats at me. I should’ve texted him to cancel our date, but I . . . I couldn’t. I have no real excuse. I think something in my twisted mind told me he’d be angrier if I told him why I wasn’t going to be there.
“Lie back.”
This time, I know I’m stupid when I do as he says. Goosebumps decorate my skin, both from trepidation and curiosity as he picks up the item beside me and moves to the side. My eyes widen at the big, long thing I can make out in the darkness.
There’s the indistinguishable sound of a cap opening, followed by a squirt.
I must be a goddamn fucking idiot for lying there with my mouth hanging open as he brings the object between my legs. First, a cold gel touches my sex. Then, something rock solid prods at my entrance, and I jolt back. Leo grabs onto my leg to keep me steady before I can get very far.
“It’s my hockey stick,” he says.
His what?
“I’ve cleaned it already.”
I don’t think that’s what my current concern is. “It’s not going to f—”
Fingers slip inside me, and he starts thrusting. It’s a highly effective method to shut me up. I clamp my palm over my mouth and become putty in his very capable hands—hands that are definitely adding another finger and spreading what must be lube around.
He doesn’t stop as he says, “Since you’re so desperate to be in my world, I’ll have you on the ice with me. There’s a big game on tonight.”
Leo uses his thumb to rub my clit, and I can’t help but feel slightly ashamed that I’m fairly certain I’m going to come in the next sixty seconds if he keeps this up.
By God’s grace or pure coincidence, he takes me closer to the edge and stops just as my claws are about to latch onto another orgasm.
“I’m going to put this in your tight little cunt, okay?” he rasps, lining the hockey stick up at my entrance. “It’s going to feel so good, baby, I promise.”
My stomach flutters at the term of endearment. Every inch of my body wants to do this for him—wants to please him. He’s living out every dark, depraved fantasy I’ve ever had. Hell, I’ve written about scenes just like this one. I want this. Biology be damned.
My legs fall further apart at his wordless invitation. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about how it might feel or not being able to take the handle—well, not much of it.
Or that I’ll have to put a stop to it because my cervix decides it can’t take penetrative sex anymore, and it’s all pain and no pleasure.
The moment the stick presses against my sex, I tense up. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to will my muscles to relax, I’m coiled tight from nerves. His free hand finds my clit, and it works like magic. Slowly, my body unwinds, and it slides in with ease.
The stretch and hardness of it makes me grip onto the sheets from the foreign intrusion.
“Leo,” I whimper when he hits resistance.
“I’m right here. Come on. Take it.” I take a deep breath, and he pushes. “That’s it. More. You’re doing so good, Mina.”
He draws the stick back again, meeting resistance, and just as it’s about to come out, he slowly eases forward, so, so careful, like I’m a delicate thing he doesn’t want to break. He repeats the motion a couple of times.
“I can’t.” I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut as if it might save me from his disappointment.
“You can. I know you can. Do it for me, baby. Relax.”
I take a deep breath and focus all of my attention on the feel of his thumb rubbing my clit in circles. He continues fucking me with the slow pace. It isn’t long until it becomes torturous.
My hips inch upward on their own accord, silently demanding for him to pick up the speed—and he does. Easily. He goes a little deeper each time, and his thumb doesn’t need to do a thing to make that magic happen, because fucking hell if that doesn’t feel incredible.
“Yes, that’s it. Fuck, look at how good you’re doing.”
I reach out for him with every intention of palming his dick, but his thrusts come to a screeching halt so he can snatch my hand away before I can reach my prize.
“Pull my pants down, and I stop,” Leo promises.
I whimper. That’s all I can manage.
“You got it?”
Another sound that almost sounds like, “Okay.”
Except he doesn’t pick up where he left off. No, there’s shuffling that I can’t make out, followed by a sudden burst of blinding light. I have to squint against it, and then my heart beats double time.
“Leo,” I gasp, trying to squirm out of his camera’s view.
