Where's Molly, page 7
The butterflies in my stomach become volatile. They’re unable to handle Cage eating me alive—whether it’s because they're frightened that they'll be devoured next, or if it's because they know that by the time he's done, I’ll be in ruins and there will be nothing left of me. No home for them to live.
He sucks my clit into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh and sending goosebumps scattering across my skin. Already, I feel an orgasm building low in the pit of my stomach, and while I want nothing more than to lose myself in it, I don’t know that I’m ready for the aftermath.
“Don’t stop,” I choke out despite myself.
He sucks harder, showing me that stopping is the last thing on his mind. Then, he releases my thighs and flattens his palms on my stomach before gliding them up to my breasts and cupping them roughly, smearing the blood further across my flesh.
His fingers pluck my nipples, and once again, I feel his teeth graze my clit. The threat is imminent, as if to say that if I don’t come soon, I will be punished.
It's a warning that I have no choice but to heed.
His tongue continues to work me, and after a few more seconds, I feel myself approaching the mouth of a volcano, where I’ll peer inside, only to be blown to smithereens by the catastrophic eruption.
His tongue flicks, and I’m leaning over the fiery mouth. It flicks again, and I’m completely decimated.
Vaguely, I hear the scream erupting from my mouth as violently as the orgasm washing over me. I think I cry out Cage’s name, but at this moment, the only thing I can be sure of is that I’ll never be the same once I come down.
Bright bursts of color explode in my otherwise blackened vision, and the entirety of my body seizes against his face. My hips gyrate mindlessly, where his tongue is still flattened against me.
By the time I come down, it feels like I’ve traveled light years and back. Like I have an entirely new lifetime of experiences.
Panting heavily, I open my eyes, though my vision is still blurred and unreliable. Cage is slipping out from beneath me, and the heat of his body envelops me a moment later, his front pressing into my back. Despite the warm air blowing through the open barn doors, I shiver.
“I have bad news,” he whispers darkly.
“What’s that?” I croak.
His hot breath fans across the shell of my ear, and the effect is no worse than when a predator is watching you and there's nowhere to run.
“I’m still hungry.” His voice is as deep as a mountain and as rough as the rock it’s made of.
My bottom lip finds itself between my teeth, and I clamp down until I feel a sharp sting.
I have no fucking idea what to say to that. All I know is that he could take whatever he wants from me, and I would gladly give it to him.
His rough palms fan across either side of my hips, leaving tiny little embers in his wake.
“I need more,” he rasps.
“You can have me,” I whisper.
Dangerous words to say to a predator, but it’s been so long since I’ve felt this alive.
In response, I hear the clink of his metal belt buckle, followed by the sound of it pulling free from the loops of his black jeans.
My muscles swell with anticipation. For a moment, I’m transported back to when I was twenty-five with the same domineering presence crowding over me. And while it was terrifying, it was equally fucking thrilling.
Soft leather brushes across my neck, barely giving me time to register it before it's looped through the buckle and being pulled tight. My eyes round, and the startled sound from my throat scarcely escapes before it’s constricted, allowing me just enough air to stay conscious.
Then, the telltale sign of metal teeth breaking apart follows. What little breath I have comes out in short, excited bursts. Fabric shuffles, and I glance over my shoulder to see him kneeling behind me, completely naked.
“You shouldn't be real,” I croak.
He was beautiful nine years ago, but now, he’s otherworldly. Surely, a mirage I’ve constructed in my brain after too many years of isolation. His body is made up of muscles packed beneath tattooed flesh. Solid, but lean. A perfect combination that creates a masterpiece da Vinci fucking wishes he had invented.
He reaches forward and brushes his thumb gently over the teeth prints on my cheekbone.
“I have a feeling you shouldn’t be alive. Yet here you are.” His stare is affectionate, though it borders on obsession. “And I’m so fucking lucky that you are.”
