There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(71)

Cole massages my asscheeks once more, kneading those deep muscles that get used all day long but never seem to find relief.

The song is starting over. I realize it must have started over several times—he’s playing it on repeat.

I understand what’s about to happen all over again, and I have no control, no ability to stop. Usually that sense of powerlessness would make me snap. Would make me scream and cry and fight with all my might.

But I’m lulled by the vibrator, and by the countless orgasms flooding my body with pleasure chemicals.

Already I’m arching my back, presenting my ass to him. A Pavlovian response as my body seeks another round.

I can almost feel Cole smiling as he raises his hand, bringing it crashing down on my ass.

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

I think I’m crying again.

While I beg for more.

“Harder,” I sob. “Hit me harder.”

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

Between spankings, Cole leans over and murmurs in my ear, “It’s okay to enjoy it. I know you don’t want to. I know it embarrasses you. But you need it. You’ve got all that guilt and shame built up inside of you . . . this is the only release. Because you know that after you get spanked, you’re not in trouble anymore. You can be forgiven. You’re a good girl.”

The words drift in and out of my ears, over the pounding beat of the music. I don’t know if Cole is actually speaking, or if it’s my own thoughts echoing in my head.

I want this.

I need it.

It’s the only way.

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

Already I’m anticipating the intense tearing, filling sensation of his cock. He slides it back in my ass and I groan not with pain, but with relief. With gratitude.

He fucks my ass slow and steady to the beat of the song.

I’m gonna run run away, run run away

Run away, run away and never come back . . .





I don’t know if I’m crying or moaning. Begging out loud or only in my head.

I don’t know how many times we’ve done this.

The song repeats over and over, and the cycle does too. He massages me, spanks me, fucks me, makes me cum. Massages me, spanks me, fucks me, makes me cum.

I have no sense of time. No idea how long we’ve been doing this. It could be hours or days.

I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want to be anywhere but here.

I’ve been drawn to Cole since the very beginning. My body always wanted him. It was only my mind that was afraid.

Cole growls in my ear, “Here’s what you need to understand Mara: it’s okay for bad things to feel good. You can take pleasure from whatever you want.”

I’m drugged with pleasure, drugged with pain. Drugged by the music. Time has no meaning. The only thing that feels real is Cole’s voice in my brain:

“These ideas of right and wrong, good and evil . . . who taught them to you? Your mother? She’s the worst person you know. Was it the priest at church? Your boss at work? Who decided these things?”

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

“It’s up to you what’s good and what’s bad. There is no god outside you. You are god. This is your world, your life. YOU decide what to feel.”

I’m floating through the air, weightless, rotating in space. I realize he’s untied me. Released me from the manacles.

But I don’t want to stop. I’m not finished yet.

Cole lays down on the table, his cock jutting up like mast, still rock hard, still ready for me.

I mount him, my knees on either side of his hips, my hands on his rigid chest. Slowly, I lower myself down on his cock. It’s easy to do—my ass is already stretched and ready.

I slide down on him until he’s all the way inside me and I’m looking down into that flawless face—feminine and masculine. Evil and good.

Rolling my hips, I start to ride.

I ride him with his cock all the way up my ass. I ride him harder and harder, keeping time to the song.

Run away, run away and never come back

Run run away, run run away, run away

Show ‘em that your color is black . . .





When I know I’m right on the edge, I lift up his hands and put them around my throat. I let him choke me, his fingers squeezing harder and harder until black sparks burst in front of my eyes, drowning out the music and the room, drowning out everything but pure sensation.

The last orgasm is so much more than pleasure. It’s a detonation inside of me that blows me apart, shattering everything I used to be.

I’m blasted to bits, la petite mort, the death of Mara.

I don’t know if I’ll ever come back together.

Or what form I’ll take if I do.





31





Cole





When we’re finished, I carry Mara into the shower. I bathe her slowly and carefully, washing her hair, massaging the shampoo into her scalp.

I wash every inch of her. Her chest, her back, her arms, her legs, even the tiny spaces between her toes.

She submits to me completely. Allowing me to move and manipulate her. Leaning her head back against my chest, eyes closed, utterly exhausted.