Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
He’s not too harsh, but he’s also not exactly gentle either.
I wrap one arm around his hip as he leans on his right side, flexing his knee up and out of the way so he doesn’t inadvertently hit me in the face with it. This position presses his residual limb into the mattress but it doesn’t bother him. The incision has been healed for a while, but I know the site is still sensitive for him. It’s why Anthony has been putting off fitting him for a temporary prosthetic.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants over and over with each forward thrust of his hips.
As soon as I reach up and tug on his sac, he freezes. For a split second, I think I made a mistake.
“Goddamn. Swallow, Brynn.”
Cum rushes over my tongue, and I don’t hesitate to do exactly what he’s asked of me.
I want to cry by the time he settles on his back, his breaths rushing past his lips erratically.
This is the part I hate. The minutes right after where he sticks around because he must feel some sort of gentlemanly obligation. It always ends the same, with him getting out of bed and rushing to take a shower as if he can’t imagine having me on his skin.
I know it’s breaking me. It’s chipping away at me slowly, but even that knowledge hasn’t kept me away from him. I could easily take a step back and realize what we’re doing is toxic, but there’s also a part of me that’s trying to convince myself that we’re consensual adults having a little fun.
Neither side of that coin are appealing to me.
If I had a therapist, I know what they’d tell me to do.
And like every patient I’ve ever encountered that’s doing something that feels good but has the potential to end up hurting them, I’ve convinced myself I’m fine with it.
Chapter 20
Aro
I frown at the weight bench on the back porch. It’s nothing compared to what we have back at the clubhouse. I’ve been making do with it for weeks and weeks, but that lack of options it provides is starting to get annoying.
There are only so many exercises you can do for upper body, and the options are even more limited with the caution I’m told to take while lifting weights.
It’s a whole different workout when you’re doing barbell curls while trying to also maintain balance on one fucking leg.
I kick at the fucking bench, and I can’t decide if I want to laugh or fucking cry at the sight of my amputated leg sweeping out in front of me a foot and a half too goddamned short to actually do any damage to the fucking weight bench.
I hate the weekends.
Well, I hate this weekend.
Slick asked Anthony if the massages were still necessary with the progress I’ve made, and he told her no. Now that I’m fully on the cane and doing well, I should be fine without them.
I lived for those fucking weekend massages. I craved them. It was always the prelude to sex with her.
To make matters worse, I meditated on Thursday without having a panic attack. Honestly, it wasn’t meditation. It was fifteen minutes of me fantasizing about her riding my cock while she meditated. When the timer went off, she gave a huge smile, told me I did well, and then she fucking walked away.
I need the fucking sex as much as they tell me I need the counseling and PT.
I feel a little psychotic as I make my way back inside.
We’ve been here for weeks and weeks, and I’m going fucking stir-crazy, but at the same time doing shit is exhausting, and I have fucking calluses on my hand from having to put so much pressure on the damn cane Anthony insisted I use. Apparently it’s hard now but will make it better when I have a prosthetic. It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. I’m basically hopping along while using a cane to lean on. I read up on the shit. Canes are meant to be used on your “good” side.
“You seem extra agitated this morning,” Slick says when I practically fall into a chair at the dining room table.
I scowl at her, refusing to tell her that maybe if she sucked my cock I’d be in a better mood.
None of this is her fault. She happens to be the only one around.
I haven’t heard from anyone since I spoke to Ugly a few weeks ago and maybe if I’d gotten off on Thursday or had a massage-turned-hot-fuck to look forward to this weekend, my mood wouldn’t be so damn bad.
“I think I’m going to go for a drive,” she says as she stands from the table.
She doesn’t offer to take me with her, but she doesn’t close the front door behind her either.