Your Loss by Layla Simon

CHAPTER SIX

LOCK

The flashof terror in her face gets my pulse racing. Her eyes go so wide, I could fall into them, losing myself in the swirling colours of her iris, drawn deeper into the black pool of her pupils, never to escape.

Her breath hitches, mouth falling open.

It’s too tempting to resist. I lean forward, plunging my tongue into the open cavity, feeling as she resists, then succumbs, then resists again, unsure what the rules are.

She’s not the only one. I never know what I want to take until the need swells inside me.

I pull back, grabbing the top of her dress in one hand, holding the knife ready in the other. I control the cut, severing the fabric slowly until I reach the roll where it bundles atop her abdomen. Then I twist the blade away and tear the material with my bare hands, enjoying the tiny shriek George gives as it rends apart.

Sitting back, I let my eyes wander over her exposed flesh. The creamy skin flushes with deep crimson stains over her chest, the blotches stretching up to claim her neck with its scarlet fingers.

I touch the tip of the blade between her breasts, stabbing into the front clasp of her bra. Her throat works, contracting as she swallows, but she keeps whatever words her eyes desperately want to say locked inside that luscious mouth.

Again, I lean forward, this time taking her top lip between mine and sucking. Her tongue darts out nervously, like a redshirt venturing out to see if the way is clear. I pull back, letting my teeth graze against the underside of her lip, switching top for bottom and starting the process again.

My teeth sink into the tender flesh, sampling it with a nip, then strengthening that into a bite. Her muscles grow tenser, hands twitching on the pillow above her head like they want to join in the action, but she’s being good. She’s obeying.

The pulse in her neck throbs with such force I can see the jump from each heartbeat. I release her lower lip, seeing the line my teeth made go from pale pink to darkest red as her blood soldiers march in to repair the damage.

Her eyes flicker to mine, then dart to the side, like she’s afraid to look at me. I tilt her head to face directly upwards with my free hand, the other one bringing the knife up to touch the tender skin of her upper throat, dimpling the skin but not yet breaking.

I move it down, letting the blade press against her skin but not so hard that it risks cutting her, of drawing blood. Just indenting a line in her flesh, the knife moving in tandem with my eyes as it discovers her body, gets used to it, commits the finer points to memory.

At first, she flinches away. The longer I rest the blade against her skin, the less she responds like that, instead relaxing and softening her body where the metal touches her. When I reach her belly button, I insert the tip into the hollow, smiling as it looks like it’s driving into her flesh.

Lower down, I use the blade to slice through the legs of her underwear, gathering the remaining scrap of fabric and throwing it to the side, revealing her pussy in all its glory. I hold the lips apart and she recoils, panting, her chest visibly moving up and down.

I hold the position for a moment, letting her get used to it, to filter through the possibilities in her mind. Gradually, her muscles lose their tension. I can’t work out if it’s sorely misplaced trust or if she’s physically incapable of staying in such a high state of alert.

Either way, I want to test those limits.

I move the knife, teasing either side with the blade and watching her react, then overreact in the opposite direction, then react again. She’s trying not to move, her hands fisting above her head, but wriggling and squirming in her efforts to stay still.

A sheen of wetness clings to her inside flesh, the prettiest shades of pink, from the palest rose to the flushed intensity of crimson.

As I watch, she becomes more aroused, now slick with her own fluids. Beautiful. Entrancing.

When I lay the tip of the knife against her inner folds, her thighs briefly squeeze and I hold my breath, wondering if the change in pressure is enough to cause an injury.

She makes a sound, a slow whimper like she’s sprung a leak. I move the blade, cautious, careful, wanting all the sensation of danger but not wanting to hurt her beyond the fear.

I withdraw it, turning the knife and placing the handle against her entrance. The whimper turns to a gasp, but she’s still being such an obedient girl for me. Even though she doesn’t know the blade now faces away from her. I increase the pressure and lean forward, placing my tongue against the handle, against her. Licking as her wetness increases, welcoming the invasion, inviting it inside.

“Do you want me to fuck you with it?” I ask in a low whisper. “Are you going to be a good girl and let me fuck you with my knife?”

She inhales a gasp and I take that as an invitation, inserting the handle two inches inside her. As her thighs twitch, I wonder what it feels like. To be in such a vulnerable position with someone she doesn’t know.

To think at any moment, she might feel the sharp pain as I slice her insides.

If I could rewind, this would be how I’d make her come. Not with my tongue but with a knife, drawing an orgasm out of her with the constant threat of injury propelling it forward.

