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Soft and easy, slow and sensual, feels disgusting to me. It was how Liana described what happened between her and our father. She called it love. In some entries she sounds like a smitten teen girl hooking up with a high school crush. Shelovedhim.
Bile swims in my throat as I recall those entries.
I’ve been to so many trainings on trafficking and grooming to see it for anything less than what it actually was, but my sister killed him because she was embarrassed to be a pregnant teen, not because it was his baby. She killed herself because she was upset about losing him, not because she was in fear of getting into trouble. She was heartbroken at her loss.
“Quit,” I hiss again, thinking I’m going to get my way when he grabs my wrist, but instead of forcing it over my head and pinning me there as he climbs between my legs, he runs his palm down my arm.
“Mmm,” he moans as he settles over my body, his mouth in my neck.
He doesn’t bite or pinch or growl. He doesn’t threaten or try to hurt me in any way as he expertly finds the center of me.
He also doesn’t find me ready for him, his head pulling back, confusion on his face as he looks down at me.
“I can fix that,” he says, but instead of twisting my nipple until I scream out in pain, he simply slides down my body, locking his mouth on my clit.
And God does he fix it.
The change in behavior is so fucking strange, I can’t even formulate a way to make it stop. It’s like the man has somehow managed to make my brain go completely offline.
His mouth on me is perfection, the way he flicks his tongue before long, hot sucks. I like it fucking rough. I need it to even get close to coming, but I have no control over this. That part of me is built for stimulation. I don’t care how uninterested I may be, attention there, soft hard, rough, tender, it doesn’t fucking matter, my body is going to do what it’s meant to do.
I slicken in record time, but he doesn’t pull back. He moans my name as he drinks me down. His hips rock into the mattress as I come as if he just can’t help himself.
“Jesus, Lauren,” he mutters as he wipes his forearm against his mouth on his way back up my body.
I stare down at him, locked in place by the utter weirdness of this.
He covers me once again, one of his hands lifting my leg until my knee is high on his hip. He’s successful when he enters me again, his eyes growing glassy in the light filtering in from the streetlamps outside.
I want him to stop.
I need him to stop.
It’s absolute torture, the tender touches, and the way his face softens when he watches me take him this way.
I don’t say a word as tears stream down my face, because it’s painful. It hurts me for him to simulate any form of what may be considered lovemaking.
So I let it happen, and despite him shushing my sobs, telling me I’m perfect, I can’t get a handle on my emotions.
It isn’t cathartic. It isn’t the break into my past that will finally let me heal.
It’s distressing, horrendous. It’s horrifying and traumatic.
It’s fucking perfect.
When he grunts my name, his mouth on my skin, his cum filling me, I hate that it’s over, but he allows me to turn over and sob without touching me again.
Chapter 19
Angel
Planning for something and having it turn out exactly the way you imagined it aren’t the same thing.
I knew when I took Lauren last night that it would be more than she could handle.
I wanted to break her.
I wanted her pain, her tears.