Page 63 of Demon

“I need you, Ciara,” he groaned as a further inch of him slid inside.

“I know. Just slow down. I’ll take you, just more slowly.”

His grip loosened and the upwards pistoning of his hips stopped, letting me slide down on him at my pace. Sinking bit by bit, until every part of his length and girth was inside of me. I paused a second, waiting for my body to adapt, to mould around his shaft, the tissues inside my pussy settling around to grip him. Then, moving slowly at first, I rolled my hips upward, pulling over the length of him, the muscles inside me tugging against him.

Demon watched me, his dark eyes fixed on my face, and soon I was setting a rhythm, listening to the needs of my body, feeling the immense pressure building from the cock inside of me, terrorising my insides from the movements I created. From underneath me, Demon continued to watch, his eyes dropping between our bodies, watching me move up and down his shaft, the muscles in his neck tensing and his hands gripping the sides of the armchair underneath us.

Inside, my body pulsed, a thrumming, vibrating sensation filling me each time I took every inch of his length and thickness. And soon I was riding him harder, my juices coating his cock, making it easier to go at the pace we both needed, as my hips rocked up and down, back and forth, and I forgot that this was for him, chasing my own needs on the huge shaft that impaled me.

Demon’s hands moved to my hips now, gripping me hard and moving my hips faster, his own rocking under me, pulling me up and down his shaft so that the huge thing was punishing my insides, igniting an inferno of molten desire and fiery hot convulsions that swarmed inside of me.

“Shit!” I groaned as he pulled me down hard on top of him, the head of his cock hitting my cervix, sending a confusion of pain and elation through me.

“Ride me, Ciara,” Demon whispered, his voice choked with the edge of orgasm, and I obeyed him, this time, because right now my body would have it no other way.

And with each time I pushed down on his shaft he rammed his hips into me, filling me with everything, every long, thick, painful inch, sending a blaze racking my body. His grunts filled the room, drowning my pitiful cries of ecstasy and pain, his eyes darkening, the black of his pupils bleeding into the dark brown that surrounded them. He wrapped an arm around me, controlling my body, not letting me edge away from the punishment of his cock, making sure my body took him. And just as he pushed me over the edge and into oblivion, he roared against my neck, using my throat to muffle the animalistic noise as I fell against him.

“Fuck,” he grunted. “Fuck.”

And for a moment we sat there, together, breathing heavily, our chests heaving against each other and the only noise the thudding of our hearts.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, pushing me backwards a little so he could stare into my eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. Not really,” I wriggled under him, his cock softening inside me, and my battered insides now able to breathe.

Demon’s brow furrowed.

“It hurt. But in a good way.” I kissed his forehead, tasting the salt on his skin. “You want to tell me what’s going on now?”

The darkness flickered in his eyes, but it wasn’t that which surprised me. Suddenly those eyes glistened, like polished glass, and it took me a second to realise what I saw. But then he blinked, and the hardness returned to his face.

“My Da. He’s got cancer,” his words swelled in the surrounding air, a suffocating, oppressive silence, and then, “he’s dying Ciara.”

Chapter Thirty

Demon

An almost silence surrounded me, the only noises in the dawn, the gentle sound of Ciara’s breath, her chest rising and falling under the arm I draped across her. And from the floor, just at my side, the soft snores of Kinobi. The light trickled in through the gaps between the windows and the blackout blinds, the smallest hint of daylight disturbing a fitful sleep. Ciara had distracted me for hours, but she couldn’t take that punishment all night and eventually I’d let her sleep. And I’d tried. I really tried. My body was tired, my eyes dry, but my brain kept sinking into the darkness. A darkness I didn’t want to visit. A darkness that threatened to drag me under, to a place I had been before. A place I’d tried so hard to never return.

But there was an itch in my skin. A call. A siren. Praying on my weakness. On my shock and grief. I slid out from beside Ciara, stepping carefully over the sleepy Doberman, who was proving she was neither use nor ornament and that any intruders would go completely undetected as she lay snoring her head off.

The wooden chair at the table in the open plan lounge and kitchen was mercifully cool under my bare skin. Morning light filtered in, grey and murky, ominous. I pulled the paper and pencils onto the table, letting go of the control over my mind and letting it spill into my hand, the white underneath quickly covered in grey brushstrokes. And in the quiet, away from the smell and sound of Ciara and the comfort of the dog, I could think.

And that’s what I did. Think about all the signs I’d missed. All the days when he hadn’t looked well, when I’d blamed his old lady for making him party too hard, or the stress of the club, or all the bad habits he’d all but a couple been able to defeat. I thought about the arguments we’d had, the beatings he’s given me as a kid, the bikes he bought me and forced me to ride when all I’d ever wanted was to play in football teams like normal kids. And draw.

Ste had never liked the drawing. It was a sissy thing to be good at art. And the more he mocked me, the darker the drawings got, till they showed only death and violence. Because really, that’s all I had ever seen. And the tattoos. They were the means to do what I loved doing, but in a way acceptable to my father.

I stared down at the table, at the paper below me I’d spent two hours drawing on, shading and shaping. Faces that stared back at me. His, Indie’s, my mother’s, from the little I remembered about her. And they all had bulging eyes, blood squeezed out the sides, and right in the middle, in the obsidian black of their pupils, was her face. Ciara’s. The face that I couldn’t stop drawing everywhere from the day she’d pulled out in front of me.

“Fuck.” She whispered the word. Right from over the top of me. Breathing it out, half whisper, half sigh.

Startled. Embarrassed, I leant over the top of it, covering the monstrosity, hiding my mind from her.

“No. Demon. Stop. Let me see?” her hand steadied my arm, gently squeezing over the fist that scrunched the paper, ready to destroy the evidence of the shit that had poured from my brain. “That’s incredible. I’ve seen you draw, but this. This is insane.”

And, of course, she was right. It was insane. I was insane. This. This life was insane. And screwed up. So, so fucked up. The whole thing. It had been a fuck up from the very day I had been born.

I stood suddenly. The rage hitting me from nowhere. Hard and fast and hot. A molten emotion striking me square in the chest. I watched my arm swing across the table, like I was two metres away from it, like it wasn’t attached to me, swiping the papers onto the floor, sending the pencils clattering dully after them.