Perhaps later if my hand is equal to the challenge. I’d hate for the tremor of a hangover to turn the intended pleasure into accidental pain.

But for now, I’ve seen enough. I want more than a tease.

I withdraw the knife, sucking her juices off the handle. I grip it in my fist and put it to the side, where she can see it and know it isn’t still poised ready to slice through her skin.

Getting to my knees, I move up her body again until I’m staring directly down at her. With my right hand, I hold the knife against the bed, visible from the corner of her eye if she glances in that direction.

My left hand grips her chin, ensuring we’re face to face. Even with her head held steady, her eyes escape to the side.

“Look at me,” I command in a low voice, as gentle as I can make it with my thickening vocal cords.

She forces herself to comply, teeth tugging on her bottom lip before a wince shows I’ve left it in too tender a state to do that. Her blinks multiply, tumbling over themselves to offer a brief respite, a rest, a tiny break in having to meet my gaze. Fluttering like she’s trying to flirt with a stranger across a crowded dancefloor, when I know the reverse is true.

“You want me to fuck you or cut you?”

Her arms jump, the muscles trying out fight or flight on their limited scale. Her nostrils pull together and I wait, wondering if she’s going to lose her current battle and give in to tears as sweet as the one I sampled earlier.

The last time I asked a girl this question, she collapsed into hysterics, pleading with me not to hurt her, tears and hitching breaths and squeaks and plea after plea after plea while snot ran down her blotchy face.

But George rallies. I’m almost pulling for her when she whispers, “Fuck me.”

“Take your bra off.” I lean over to stab the knife into my bedside table, the wood scarred where I’ve done it a dozen times before. When she scrabbles behind her back in a panic, I cup her shoulders, holding her steady. “Slowly. I’m not in any hurry tonight. Make it sexy.”

The order wipes her brain for a split second, and she freezes, then manages a watery smile. She slips her arm from one strap, then holds the cups in place while she reaches for the other, and abruptly stops moving altogether.

“Come on,” I say in encouragement, wriggling my fingertips close to the lower edge. “It’s far too late to be shy.”

The panic in her eyes increases at my words and I notice she’s gripping one side of her bra more than the other.

“Put your hands above your head again,” I whisper, curious what she’s hiding in there. The world’s tiniest knife? Another jewellery case? A nipple ring that got knocked askew during the evening.

My mouth waters at the last; I can feel the sharp zing of metal against my tongue. She takes an age to follow my instructions and when she does, I see the crinkle of plastic poking from the side of her cup.

“You got on my case about drinking but you’re hiding drugs?” I say, gleefully pulling her stash out and shaking the tiny baggie in front of her. “What’re these? Oxy? Molly?”

She shakes her head, tongue nervously darting out to wet her lips. “They’re like Xanax?”

“Sounds like a question rather than an answer.” I pull open the seal and tip the pills into my hand, rolling them back and forth. No stamp. No number. No markings at all and the pills have too crumbly a surface to be factory made. “Have they been sitting in there the whole time?”

The panic explodes, convulsing her features before she gets control of them. “Yeah. I thought they m-might help me relax enough to sleep.”

“Sleep?” I click my tongue against my teeth. “What’s keeping you awake at night?” I tip forward, bending to her ear. “Do you lie there fantasising how you’ll pay off your daddy’s debt?”

She licks her lips again, the bottom one swelling now from my earlier nip.

“One each?”

I press a tablet between her lips and watch as her eyes contort with messages she desperately wants to conceal. The pill sits below her lips, pushed out of her mouth. My fingertip pushes it between them again, and I watch as her tongue refuses it for the second time.

Refusing to swallow her pills.

Herpills. That she brought into my house.

Refusing to take them like she knows they’re not what she’s making them out to be.

Startled tingles swirl across the back of my neck. The thrill of danger. My brain tries to rally, to think things through, but it’s drowning in the alcohol I poured over it earlier.

“What the fuck are these?”

“I t-told you—”

I reach over and take the knife, jerking it out of the wood. “Take the pill.”

“N-no, I don’t want to sleep just—”

She falters as I point the tip of the knife towards her eyes, resting it against the sensitive skin at the side.

At dinner, I moved her. Just to the other side of me, but still…

If I hadn’t, my mother’s plate would have been easily accessible, along with her glass. My father seated just one place setting farther away.

Not an impossible feat. Not for someone with determination. Someone who I don’t really know the first thing about. Someone who has fake names up the wazoo. A trait I found annoying and amusing but which my father might have been right to question.