I don’t know if I’d ever consider myself lucky, but at this moment, I think I feel the same.
Then, he's tugging on the belt around my neck and roughly hauling me back into his chest. I gasp, my brain slow to process as my body conforms to his demands without thought. The pressure of his palm against my lower back follows, encouraging it to bow until I'm curved into a perfect C, my ass and the crown of my head pressed against him. His other hand cups the underside of my jaw, keeping me firmly in place.
He stares down at me with a savage expression, his mouth poised above mine.
“I love how easily you bend for me.”
“Just don't expect me to break,” I counter breathlessly.
He hums, as if that's yet to be determined. “But that's my favorite part,” he croons against my lips.
His cock teases my entrance, slipping through my pussy with ease.
“Are you on birth control?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Though you should’ve asked sooner in case I wasn’t.”
He chuckles wickedly. “I still wouldn’t have cared.”
Before I can muster a response, he's pushing inside me. My mouth drops open, and he’s licking my bottom lip, the act nearly as erotic as him splitting me in half. I'm trembling in his hold, and when he's halfway in, he pauses.
“Can't take it?” he asks devilishly.
“N—”
He drives himself completely inside me, not bothering to wait for my answer.
A choked scream greets his savage smile, burning pain at being stretched so suddenly taking over for a moment. But then he begins to roll his hips, and I'm reminded why he was impossible to forget after one night.
“I forgot to mention, you don't have a choice.” He places a sweet kiss on my lips, something that would be a direct contrast to his words had it not felt condescending.
“Asshole,” I choke out, though the word is weak as he easily dominates my pussy. My attention is already hyper-fixating on the intense pleasure radiating from between my thighs.
“Careful with the words that fall out of your mouth, baby. I might get confused and claim that, too.”
“You wouldn't,” I growl.
He pauses again, and his expression portrays utter conviction.
“I would do anything to show you that you're mine.”
Somewhere between the beginning of his statement and the end, my heart worked its way inside my throat. I'm unable to speak or swallow, only stare at him in shock, for which he takes as confirmation to keep going as if he didn't just rock me to my core.
I blink, and he's fucking me again, tightening the belt around my throat until black spots swarm my vision, though careful not to cut off my oxygen completely.
This time, he sets a steady yet thorough pace, ensuring to watch my reactions closely. Within half a minute, he's targeted a sensitive spot inside me and focuses on stroking right there until my eyes are fluttering.
It shouldn't be so easy for someone to be able to pick me apart like that, but there's not a single inch of me that gives a fuck right now. I wouldn't even be capable if I tried.
“Cage,” I moan, my brows furrowing as the sensations become too intense. I strain against his hold, attempting to curl my hips forward, if only so it gives me a moment to fucking breathe.
“Where’re you going?” he barks, bringing me back to him. Then, he laughs, the sound savage. “Did you really think I couldn’t break you when you can barely take me?” he questions arrogantly.
“I’m taking you just fine,” I bite out, my eyes threatening to cross when he hits a spot that feels otherworldly.
“Then why are you trying to run away?” he whispers wickedly.
I want to slap him, but I’m so overwhelmed by the pleasure that I can hardly formulate a snappy response.
“Fuck,” I cry, squeezing my eyes shut as he fucks me harder.
“I know you can do better, baby. Let me see you take my cock like a good little slut.”
A sharp moan pours from my throat, followed by his name.
Once more, he's licking along the seam of my lips, as if to taste his name on my tongue. Just as his mouth covers mine, I feel a warm liquid splatter against my chest.
I flinch, my brain beginning to split and latch on to the fact that I'm being covered in more blood. The corner of his mouth tics up, and he releases my jaw—though his hold on the belt keeps me in place—and flattens his palm against my stomach. He groans into my mouth while he smears the liquid up to my breasts.
While my instinct is to recoil from it, Cage only fucks me harder, seeming to get off on my body being covered in it.