He grips my hip and holds me down, coming closer to say, “I’ve been watching you get off for months. That’s not about to stop now.” Leo leans back and resumes fucking me with the hockey stick—and he doesn’t hold back. “Come on, more. Yes, that’s right.”
I’m aware that making sex videos that most likely have my face in them equals bad. More specifically, a guy confessing to hiding cameras in my bedroom and watching me get myself off to the thought of him—probably more than once—is even worse.
However, when he has the angle just right and the speed perfect, I can’t seem to recall why any of this is wrong. I mean, he’s already got it all on footage. This is nothing new.
What does register in my head, though, is that Leo wants to video himself fucking me with his hockey stick. He wants to have this moment for safekeeping—to watch later.
Maybe when I’m not operating on pure whoremones, I’ll recognize the flaws in my logic.
For now, I’m whipping my head side to side and biting down on my blankets because the pleasure is almost too much.
“Spread your pretty pussy open for me.”
I do it.
I do it because I can’t think for myself—don’t want to. This is everything I’ve ever wanted and more, and I’ll be damned if I do anything other than let him have his way with me when it feels this good.
“Fuck, yes. That’s it, baby. More.” I bite down on my lip to keep from moaning at his praise. “Look at me. Rub your pussy—Fuck, I can feel you squeezing it. Everything about your cunt is goddamn perfect.”
The mouth on this man is going to be the death of me.
“Pull your top up so I can see your tits.”
At this point, I don’t know what the point of my brain is. I do it without thinking or caring that the phone follows my movement.
“You like that? Tell me you like it.”
I nod, squirming. “Kiss me, Leo.”
For a second, I think he won’t. That one tortuous second feels like everything hangs in the balance and leaves a door open for all the doubts and fears to come barreling through—that this is a way to get back at me, and he’ll have it all on video.
Then that one second passes, and the door slams shut. There is nothing gentle about the way his lips meet mine. He doesn’t kiss me like I’m delicate. No, he kisses me like he wants his desperation to break me—that he’s happy to bleed from the shards because it means he’ll get a taste of me.
The air crackles and comes alive, brushing my exposed skin like a live wire. We swallow every one of each other’s breaths, moving our lips with unpracticed familiarity. It’s messy yet precise, fueled by intention and need. It’s everything to me.
I claw at his back as if it’s humanly possible to get him closer to me, but he pulls away, sitting back on his heels and slowing his thrusts. I have to blink a few times to gather my axis, and I really wish I did it sooner, so I could’ve witnessed Leo tugging his sweats down to free his dick.
I can tell the exact moment he wraps his hand around himself because the hiss he lets out is pure sin.
The light from his phone dusts the ceiling; it’s concealed behind a blanket so I still can’t see jack shit beyond the silhouette of Leo fisting his cock, and by God is it frustrating.
Maybe it’s the lust playing tricks on me, but I could swear on my special edition collection that something glints along the underside of his shaft. I’d question it further if he didn’t start grunting and leaning over me, pulling the hockey stick all the way out.
My jaw drops when hot liquid spurts across my sex, mixing in with the lube and my wetness. His cum keeps dripping over my core, on my mound, and trickling down my thigh as he curses.
I’m fucking speechless, and holy fucking shit—Leo’s using his fingers to push his cum into me. I know I definitely need to book an appointment with that psychiatrist when my first thought is that maybe a baby isn’t such a bad idea.
My legs start shaking—they’d keep shaking if he didn’t stop. In a flash, I nearly scream bloody murder and fall right off the bed when the hockey stick slides in, hitting that spot as it goes.
The light of his phone is back on me—Hell, we could have a live, in-person audience right now, and I don’t think I could give two shits because knowing he’s fucking his cum into me with his hockey stick is absolutely mind consuming.
I don’t get any warning before the climax hits, and life as I know it ceases to exist. I think I black out. Fuck, I think my body has a mini seizure because my lungs refuse to pull in air while the rest of me is trembling like I’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning.
