Page 44 of Reckoning

From the angle I’m at, I’ve got a fucking perfect view of her cleavage. She’s put on some weight since her bastard of a husband died but it’s not enough, not nearly enough. Sofia used to be curvy, used to have a proper waist, and thighs that could crush you. Sofia now looks like she’s trying to fade away entirely. She’s skinny, far too skinny - her ribs poke out, her hips jut out. Half her skeleton is on display.

If I had my way, I’d lock her up for her own good. I’d ensure she ate three good meals a day. I’d ensure those delicious curves returned and that smile, that old smile graced her lips.

Only, Roman won’t let me.

I let out a growl then instantly regret it. Thankfully Sofia doesn’t react. She just lies, limp in my arms as if she too is waiting for me to cross the line. As if she wants this as much as I do.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” I whisper, stroking her hair. It’s soft, too soft.

Like all of Sofia it feels fragile.

My hands skim down her body, I don’t think of the rights and the wrongs. I just know that I want this. That Sofia would want this if she was awake, if she wasn’t caught in her trauma. If she were truly present.

I know from that look she gave me the other day, I know that she wants me.

She just doesn’t realise it yet.

When I get to the waistband of her shorts a voice tells me that I’m a monster, that I’m just as bad as Otto. Only I didn’t whore her out. I didn’t rape her repeatedly, or let my mates rape her too.

No, this isn’t rape. It’s the complete opposite. What I’m doing right now is an act of love. What I’m doing right now is teaching my woman what pleasure feels like, reminding her body of everything it should yearn for.

She’s not wet. I guess I should expect that.

As my fingers slide between her folds, she shifts, opening up more for me and if that isn’t an invitation, I don’t know what is.

“Such a good girl.” I praise, even if it’s just her subconscious reacting.

I take my time, enjoying the feel of her, as I explore she lets out a tiny gasp and I feel it, wetness covering my fingers. She’s aroused. Shedoeswant this.

“You want me to play with you?” I say. “You want me to make you come, isn’t that right?”

She doesn’t reply. She just lays there, fast asleep.

I slip a finger inside her. Only one. Two would be too far. Two would stretch her too much and risk her waking. She’s so tight, she feels incredible. I can’t help thrusting, teasing, revelling in the way her muscles grip me. Christ, how would it feel if my cock was inside her? How much would she grip me then?

I’m dying to do it, to rip her panties off entirely and just fuck her the way I want to.

But thatistoo far. That is crossing a boundary. No, when I fuck her I want her to be begging me for it. I want her to be awake, to be staring into my eyes, to have made her already come on my fingers so many times she can’t even think straight.

My thumb finds her clit. I don’t know how she likes it. I don’t know the way she touches herself, if she touches herself, but I find a rhythm that her unconscious body seems to enjoy. I circle that little nub over and over.

She arches her back, her breathing picks up, steadily I can see she’s getting closer to where I want her.

“Such a good girl.” I praise. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Her only response is to leak more arousal, to cover my fingers in her juices.

I wish I could turn the lights on. I wish I could lean down and taste her, but I don’t dare.

Her muscles start to tighten around my finger still buried inside her.

I should stop. I know I should. If she does come there’s a high chance she’ll wake up. That she’ll open her eyes and see me and then I’ll have some serious explaining to do.

But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when she so desperately deserves this. When I deserve this.

“Come for me, Sofia.” I murmur. “Prove that you want this.”

She moans, Christ, does she moan. I thrust harder, too hard. And I pinch her clit almost delirious for what’s about to unfold.