It should disturb me. This entire situation is beyond fucked up. Yet, it becomes impossible to feel a damn thing outside of the orgasm looming just beyond the horizon.
Cries pour from my throat, and he swallows them all, proving just how starved he is.
“Don't stop,” I gasp, my voice strained. “Fuck, Cage, please.”
His lips retreat from mine, trailing up along my cheek. I lose all coherent thought, my surroundings becoming disjointed and incomprehensible. The pleasure is like a disease, shutting down my nervous system and taking control. I'm a puppet to the infection, and there's nothing I can do but succumb.
Time stills, and I shatter just as he releases the belt, sending blood rushing to my head, intensifying the explosion detonating throughout my body.
My bones liquefy, and the muscles surrounding them seize. Vaguely, I feel rather than hear the broken cry leave my throat. A sound that quickly morphs into a scream when I feel something sharp bite into my face.
Directly over the scar beneath my eye.
He groans against me, flesh trapped between his teeth, and his body stills before flooding my pussy with his cum.
Burning pain battles with the euphoria rolling through me in harsh waves. It becomes so overwhelming; it feels like I'm on the verge of combusting.
“Cage!” I squeal, and finally, he releases my cheek.
The plunge back to earth is dizzying, more so when he drops his hand from the belt, allowing me to straighten.
My back aches from being in the same position for so long, so I drop forward, catching myself on both hands as I pant heavily.
Fingers brush over my back, and then his thumbs dig into my tailbone, instantly relieving some pressure.
“Jesus, way to remind me I'm not twenty-five anymore,” I groan.
His soft chuckle reaches my ears, and I work up the nerve to straighten again. I cock my head over my shoulder, meeting a stare that hasn't waned in intensity.
His thumb brushes against my scar gently. “I hope you think of me next time you look in the mirror.”
Insecurity rises, and I’m almost embarrassed that he’s focusing on my trauma so plainly laid out on my face. I’ve always hated my scar, and something inside me rebels against him finding a way to make me accept it. Especially seeing as part of me wants to let him.
I narrow my eyes. “That wasn't cool. Don't do that again.”
His smile widens, not the least bit ashamed.
“It didn't stop you from coming all over my cock, did it?”
“Almost.”
A massive lie.
One he clearly doesn't believe by the way his lip crooks higher.
I expect a smart-ass response, but instead, he leans forward and places a kiss over the bite mark. I’m taken aback when he pulls out of me, distracting me from the surprises he keeps throwing my way. Now that I'm firmly back in reality, I'm realizing once again that I'm covered in the woman's blood.
“Let's go shower. Show me around the rest of the house while you're at it,” he suggests casually.
My mouth pops open. “You—what? No. You're not coming to my house again. You haven't been invited!”
He stands and shoots me a cocky grin.
“Baby, if you keep playing hard to get, I'll fucking move in. Now, let's clean up and shower before I decide I'm hungry again.”
He picks up his jeans and begins to slide them on.
And all I can do is kneel on the floor with my mouth agape and stare at his bare ass being covered.
I hate that it feels like it’s too soon.
Molly
Fourteen Years Ago
2008
It's fucking hot outside, but even the suffocating summer air can’t deter the bone-deep chill washing through me, a reaction that only standing in front of my childhood home can evoke.
The home I was sold from.
It’s a small, yellow one-floor house with missing shingles and dirty siding. It'd be considered cute and quaint in a suburb if it wasn’t so broken down. If it fostered a happy family with loving parents.
However, in Reaper Canyon, a town that’s seen more drug overdoses than gender reveal parties, the only thing that’s been born in this shithole is half of my fucking nightmares. The other half were bred by Francesca and her filthy brother.
“This is so going to get you killed,” I mutter aloud.
At any moment, my parents could stumble out the door, lay eyes on me, and call Francesca.
I'd be forced to leave Layla behind.
I don't have much of a heart left to break, but I'd give her the last piece of me if it meant she'd escape this house of horrors.
