33. Painted Windows & Pained Companions #3
I struggle, trying to force his arms off me when his other hand wrangles my wrists together gently, pinning them behind my back.
Panic kicks up in my chest for a moment, the weight of Bryan that night in their shed dragging my fear higher.
That is, before my struggling makes me slip forward, my core brushing his tented cock.
He leans forward, his ocean eyes bitter and daring. “And they’re not traps, little puppet… they’re marionettes.”
The moment it clicks in my mind, I jerk back, a disgusted look on my face as I mumble around his fingers.
I’m not ready when he releases me, making a gross amount of spit trail his fingers on their way out of my mouth.
“You got my nickname from a fucking serial killer. That’s sick, Gideon, even for you. ”
He smirks, popping a saliva-covered finger into his mouth, and I balk for a mere second before going squirmy in his lap, my core brushing him again.
A hot lash of need building in my sex. “You like it though, when I call you puppet. Cause that’s what you are, Audrey…
my perfect girl, perfect little doll. My perfect little puppet. ”
“Ugh, don’t make that hot, please. I think I’m spending too much time at the funeral home.”
He tsks, leaning down to lick at my pulse thrumming in my neck, “No, sweet Audrey, I think I should take you over there now. Fuck you beside the rotting—"
“Ew, Gideon, you’re gross,” I groan.
“Yes, but I’m yours. And you’re mine, right, puppet?”
“Gideon, let go,” I moan, his teeth grazing a path down my chest, my shoulders straining from being pinned behind my back.
“Never,” he all but growls. My breath catches in my throat as he looks up at me; his eyes are venom-laced tides. “Ask me again to let you go, Audrey… and I fear I’ll be forced to show you what he taught me.”
“Who?”
He laughs, the sound horrible and resounding deep in my center.
Making a needy little sound leave me in response, straining harder on his hold to press my weeping core harder into him, loving the way his cruel eyes flutter at the sensation.
“The Marionettist. The boogeyman of Washington. He would love you, you know. You’re just his type. ”
“What a horrible thing to say! I know you’d never let him have me, though.
Right, Gideon? Because I’m your girl,” I moan, half thrilled to be playing along with his nasty game.
Half desperate to show him I can be his type.
That I don’t have to be babied all the time, like when we were kids. I’ve grown up now.
His voice is rougher, breathless like mine as he stands, slamming me hard against the table. “You’re right, little puppet. You’re exactly my type.”
The sound of his zipper punctuates his declaration, and already I’m scrambling with the hem of my nightgown, desperate to hike it higher on my hips, baring my soaked underwear.
He discards his glasses as he drops between my legs, his nose brushing over the growing wet spot. “Gideon, please,” I whisper.
My hands fly to his head as he pushes in deeper, inhaling my center, making my cheeks bloom crimson. “Gideon!”
“Fuck Audrey,” he groans. “Tell me you’re my girl and I’ll make you feel good.”
“Y-yes. Of course I am,” I whimper as he laps at my throbbing clit trapped behind my underwear.
“Say it, puppet. Tell me you’re my miserable little marionette.”
I groan, pushing into him as he fastens his mouth to my aching center and sucks the soaked fabric.
“I—" I gasp. “I’m yours. I’m your marionette. Fuck Gideon, hang on, I’m going to—" My orgasm rips through me, making me cry out, my movements upsetting something on the table behind me. I barely turn to move to see what it was when he’s on me again.
His mouth commanding mine, worshipping it with the taste of me on his tongue as he works my underwear down my legs.
I’m preening, begging by the time he sinks his cock into me. Burying himself to the hilt with one brutal thrust. I’m so lost to the sensation of it, of his hot breath on my neck, I miss his question the first time he asks it.
The only sign he’d wanted a response from me comes in the sudden brutality on the way he jerks me down off the table, ripping his ruddy cock from my aching center and slamming me back down, my cheek meeting hot dumplings. “Gideon,” I gasp, but he’s already there, thrusting back into me.
“Are you scared of me, puppet?”
“No,” I whine.
One of his hands abandons its brutal grasp on my hips to find my throat, his weight pressing me into the table as his cock drags against something toe-curling deep. “You should be. I’m the boogeyman, Audrey.”
My hair drags, soaked with chicken broth, as I force myself to my elbows, forcing my head to look at him, happy to be the perfect puppet he plays his ugly games with. “I don’t care so long as you’re mine.”
“Fuck,” he curses, his thrusts turning jerky as he comes deep inside me.
He doesn’t stop reaching around to massage my clit, forcing another climax from me.
When he finally releases my throat and slips out with a soft kiss pressed to my spine, letting me ease myself limply back to the chair, I can’t hide my smirk as his cum leaks from my center and our chicken and dumplings drips from my hair.
This is the most exciting dinner the table has seen in years.