I’ve never felt anything like it, and I doubt I will again. Even the fall from the high seems to take forever and leaves me a twitching, panting mess on the bed. I’m too consumed to register that I’m crying until the wet sheet sticks to my cheeks.
“So perfect,” Leo murmurs, showering my flesh with kisses: my neck, breasts, the inside of my wrists, thighs, hip bone.
I’m too wrung out to return the notion or relish in the sensations, but my heart swells until there’s no way to miss the tears streaming down my face. He captures one with his lips, making a sound of approval and pressing his forehead to mine.
“I’ll only be gone a few days.”
I whimper because my mind and body have resorted to their baser instincts; I don’t think I can string together a full sentence.
“It’s only three days, baby. I’ll come back to you, I promise.”
I sniffle. He must think it’s in response to him temporarily abandoning me for his career, because he scoops me up in his arms, tucking me beneath his head, and covers me with the blankets.
If I wasn’t seconds away from falling asleep, I’d fight him off to wash the sensory nightmare between my thighs, but as it stands, my brain is too quiet to cause a fuss.
“We’ll talk every day, okay?” Leo grabs my hand and kisses every knuckle and the tips of my fingers.
None of this feels real, and I hope to God I don’t wake up in the morning to find out it wasn’t.
“I expect you to be staying at my house while I’m away.”
That stirs me. “Leo . . .”
“I thought you might object. It’s fine. I took care of it.”
Alarm bells ring. “Took care of what?” He says nothing. “Leo, took care of what?”
What in God’s name has he done? He’s proven that there’s no telling what he’s capable of, and I’m scared as much as I’m intrigued, but the sensations between my thighs are making my brain too mushed up to properly spiral and force him to answer me.
He runs his hand down the back of my head in slow, soothing motions. “Shh, it’s alright. Just go to sleep, baby. There’s nothing you need to worry about anymore.”
And I do sleep. I relish being in his arms because when he says it like that, I can almost believe it’s true.
If my vagina didn’t spend the whole day throbbing, I might think that last night never happened. I woke up, and the other side of my bed was empty, and my room looked exactly as it did when I went to sleep.
The text from the unknown number? That’s still there taunting me like a bad fucking omen.
They haven’t said anything else. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.
It’s taken the willpower of a divine being to stop myself from obsessing over it, and I distract myself with working all day until my alarm goes off for Leo’s game.
I shut it off, then finish the last bite of my spam, egg, and rice dinner. I wince as I readjust the pillow behind my back and settle in to watch the game on the brand-new laptop that mysteriously appeared on my desk, which my insurance company sure as hell didn’t put there.
My gift was coupled with a text I was almost too nauseous to read in case it was the unknown number, but I relented when I saw that it came from the man I was mutually stalking.
Leo: Use it, or next time I won’t let you come.
I didn’t need much convincing.
Rationally—and probably ethically—I should refuse the gifts. But I want them, so I do what is expected of me: play hard and reject the present twice (via text on my new phone that I told him I couldn’t possibly accept), and fold at his third insistence.
A decision that I now partially regret because my phone is lighting up with a call just as the commentator mentions Leo, and I bite the inside of my cheek when he’s finally swapping out with one of his teammates and skating out onto the ice as the game stops—no idea why.
My lips part. Leo is kissing the handle of his hockey stick. The same stick that was in me less than twenty-four hours ago. In front of a fully packed stadium and live national TV.
The phone rings a second time, and I answer it without thinking, still gawking at the screen.
“Yeah?” Oh, Christ, I’m breathy.
“Hello, not yeah.” The sound of Mom’s voice makes me feel physically ill, and I have to take my glasses off from the stress. She is the very last person I want to hear from today. “That’s just—just rude to say to your mother.”
Wait. Is she . . . crying? Oh no. That never works out well for me. “Sorry, I was in the middle of doing work and was distracted.” My voice wavers.
She huffs, and I brace myself for a round of abuse that never comes. Instead, she says something far worse.
“Thomas was killed.”