Chapter Thirteen #2
"Oh, fuck," she hisses. Her orgasm is building and I can't wait to watch her fall apart on me.
She moves her hips against my hand, matching the rhythm I set until she comes hard, her body twitching as she moans loud.
Her hands are both on the wall as she pants, pulling air in and out as the aftershocks of her orgasm continue to wrack through her body.
Lilly grips my arm and removes my hand from her shorts.
Spinning around she drops to her knees and unbuttons my jeans.
She sucks me into the back of her throat and it's the most fucking amazing feeling in the goddamn world.
She bobs her head up and down, viciously sucking my cock like her life depends on it.
I find myself gripping the back of her head and urging her on.
The warm, wet feeling of the inside of her mouth is making me desperate for my release.
I move with her mouth, angling inside her mouth to hit the back of her throat. She gags and moans on my cock, the vibration sends me over the edge. I spill down her throat with a grunt and see stars in the process.
"God damn, baby," I huff, trying to catch my breath.
Lilly wipes the side of her mouth and rises from her kneeling position.
She kisses me on the cheek and ducks around the bridge of my arms. I exhale and immediately feel the pang in my shoulder.
It now has its own heartbeat. The throbbing gets more and more intense as I lower my arms and lean down to pull my jeans up.
"Now, if you're good and don't make me wait too long until you return, we'll do that again but better," she winks, submerging her hands in the dishwater at the sink. Presumably returning to the chore she was working on before I came out here.
"Oh, I'll make good boy a fucking slogan if you promise to that again," I growl, adjusting my dick in my pants.
Lilly's laugh makes me remember that she is everything.
She is the reason I breathe. She is the reason that I am about to erect the sweetest revenge upon a person that is lower than low, the scum on the bottom of my boot.
No one touches a hair on her head without paying the price.
And I happen to be the one who sets the prices around here. The cost? Your life.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and pour it full of freshly brewed sweet tea. Lilly worked up a thirst in me. A need for rehydration after the amazing orgasm she just literally drained from me. I walk back into the bedroom and grab my phone. Just as I pick it up, it rings. Scott is calling.
"Yo," I answer.
"I'm heading your way. Just got the all clear from Reaper."
"Perfect. I'll see you soon, brother."
"See you soon." The call ends and I lock my phone before shoving it into my pocket.
The warm air in August doesn't call for a jacket, but the chill in the air when I see this traitor will make it feel like the coldest winter in Alaska.
Lilly is propped up on the couch, curled beneath a fuzzy blanket with her kindle in hand.
I stop a few feet away and stare at her.
She feels me staring and glances up, meeting my stare. "What?" she inquires.
"Nothing. Just admiring the view," I muse, smirking at her. She smiles and shakes her head, returning her gaze to her book.
"What are you reading?" I ask.
"One of my girly romance smut books," she says, never taking her eyes off the screen.
"I'm going to need you to save all that hot and bothered that's going to happen from those sex scenes for me when I get back," I tell her, sitting down in my recliner.
Buddy jumps onto the couch with Lilly, resting his large head on her feet.
She huffs and resituates herself, stretching her legs in the barely existent space between Bud and the couch cushions.
He is unphased by her movements, already drifting off to sleep. They're two peas in a pod, those two. Headlights flicker in the window as a truck turns into the driveway. I recognize the sound of that dually immediately. Scott's here.
I kiss Lilly and give Buddy a pat on the head on my way out.
Scott's wearing the same thing I am, a black shirt and jeans.
No words, no logos, just a solid black shirt.
The interstate is mostly open in the middle of the day with minimal traffic.
We arrive at Reaper's place just after three in the afternoon.
It's a gloomy day, how fitting for the gloom and doom that is going to ensue.
I've never seen Reaper's home. It's a large, plantation style home that has a gorgeous flower bed in front of the wrap-around porch. There's a terrace pavilion in the yard with hanging string lights and tables set up as if they're having an event here soon or just had one.
Scott knocks on the door and Reaper answers immediately, inviting us inside.
His fiancée, Kendra, is sitting on the couch, much in the same way Lilly was when I left.
Her long, dark hair is pulled into a messy bun atop her head, her glasses sit low on her nose, she's got the back end of a pen twirling between her teeth and she's reading something on her kindle.
"Hi, guys," she waves as we walk by.
"Hey," Scott greets.
"Hey, Kendra. Good to see you again, dear," I say in passing.
Reaper leads us upstairs to a study that even the wealthiest of the world would envy.
The desk in the center of the room is hefty and made of a deep mahogany.
I feel as if I've just stepped inside the fanciest CEO's office.
I guess that isn't far off considering Reaper is CEO of his own company.
Self-made millionaire before he was thirty, traveler of the country and the world, and friend of the less fortunate scooter trash like myself.
Scott and I sit in the plush leather chairs across from Reaper's desk.
He has two monitors in the right corner of his desk with privacy screens protecting both.
On the left is an old. antique banker's lamp and in the center is a laptop.
A very thick, hefty, sturdy laptop. It looks like it's got military grade protection on it.
Reaper's got the laptop open and taps away at the keys before turning the screen around for Scott and I to see.
On the screen is a video, live footage of a man chained to the ceiling of the room he's in.
I lean in closer. I'd recognize that long beard anywhere.
Gater. He's dangling just above the cement floor, the tips of his toes narrowly avoiding the ground.
So close that he could almost taste the relief of resting his weight on his feet, yet far enough away that it's nowhere near in reach.
The joy rising inside of me at what this shit bag is feeling is scary. I don't feel an ounce of pity. Or sympathy. Or remorse. I feel....justified.