There’s light approval in his tone. “That’s right, you don’t. But I want you to pretend you do. I want you to put on a good fucking performance, Laurel. I want to feel like you’re my little whore, hungry for my cock. I want to feel like you crave me. Like you want to fucking devour me.” Reaching a hand down and running it along my jaw, he ignores the way I lean into it. “You convince me and I won’t hurt you. Got it?”
I nod my head one more time.
I shouldn’t. I should say “plutonium” and see what happens. I’m fairly certain this would stop. I’m fairly certain he would leave. He would know I really do want this to stop, so he would leave me here kneeling for no one, and we would never have to talk about this again.
But there’s that sliver of a chance he wouldn’t stop, and then this would turn into something scarier than what it is right now.
Right now it’s just a blow job. I can handle a blow job. Never given one at gunpoint before, but hell, there’s a first time for everything.
I adjust my position on the pillow and take a calming breath before I tilt my head back to look up at Sin.
Subservience washes over me. It’s the most natural feeling in the world, and when I look up at him like this, it flows through me in the most harmonious wave. It feels right, even though this is wrong on so many levels. My brain hides under the shelter of his words, of the violent threats, the cold steel he actually pressed against my forehead. He beats people bloody and kills those who don’t cooperate for a living; it’s not outside the realm of possibility that he’s being real with me right now. I don’t think he is, but it can’t be ruled out entirely.
“Unbuckle my belt,” he commands.
I don’t hesitate. I reach for the black belt around his hips, remembering how he used to watch me as he took it off every night before bed. Remembering the little hook in our room where he hung them, on the wall he backed me up against the night he broke my heart. That mended heart aches now, as I draw the leather through the frame and start on his button. I miss this man and he’s standing right here. I always miss him when he’s standing right here. If he’s doing what I think he’s doing, this isn’t enough. A taste of him, a single hit, that will only leave me wanting more. Bringing to life such a dangerous fantasy will only spawn more and lead to more emotional torture as I long for things I can’t have.
I swallow as I drag his zipper down and look up at him. He’s watching my every move, so his attentive gaze meets mine.
“Why are you doing this, Sin?”
He drags his thumb across my lower lip. “Because I need a pair of plump lips wrapped around my dick, and only yours will do.”
I anchor my hands on his hips and lean my head against his pelvis, hugging him, even while his hardness nudges my cheek. “This is so dangerous,” I whisper.
“Then make it worth the risk,” he says, simply.
I draw in a breath and try not to think. There are so many horrible things I could think about right now, but I shove all of them down inside myself as I drag down Sin’s slacks and underwear. His cock springs free and I sigh, gripping it in my hand and nuzzling the side of it with my face.
God, I’ve missed you.
If this is real and not the performance I expect it is, I’m going to look back on this moment and feel pretty fucking stupid, but if this is the last moment I ever get to look at Sin and feel like there’s still even a sliver of a chance that he’s not my enemy, I’m going to take it.
Peace settles over me as I drag my tongue along the underside of his dick. I lick it all the way to the tip, dart my tongue into the little valley there, then use my lips to kiss my way down the side, back toward the base. I want to taste and touch and please every part of him, so I duck my head and catch his balls in my mouth, using one hand to massage them, and my lips to suck.
“Oh, fuck, Laurel.”
His fingers glide through the silky strands of my hair. Like old times, he gathers some in his fist.
“Do you like that?” I ask, before taking them into my mouth again.
“I do,” he murmurs.
Since he gave me license to make this convincing, I don’t hold back. “I love your cock, Sin.” I place a kiss to the underside of it, then make a circle with my fingers near the base and pump back and forth. “When I go to sleep at night, I dream about it. I touch myself in the shower. I close my eyes and imagine you’re there behind me.”
My heart sinks with the truth of that confession, then sinks deeper at the sound of his sigh. That’s not a sound of pleasure. I should stop talking. I don’t want to make him sad. It’s just that he’s given me such a perfect excuse to tell him my deepest, darkest secrets. He’s given me the perfect lie to hide behind so I can tell the truest of truths.
Since my words are making him sad, I put my mouth to better use. I slide my lips over the tip of him and suck while my fingers keep working him closer to the base. His cock is so long, I have plenty of space to work with. I continue to stroke him as I take more of him into my mouth, moaning with pleasure when his smooth tip brushes the back of my throat.
“Mm, yes,” he murmurs, running his fingers through my hair.
I’ve missed you so much. The words I can’t speak seep out of me as I suck him like the air I need to breathe. Blow job is a misnomer when Sin’s is the dick in question; this isn’t a job. This isn’t menial labor. This is a privilege. This beautiful, perfect cock needed attention, and he wanted it from me. Gratitude flows out of me, this feeling I’ve only ever felt when I’m serving this man. I’d forgotten how it felt, forgotten how good this felt. This is the worst kind of torture, because I never want to stop, but it will. When it’s over he’s going to leave me here by myself, and I’m going to miss him more than ever.
I hear the sound of him placing the gun down gently on the end table, but I don’t care. The gun doesn’t matter anymore. I keep one hand anchored on his hip and keep laboring over his cock, striving to make him feel my hunger for him. It’s like I’m a dying woman, and he’s my life support. Like the world has been rotating without sights or sounds or feelings, and suddenly it’s back all at once.
I know I’m where I belong, and it kills me because I know I can’t stay here.
I close my eyes and savor his taste, his feel. I try to commit his noises to memory, so I can replay them again when I’m all alone. Even before this began, I knew it would end. He told me so, when he slyly gave me permission to enjoy this. When he took all the blame onto his shoulders by pulling his gun out and pushing it against my head.