My voice is soft as I tell her, “Take the pill.”

That more than anything gets me. That he might have been right. I can’t stand my father being right.

She sticks her tongue out, searching for the tablet she so recently rejected. There’s so much fear swimming in her expression that I can’t parse out what belongs to the knife, the threats I’ve already given, the threats yet to come, or the unmarked white tablet that she so far has failed to snag.

“Here. Let me help you.” I push the pill nearer, watching as her tongue sticks to it and pulls it inside. “Show me,” I say after she grimaces her way through swallowing. “Let me see you’ve taken it.”

She opens her mouth wide, tongue flicking up to the roof, then lolling out like an overheated dog. “Can I…?” She swallows again, wincing. “Can I have some water?”

“No.”

Her reaction is a slight frown but there are no other symptoms to suggest the contents of the pill were anything other than what she described. I’m tempted to take the other because tonight has been a disaster but have enough sense to leave it. Even if it’s just what she claims, on top of what I’ve drunk tonight, it won’t be a good idea.

“You want the second one?”

Her head whips from side to side. “I didn’t want the first.”

She blanches a moment later, apparently her brain and her mouth aren’t quite in synch. A strange decision, to bring drugs she doesn’t want to take to a party, but I let it go.

Now I’m reassured she’s not trying to kill me or a member of my family, other considerations come back to the fore.

I tug at her bra with the tip of the knife, holding it aloft like a prize being ridden out of battle.

Her tits are as tiny and perfect as the glimpses in the department store promised they would be. I toss the bra aside and spear the knife into the sidetable again to concentrate on them, brushing one nipple with the ball of my thumb then changing sides, making them contract further than the chill air alone could manage.

“So sweet.” I bend and take one in my mouth, palming the other. It’s so flat it’s ridiculous, like feeling up a small boy. The slight curve underneath is almost lost at this angle, lying on her back they’re even flatter than when she’s standing.

I trail my tongue from her nipple down to that curve, then swivel my face to the side to draw more into my mouth, trying to get enough purchase to bite. I can’t, my teeth graze along the skin rather than finding a grip. I change position and attack from another angle, this time earning enough of a mouthful that I can close my mouth and experience the sweet give of flesh, biting deeper until I hear the cry catch in the back of her throat. I release it, smiling against her skin as I kiss the abrasion all better.

“Do you like that?” I ask, my words muffled against her midriff where I try to gain purchase with my teeth, again failing against her concave stomach. Far too concave, even for such a small girl. Scrawny instead of thin.

She needs just the tiniest bit of fattening up and my grin grows wider at the thought of force feeding her just so there’s enough padding to bite her from head to toe.

My molars ache with the desire to chew on something substantial. Craving the sensation so badly I pull one of her hands down from over her head, sucking her forefinger into my mouth and clamping my teeth over it, eyes closing as the resistance sends a pulse of pure pleasure to my crotch from my jaw.

“Ah.” The sound escaping her compressed lips is tiny, but I open my eyes, drinking in her pain.

It’s exquisite.

I release her finger and move lower, snapping my teeth over a chunk of her thigh, applying enough pressure that when I pull my head back, an imprint of my teeth remains behind, like I bit into a receptive mould.

Retracing my path, I kiss each of the marks I’ve left on her, rubbing them with my thumb when they’re not blushing enough for my liking. At her tits, I stop again, sucking in a nipple and holding the very tip between my front teeth, holding it, holding it, hearing the whimper while she wonders whether I’ll increase the pressure, bite down, bite it off.

With my right hand, I reach down between her legs, stroking her wet slit, easing my finger inside, feeling the slippery rush as her body reacts so positively to my actions that it might as well spread out a warm wet welcome mat to usher me inside.

My head draws back, keeping the same pressure, until the bud pops free. Then I fall on her neck, nibbling, biting, sucking, grazing her tender, tender skin. Marking her. Biting so hard that the metallic warmth of her blood is just the tiniest sliver away.

“Should I… Do you want…?”

Her words crumble as I draw back to examine her face, unsure what she could find pressing enough to ask me about right now.

“My last boyfriend liked me to…” her fingers spasm as she trails off.

“Liked you to…?”

“To touch him.”

“If you want to grab my cock, you can just say so.”

She bites her bottom lip, wincing as she remembers too late that I got there first. “Only if you…”

I thought she’d be crying by now and instead of being afraid of what I might do next, she’s offering to help. To wank me off while I eat her in a far more literal sense than she should be used to.