It took me two days of hitchhiking and bus rides to get here. An adventure that was almost as terrifying as escaping that house. I covered up my scar with dirt and lied to the drivers, telling them my car broke down on the way home from college, and I needed to get home to my sick mom.
By some grace of God, or Zeus, or whoever, the second driver I came across was a sweet old lady who offered me money. Enough to buy a hoodie from the thrift store, get something to eat, and take a bus the rest of the way home.
I got lucky and can only pray that it’s still on my side.
Steeling my spine, I trudge through the useless, rickety chain-link fence surrounding the house, and head toward the back. My feet kick through overgrown grass that nearly reaches above my knees, the blades getting tangled around my worn shoes.
The back door leads directly into the laundry room. I can't remember the last time Mom or Dad even smelt detergent, let alone used it to clean clothes, so it's a guaranteed area of the house that they won't be in.
Dad’s car is parked outside. There aren’t strange cars like there usually were in the past, so I'm fairly confident they don't have any of their dirty friends over. The only thing I need to worry about is my parents seeing me before I see them.
Adrenaline courses through my bloodstream, amping my heart rate up to catastrophic levels. Eight months ago, I would've never been capable of this. Now, I don't know that I'm capable of feeling anything for anyone outside of my baby sister.
Not even for myself.
Breath stutters out of my lungs, and my lips are bone dry as I silently open the back door. I only crack it far enough to allow my body to fit through. Once it reaches the halfway point, the hinges start creaking.
The house is eerily silent, causing the hairs on my nape to stand on end. Typically, there's a TV playing cartoons in the background—for my dad’s viewing pleasure, not Layla's. Or my mom screaming at the top of her lungs about what a lazy piece of shit my father is and how they have no money for their heroin because of it.
He had no problem yelling back and definitely didn't have an issue with raising his hand to her. She'd walk away with bruises, and he'd storm out the front door to go score them some more drugs, which resulted in them owing more people money.
They were dirt poor—until they sold me, of course.
Working to swallow, I creep over the pile of dirty clothes discarded haphazardly on the rotting, filthy, white linoleum floor.
I peek around the corner into the filthy kitchen. Aqua blue cupboard doors sag open, unable to close anymore. Dishes are piled in the rusting sink with flies buzzing above them, remnants of food and mold caked onto the steel and cutlery. They’re also scattered across the peeling countertops, along with several opened bean and soup cans.
I balk at the awful stench. When I lived here, I grew used to it. Except now, the rot and lingering cigarette smoke bleached into the wallpaper is all I can smell. I, at least, tried to keep it clean.
Covering my nose, I make my way through the kitchen and plant myself against the wall next to the entrance of the living room.
Slowly, I peek around the corner, finding it empty. Sweat gathers along my hairline and creeps down my spine.
Everything about this scenario is unusual. And that makes me really fucking nervous.
Fuck, is Layla even here?
If she's not, I don't know what I'll do. I have no resources to find her. I have nothing.
Fucking nothing.
Panic begins to circulate into my system, a dangerous cocktail when mixed with the adrenaline.
But I can't lose my mind right now. Not yet.
“Keep it together, Molly,” I whisper.
Inhaling what's supposed to be a calming breath, but is only toxic fumes, I charge through the empty living room and toward the stairs. My footsteps are silent atop the putrid green carpet covering the room, all the way up the steps and along the short hallway.
I peek into the room to my right first—Layla's nursery. It has a rickety crib inside, the cot within stained, sans a sheet, and with a threadbare blanket.
Relief overtakes me, and tears spring to my eyes, flooding my sinuses and throat until I nearly choke on them.
“Layla,” I squeak, my voice splitting like dry wood.
Blonde hair spills around her like a halo while she slumbers. It's grown longer since I've last seen her. Her cheeks are still too hollow for my liking, but at least she's breathing. And right now, that's the only thing that matters.
