Page 81 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
And for the most part, I liked myself.
There.
I said it.
But I didn’t like myself tonight.
Hank Prescott’s death had been preventable. Reed had kept that from me. Betty had kept that from me. Nash had kept that from me—and hated me.
And me?
I smelled like Nash did before he hated me.
A thief cloaked in a tiger’s scent.
The first thing I should have done when I ran back to my closet—barely remembering to shove my towel and shower caddy into my knock-off backpack that read “Jana Sport” rather than “JanSport”—was call Reed or Betty. Better yet, I should have tendered my resignation and gotten my ass out of dodge.
Instead, I sprawled across my sheets, spraying water everywhere because I hadn’t even bothered to dry my hair. Flashes of Nash moments ago rattled me.
Steam licking his bare chest.
His sharp inhale at the sight of my breasts.
Wetness gathering between my legs as he glared at me like he wanted to hate-fuck me.
My shaky hands barely managed to hold my phone.
I pulled up the Eastridge United app and shot a message to the one person who never judged me, my lust so thick it almost seemed tangible.
Durga: I need to come.
His reply came in seconds as if he’d had the app open to our chat when I messaged.
Benkinersophobia: I already have my cock in my hands. Strip out of your clothes, spread your legs, and tell me how much you want my cock.
I did as he asked, realizing I’d returned in my t-shirt and underwear, leaving my jeans hostage in Nash’s bathroom. Shit. The other pants I owned were oversized sweatpants that would fit an entire cruise ship. Ones I reserved for laundry day.
Durga: If you don’t make me come within the next ten seconds, I’m deleting this app.
Benkinersophobia: Cum not come. Say it correctly. Better yet, say it out loud. Beg me to make you cum.
I did, never backing down, even when my cheeks flamed as I panted to empty air, “Make me come, Ben.”
It was Nash I pictured hovering above me. The vicious eyes. The messed-up hair. And now I knew what he looked like beneath his shirt. Vast muscles stretched the width of his body. A deep V led to what I remembered, all these years later, as a long, thick cock.
My lips craved the scars peppering his body.
I wanted to kiss them.
Bite them.
Trace them with my tongue.
I didn’t believe in the word perfect. Never used it to describe anything in my life. But it was the only word I could conjure when it came to Nash’s body. His personality might have left a lot to be desired, but his body and face left me aching.
Durga: Please, make me cum. My fingers are tracing my clit. Tell me what to do with them.
Benkinersophobia: I didn’t say you could touch your pussy. Wrap your mouth around your fingers, imagine they’re my cock, and apologize for disobeying.