The confusing response makes me curious enough that I roll off to the side, landing on my back. “Go ahead. You can touch anything on me you want to.”

George sits up, biting on the side of her thumbnail as she looks at me. To help her make a choice, I unbutton my shirt, then my trousers, then lie back with my hands behind my head.

Her hand darts over to rest against my abdomen, so cold that I belatedly consider buying the girl a jacket and gloves.

“Your boyfriend liked you to put your icy hands on his stomach?” I tease, watching as she wrinkles her nose and gives the tiniest shake of her head.

Her hand heads south but so slowly it’s going to miss the last train if it doesn’t get a move on. The fingers dance over my naval, light enough to make me quiver, then duck under the waistband of my boxers.

“I feel like there should be a rule. If you’re going to touch sensitive objects, you should warm your hands the same way a doctor would warm a stethoscope.”

“I thought you liked pain?”

She sneaks a glance at me, mischievous, possibly guessing my answer is ‘yeah, other people’s.’

Her head dips low, her eyes redirecting to what her hands are up to rather than looking at me. I brush some hair away from the side of her face to give me a clearer view. Now her lower lip is swollen nearly twice its size, her beauty is even more obvious. I feel a pang of hatred for the ‘last boyfriend’ she referenced. Right now, I’d prefer to be the one and only. The first. The last. The only one in between.

Her hand clasps around my cock, tentative fingers growing more confident as they slide up and down the full length.

I could grab her hair, force her head down, clamp her jaw, hurting her until she opens her mouth and gives me access. The gentle touch doesn’t offer nearly enough stimulation, but I wait, still entranced by the thought of what she might do.

“Is that okay?”

“If we were in year ten, sure.”

She stops moving. The derogatory tone acting like a handbrake.

It’s not even true. If someone had offered to touch me like this in year ten, I would have been ecstatic, but I would have been equally thrilled in years eleven and twelve. Right until the moment my father rid himself of his old family to replace it with a sparkly new one, in fact.

From then on, my name alone has been enough to attract attention. The money. The notoriety. The power. It’s like girls think they can suck a piece of that straight out of my cock, even if I’m the Mark II version of the golden child.

A difference then to be touched by someone who’d probably rather be anywhere but here. Who’d rather she just be left alone.

“You need some lubrication, otherwise, you’ll rub my skin off.”

“Oh.” Her eyes flick up again to check I’m not kidding, then she gently moves her hand again. “Do you have like a tube or something?”

There’s always some hand cream within easy reach but that’s too simple a solution to suit my current mood. I want her tongue on me. “Most girls use their saliva.”

She stares at me with her brows furrowed, creating the cutest little V on the bridge of her nose. When I nod, believe me, she turns back to the job in hand. Moving a little to sit upright, she spits straight on my dick.

In a second my enthusiasm is replaced by revulsion.

“What the actual fuck?” I push her to the side, stripping off my shirt and using it to wipe myself clean. “Are you for real?”

“I-I… You s-said…”

“By licking it. Jesus.” I shake my head then stop, doubling over as I fight against the urge to dissolve into laughter. “Have you never given someone a hand job before?”

She moves away, hitching her knees up to her chest, looking equal parts worried and embarrassed. “Not with my tongue. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Come here.” I grab her by the back of the neck when she doesn’t move fast enough, dragging her back where she was. “You’re a virgin, yeah?”

George shakes her head so violently it’s like I just insulted her family going back ten generations.

“Right.” I roll my eyes. “But you’ve never—”

She cuts me off, blurting, “You don’t have to be so judgemental!”

I sit back for a second, trying to work out if this little Miss Nobody who’s only in my house because I saved her from the consequences of her father’s habits actually believes she’s living in some crazy parallel universe where it’s okay to shout at me.

Because, no. It is not.

I stand, removing my trousers and boxers and tossing them in the hamper before coming back to the bed, mounting it from the side closest to her.

“Let’s get back to where we started, okay? You lie down and keep your trap shut. I’ll do whatever the fuck I like to you, then you can go home and lick your wounds.”

“You could explain.” She holds her arms in front of her like a shield. “I’m not as experienced as you but that doesn’t mean you have to shout at me for not knowing something. How else am I meant to learn?”

“Do I look like your fucking teacher?” I roll back on top of her, pinning her in place with my weight, staring into her narrowed eyes. “Learn on your own time.” I grab her jaw in one hand, pinching my fingers to grip it in place. “But fine. Lesson one. No. Fucking. Spitting. Okay?”

