21. Raf
CHAPTER 21
RAF
The thundering beat builds around me as I mindlessly pound on my drum set, my eyes slipping closed and my body moving without thought. I’ve been playing for so many years that it’s second nature at this point, like riding a bike or just fucking breathing.
I don’t play any song in particular. I just fall into a beat that feels right, my foot working the pedal of the kick drum as my sticks beat against the batter heads at a steady rhythm.
The sound of drums has always had a calming effect on me. The rattle of the snare, the crash of the hi hat… each piece of my kit produces a distinct tone, the cacophony of sound blending into an achingly familiar medley. I soak it in, allowing it to reverberate around me as I play, my mind drifting, the shadows clearing.
Most of them, anyway. A fight is usually a cathartic release for me, but tonight I’m more wound up than usual. It seems that no amount of pounding my fists into someone’s face or my sticks against the drumheads can alleviate the ever-present tension that’s been coiled inside me since my stepsister showed up on campus.
This is my campus. She has no right to be here, playing all sweet and innocent when she’s the spawn of the whore that tore my family apart.
I hate everything about Ava. I hate her face because she looks just like her mother. I hate the way she acts like she’s above everyone else when she’s just a trashy little nobody. But most of all, I fucking hate how one look at her gets my dick hard, which makes me no better than my piece of shit father.
He let my mother wither away. I was by her side as the cancer ate away at her body, the treatments making her feel even sicker and robbing her of any sense of joy in those final months. I held her hand as she drew her last breath, her eyes wide and fearful as the life drained from them. And where was her husband, the one who vowed till death do they part?
Balls deep in his fucking whore, that’s where.
Breathe.
You’re in control.
I grit my teeth as I bang harder on my drums, one of my sticks accidentally clipping the rim. It splinters and breaks, half of it flying across the room. I chuck the other half at the wall with a roar, seething as I sit behind my drum set and scrub my hands over my face, the shadows descending on me.
Warmth trickles down my eyelid and I wipe it away, lowering my hand to find a smear of bright red blood on my palm. Damnit. I showered after the fight, but the cut on my eyebrow won’t stop bleeding. It probably needs a stitch or two, though I doubt I’ll bother. It’s not like I’ll bleed out from a tiny little cut.
Pushing up from my stool with a grunt, I step around my drum set and head over to the king-sized bed, flopping down onto it.
I suppose I could always call Chelsea to work off some aggression, but even a good fuck doesn’t sound appealing to me right now. Nothing does. Because wondering what the hell Ford’s currently up to with Ava in the next room is slowly driving me insane.
He knows better to bring anyone into our space. That has always been a hard and fast rule, yet he had the audacity to bring her , of all people, up here tonight. The guy may think he’s slick, but his motives with Ava are pathetically transparent. He likes playing with her a little too much. He’s clearly angling to make her our Doll, as if she’ll just slip into the role and I won’t notice.
Not fucking happening.
I blow out a breath of frustration, reaching over to swipe my phone off the nightstand and finding a text notification from Ford waiting for me on the screen. Clicking to open it, I see that the message itself is short and sweet:
Ford: you’re welcome.
There’s a video file attached, and even though I know damn well what it likely is, I open it up anyways, settling back against my pillows to watch it play.
Ava’s spread out atop the pool table in the boathouse loft, Ford’s hands gripping her wrists and Wes’ head buried between her thighs. Her full lips pout, falling open in bliss as Wes feasts on her, and even though I should just close out of the damn video and send a reply to Ford telling him to go fuck himself, my eyes remain glued to my phone screen, watching my stepsister with rapt attention.
I take in everything about the way her body reacts as Wes eats her out. The way her muscles flex and tense, the way her tits point skyward as she arches her back. And before I can even think about it, my other hand slides into my boxers, wrapping around my cock and tugging.
Her climax crests, her chest heaving as she rides the wave of pleasure. Then Wes pulls back and I step into the frame, asking the little slut if she wants some cock.
There’s something about the look in her eyes that I didn’t notice at the time, but now I see it clear as day. There’s fear in them, to be sure, but there’s also a flicker of desire. She wants it, even though she knows she shouldn’t, and the juxtaposition of the warring emotions behind those eyes is strangely intoxicating.
I can’t look away.
Pulling my achingly hard dick out of my boxers, I pump it harder in my fist as I watch Ava get to her knees to take Wes’ cock down her throat. She sputters and chokes at first, then her cheeks hollow out as she starts to get a feel for what to do. Ford starts playing with her clit, and that’s when she really lets go and gets into it, sucking Wes off like the whore she was bred to be.
Just like her fucking mother.
I feel my orgasm building like a storm, my hand stroking faster as my breaths get shorter.
I focus in on her eyes again. On the way they squeeze closed as she falls apart on Ford’s fingers; the look of resignation in them when Wes forces her mouth closed and she swallows.
I want to break her. Ruin her. Fucking destroy her.
I bite down on my lip to stifle a groan as I blow my load all over my hand, fucking hating myself for it.