Chapter 10 #3
I slide my tongue up her soaking wet folds and feel her shudder beneath me, her gasps coming fast. My tongue licks all around the outside of her pussy and she tastes fucking divine, I can’t help the moan that slides against her pussy while my tongue slide up her soaking wet folds.
She tastes like honey and heat and home.
She tastes real.
Too real.
“I see you when I blink,” I murmur against her. “Fucking prove to me you’re real.”
She gasps. “Dax—”
I look up at her.
“Say my name.”
“Dax—”
“Again.”
“Dax—please—”
I grip her thighs so hard I’m sure they will bruise in the morning but this is my fantasy, she’s not real just a figment of my fucked up imagination but fuck, she feel so fucking real.
“You taste so fucking sweet, butterfly.” I gasp as I slide my tongue into her dripping wet hole, pushing my fingers roughly over her clit, feeling the tremble in her thighs with ever flick of my tongue and twitch of my fingers.
“Oh god, Dax—don’t stop.” She cries. “Don’t fucking stop.”
I palm her thighs open wider, flicking the tip of my tongue over her clit while she squirms, then flatten it and traced my tongue upwards, slow at first, then harder, greedy for every twitch and whimper that poured from her lips.
She tries closing her legs around my head and all I can think is I would happily be buried in her sweet pussy.
“No, baby, you take everything I have to give you.”
I spit on her sweet cunt trying to ignore how painful the throbbing in my cock is, I’m trying so fucking hard not to lose control but when I suck her clit between my lips and tongue it in tiny, relentless pulses her moans almost make me lose it…
almost. Grazing the bud lightly, I feel her entire body jolt, my cock kicks painfully against the inside of my thigh.
“Dax,” She gasps and I just mumble against her pussy letting the vibration slide through her.
“Yeah, butterfly?”
She grinds her pussy harder against my fucking lips, moving her hips upwards, thrashing, trying to chase a release I’m not going to give her right now.
I grip her hips hard and hold her down as I slide my tongue deep inside her sweet little pussy, sucking hard, tasting every drop of her desire but not giving her the release she is desperate to chase.
I slide my tongue out slowly, sliding my tongue slowly up the length of her pussy, circling her clit In agonisingly slow circles as my teeth lightly graze her.
She reaches out, touches my face, voice barely a whisper—“I am real, Dax. And you’re not allowed to break me again.”
The world stops spinning.
Everything freezes.
Her voice.
Her words.
Her tears.
The soft, trembling edges of her breath filling the doorway like she’s the one thing the universe forgot to protect me from.
My hands are still on her thighs, my mouth still wet with her taste, my pulse a violent, uneven thing thundering against my ribs like I’ve run miles barefoot over glass and only just realised I’m bleeding.
“You’re real,” I breathe, and the words shake so violently they barely sound like mine. “Butterfly… this isn’t a dream.”
She’s terrified.
But so am I.
I drag my hands over my face, palms rough and shaking, like if I press hard enough I might force myself back into my own body. Like I can anchor myself to the floor, to the air, to anything that isn’t collapsing inside me.
“You’re real,” I choke, the sound barely human. “Jesus Christ. You’re really here.”
Something old and dangerous and buried cracks open inside me—something I’ve kept locked down for years, something that tastes like grief and hope and fear all tangled together in one corrosive breath.
“I thought I made you up,” I admit, the confession dragging its claws up my throat. “I thought you were just another ghost my head conjured because it needed something soft. Something I didn’t destroy.”
“You didn’t destroy me,” she says softly, gently, like she doesn’t know how close those words come to killing me.
“I always destroy,” I rasp. “I ruin anything good. I bleed on anything clean. And you—fuck, Cassandra—you were the only thing that ever made me feel like maybe I wasn’t already dead.”
She moves closer.
Carefully.
Softly.
Like she’s approaching something wounded and wild, something that bites even when it wants to be touched.
“Dax—”
“I see things that aren’t real,” I grit out. “I hear things that aren’t happening. I smell smoke that isn’t there. My gun’s in my hand even when I’m unarmed. And when it finally goes quiet—when the world stops screaming—I hear it anyway.”
“I know,” she whispers, and I swear her voice is the only steady thing in the room.
Her hand touches my cheek—light, warm, unbearably gentle—and that’s when the truth sinks in, full and sharp and undeniable.
“You were never supposed to be real,” I whisper. “You were supposed to be a hallucination. A fever dream. Not here. Not touching me like you’re not scared.”
“I am scared,” she says, eyes shining. “But I’m more scared of you forgetting how to feel.”
Silence stretches between us.
Heavy.
Painful.
Alive in a way nothing else has been for years.
I lift my hand and touch her mouth—soft, trembling, reverent—like if I don’t anchor myself to this moment, she’ll disappear like every other good thing I’ve ever had ripped from me.
“You’re real,” I whisper again, needing the words like oxygen.
But reality is a knife, and it sinks in slow.
“I shouldn’t have touched you,” I say suddenly, the bottom dropping out of my voice, leaving it hollow and wrecked. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have touched you.”
“Dax—”
“No.” I snap back from her like her skin is fire and I’ve just remembered I’m made of gasoline. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“You thought I was a dream?” she asks, voice trembling, cracking at the centre.
I don’t answer.
Because the truth is too fucking cruel.
“I was drunk,” I say instead, pacing, breathing like I’m choking on my own lungs. “Jesus, I was so fucking drunk. I thought my head was playing tricks. I thought—fuck—I thought you weren’t real.”
“So the only reason you kissed me,” she whispers, “is because you thought you were hallucinating?”
Her voice slices me clean open.
“I kissed you because I missed you,” I say, and the words break on the way out. “Because I’ve spent a week trying to forget how you tasted and I can’t. I kissed you because I’m a selfish bastard who wanted one more hit before I let you go.”
Her jaw tightens.
My chest caves.
“You don’t get to keep doing this,” she says, voice soft but steady. “Kissing me like I’m the only thing keeping you breathing, and then regretting me.”
“I don’t regret you,” I growl, turning toward her.
“I regret what I do to you. Look at you. You deserve better than a man who sees blood every time he blinks and hears screaming every time it’s quiet.
Better than someone who thought you were a hallucination and still dropped to his knees for a taste. ”
Her breath stutters.
Her throat works.
Her eyes shine like the aftermath of something quietly devastating.
“So that’s it?” she asks.
I laugh once—sharp, hollow, poisoned with self-loathing.
“That’s me, Butterfly. One good fuck. A thousand regrets.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
She stands there, arms wrapped tight across her chest, shoulders trembling from the weight of everything I’ve said, everything I’ve taken, everything I never deserved—yet her voice is steady when she speaks.
“Then next time?” she whispers, eyes burning. “Don’t kiss me like you mean it.”
Then she turns.
Walks out.
Leaves me in the wreckage.
Leaves me exactly where she found me.
On the floor.
Bleeding.
Alone.
And for the first time in years—
I feel every inch of it.