The force of my words means some spittle lands on her face, but I guess that’ll serve her as a reminder of why it’s so incredibly gross.

Detour over, I reach down with my other hand and slap her thighs apart. With her panties sliced and diced on the floor, only her stockings and suspenders remain in place, her heels catching on the sheets as she tries to move away.

“Wait!” Her voice is so full of panic that I stop, holding onto my last scrap of patience. “What about protection?”

And… I’m done.

I sit up, grabbing her hips and flipping her over before settling my weight back on top of her, jutting my pelvis so it drives her deeper into the mattress. Her tentative strokes might have been a million miles from anything that could bring me to completion, but it made me hard as granite.

While she tries to wriggle her arms free, I reach down and spread her from the rear, dipping my middle finger in, then curling it out, spreading her juices all the way along to the clenched bud of her hole.

“I’m going in raw, so you get to decide. If you’re that worried about protection, do you want me in your pretty little arsehole, or should I go back to plan A and take your tight wee cunt?”

She jerks, trying to scrabble away, but it’s such a mismatched attempt I laugh. Her efforts grow stronger, bucking wildly under me, each action making me grow harder, wearing down my thinning restraint.

“Please… don’t…”

As I sit back on my heels, I grab her by the throat and tug her backwards, standing up on my knees as she rises and pulling her hard against me. Her hands fly up to tug at my hand, encircling her tiny neck. So tiny, I could probably snap it with little effort. I position my fingers an inch apart along her windpipe and squeeze. Not even hard, just to let her know how much worse things could get.

“I gave you your choices. Pick one or I’ll pick for you.”

While my left hand holds her neck, I fist myself with my right hand, guiding it between her thighs, my head nudging into her entrance, feeling how ready she is for me, no matter what her current protestations are.

“Is that what you want?” I press my forehead against her cheek, speaking directly into her ear, voice barely above a growl. Then I let go of myself and stroke her again, teasing my finger around her tight hole. “Or is this—?”

She bucks against me in such terror that she’s almost strong enough to break my hold. Whatever experience she has with anal, her current distress suggests it wasn’t good and that’s fine by me. I’m a tab A into slot B type of guy, not yet so bored with basic fucking that I need to experiment. I wrestle her back down until her head is flush against the pillow, cupping her cheek and pushing back her hair for a better view.

The panic. The fear. The sweat gathering at her hairline and dotting her upper lip. I love it.

My thumb strokes the same path as my finger, taking its own sweet time, while my eyes devour every change to her expression.

When her pupils have blown out so far I can barely see the irises, I relent. My hand gives one last stroke of her hair, then moves to grab her hip, holding her steady as I line myself up with her entrance. “You’re so cute. Why would I stick it inside your filthy little arsehole when I can fuck your tight, sweet cunt instead?”

She’s forgotten all about condoms, forgotten about safety, forgotten everything in the moments of blind panic. Forgotten it so when I pump my hips and bury the head of my cock inside her, she moans with pleasure instead of tightening with trepidation.

I leave myself there, her muscles gripping me, trying to pull me deeper. Her pelvis tips, making it easier for me to drive inside her and I do, going from zero to a hundred in one thrust, then pausing again, reading every change on her face, my cock feeling every vibration in her body.

I slowly withdraw, relishing the drag as her walls try to hold me in place and utterly fail. She’s so wet, there’s a soft slurping noise as I ease back. Her mouth is open, sucking in breath and as I pump my full length inside her again, I lean forward, thrusting three of my fingers into her mouth at the same time.

She opens around them, sucking, struggling a little when I get so deep that she’s close to gagging. Like a trooper, she fights past the urge.

I let go of her hip with my other hand and stroke her cheek, trace the path where her watering eyes release their tears. I press the heel of my hand onto the back of her head, holding her steady with the pressure against the pillow, against the mattress. Hold her steady as I thrust my fingers inside, pull them back, thrust them forward again, the soft cave of her mouth and the wet muscle of her tongue so similar to her tight cunt wrapping around my cock that the surge of desire almost makes me come even though I’ve barely started.

As I pull my hand back, she sucks each finger clean, her tongue almost as rough as a kitten’s. Her mouth pulls again at nothing as I wipe my hand against the sheets and return it to grip her hip, to hold her steady as I pound into her.

I go slow at first, relishing the friction, the wet heat that announces how much she wants me inside her despite her protests. When my full length is buried within her, I pause, relishing the sensation. The one thing that Kari can’t give me, even if she wants to.

