Page 73 of Ghosts Don't Cry

Her body locks up, a strangled moan ripping from her throat, and then she’s gone—convulsing, writhing, grinding down on my hand while she shatters. I feel every desperate pulse, every needy clench around my fingers, every ounce of her surrender. Her pussy spasms around my fingers in waves, hot and tight and perfect, and the sounds she makes … broken, desperate and fuckingmine… almost drag me over the edge with her, and she hasn’t even fucking touched me.

It’s devastating.

It’s too much.

Cold sweat breaks out across my back. My vision tunnels. The ringing in my ears gets louder.

I can’t fucking breathe.

I pull my fingers away, releasing her, and step back so fast she nearly collapses. She catches herself against the wall, chest heaving with each gulped breath.

And I watch her.

Ifuckingwatch her.

The way her legs barely hold her—knees buckling, thighs shaking. The way her lips part on ragged breaths. The way her head lifts and she blinks at me, eyes unfocused, caught somewhere between now and the past, between this moment and every other time I touched her.

I need to leave. Walk away before I say something I’ll regret. Before I drop to my knees and beg her to forgive me for every cruel thing I’m about to do.

Because inside, I’m still that hungry kid who couldn’t stop himself from taking what she offered. I’m still that desperate boy who’d press his fingers into the bruises she left, just to remember she was real.

My hands move on autopilot. I lift them, and suck each finger into my mouth. She whimpers, a broken sound that shoots straight to my dick as I groan, licking each finger clean, slow and filthy, holding her gaze, and making her watch the way I savor her flavor. The taste of her explodes across my tongue, so fucking perfect that I want to drop to my knees for a different reason. I want to bury my face between her legs and make her come again.

Instead, I pull my fingers from my lips, and hum softly, letting the taste settle onto my tongue.

“Just like I remember.”

Her pupils are blown, breath still coming in shallow pulls, the marks I left on her throat and shoulder already darkening, and for one second …one fucking second… I think she’s going to reach for me. Try to pull me back to her, and make me forget all the reasons this can’t happen.

The panic crystallizes sharply. Ice floods my veins. My stomach turns over, nausea rising fast. My hands turn numb.

I won’t let her. Ican’t.

Prison taught me that to survive you have to be untouchable, and she makes me want to be touched. She makes me want things I killed inside myself years ago.

She makes me weak.

Weakness gets you hurt. Gets you used. And ultimately, gets you destroyed. I learned that lesson bleeding out on floors, learned it with every beating I took because I showed the wrong emotion at the wrong time.

My face goes blank. Muscle memory takes over.

I brace a hand against the wall and lean close to her. Her lips part when my head lowers, clearly thinking I’m going to kiss her. I stop when my mouth is less than an inch from hers.

“You’re just like them, you know.” My voice is low and cruel. “Amy and Kate. You think you saw me. But you only ever saw what you wanted to see.”

Her entire body goes rigid. The haze in her eyes, the shattered need, vanishes, replaced by confusion and then anger.

Good. Let her hate me. It’s easier than letting her see how much I still want her. How much what I’m about to do is going to destroy me.

I smirk, dragging my fingers down her spine, and take a step away. My legs feel unsteady. The ground tilts slightly under my feet.

“Next time you want to scratch an itch, baby, pick someone else. I’m not your pet project.”

I turn before she can respond, avoiding whatever is building in her expression.

Before I can change my mind.

Because she’s right. She is the only person who ever fucking saw me. And that kills me.