It feels so good. Like everything about this girl, it’s better than expected. Like God smiled on me and decided I needed a treat for every piece of shit I’ve grimly fought my way through these past years.

I slam into her, picking up speed, thrusting so hard and fast that I’m surprised she doesn’t break apart under the force. Even when I grab a handful of her hair, using it to pull her head back until I can grasp her throat and squeeze, she gives a groan that sounds like appreciation, not discomfort. It sounds like she’s begging for more.

Even if more isn’t what she asks for, more is what she gets.

Her muscles work on me, squeezing and releasing like milking my cock is a fad new exercise on all the morning tv shows. Her backside is smooth, the flesh surprisingly plump, begging for a smack.

I slap her right cheek, barely using any force, turning the pale skin just the slightest shade of red. The left cheek gets one degree harder, the stain lasting longer until I smooth it away with my palm.

Her throat vibrates under my hand, soft sounds emerging, fuelling me to slow down, work my way deeper inside her, take my time, rewarding her until she purrs, the same way she feels like a reward to me.

To choke her when she’s being so lovely about taking my cock seems cruel.

I loosen my grip, leaving my fingers where they are so I can still feel the sounds she’s making, more vibration than volume, but they no longer dig into her flesh, they no longer drag against her windpipe, threatening her air.

She gasps in a breath, and another, then her arm reaches behind her, searching for something. I slap her arsecheek again in case she’s forgotten who’s in charge. The movement pauses, then resumes until I understand she’s reaching for my hand, and I let her take it.

For the second time, she confuses me. Does something unexpected.

She intertwines her fingers in mine, clasping them tightly enough my knuckles protest. Using me as an anchor as her breathing quickens, like she’s welcoming me into her pleasure.

I pull her upright against me, my hand moving to cup her chin rather than staying wrapped around her throat. She drags our clasped hands to press between her tits, clenching so tightly that my bones rub against each other.

The soft cry deep in her throat as she comes is perfection. Her muscles move around me, the orgasm taking hold in small pulses that take a while to build, then twice as long to fade away.

She turns her face, her large eyes staring straight into mine before I claim her mouth, not caring how I twist her neck to access her lips, just needing the touch, needing that softness, almost startled when her tongue reaches out to tease mine, coaxing me as my final thrusts carry me into my release, convulsing inside her as she pushes her arse back against me, urging me deeper and deeper until I’m spent and we collapse forward onto the bed.

For long minutes, I don’t move, breathing in the scent of her, of me, my arms holding her firmly, my forehead lost in the soft hairs on the back of her neck.

When I disentangle from her, my cum coats her thighs. I slip off the bed, then disappear into the ensuite to clean myself with a washcloth. Once finished, I rinse it out a few times, then walk back to the bed to find her crying. Something I wouldn’t have minded earlier but that I’m at a loss to explain now.

“Sorry,” she says, wiping her tears away with the back of her wrist. “I’m not upset. I promise.”

Taking her at her word, I gently push her back until she’s supine on the bed and wipe her clean. When I finish, she’s gained control of herself and after I toss the cloth into the sink, I return to lie behind her, enjoying her small frame within my arms.

For long moments, we stay like that. All the stress, anger, and anxiety of the day disappears into the past as my body relaxes, curling around hers like a wall of protection.

“I’ve never…” she starts, then dissolves into tears again.

I roll her onto her back, catching one with my thumb and tasting it, saltier than the tear she shed earlier, but that could equally be sweat from our exertions.

“You said you weren’t a virgin.”

“I’m n-not,” she stutters out, hitching in a new breath. “But I’ve never come before. Not with somebody.” The tears leak out again. “I thought I was defective but that w-was s-s-so g-good.”

She gives a funny little snort, then falls asleep.

I lie beside her, propped up on one elbow, staring with contentment at her peaceful face. Even when I stroke my forefinger along the side of her cheek, she doesn’t wake. Nor when I explore further, cupping one of her perfect, tiny tits in my hand.

I would have preferred to be her first, but, on consideration, being her best has its own appeal.

There’s shit I should go downstairs and sort out. My dad expects an apology. If I give it to him now, I won’t have his cold shoulder to bear for the next couple of months.

But I don’t want to move. Not from this strange girl who went from thinking I’m a monster to a saviour just because she’s never had serious D.

It’s weird to be the good guy.

I pull her closer, wondering how long I should wait before initiating round two. A nap first sounds like the ticket, then I’ll have to make a mental note to wake in an hour or so. I don’t want to waste the entire night.