Jeremiah Quick Read Online Free Page B

no protest or complaint
whatsoever. I toss her clothes, one item at a time, onto a kitchen
chair. Shirt, bra, jeans, panties, and socks. She shivers a bit,
but says not one word. She doesn't stop me, or ask me to stop.
    She flinches when I ease her to the floor,
position her on her back, probably because the ceramic tile is
cold. I kneel between her legs and reach to pinch her nipples, hard
enough that she gives me more tears, and I have to stretch forward
to eat them.
    I'm thin enough I don't even have to unsnap
or unzip my black jeans to tug them down. I don't wear underwear,
so I'm just… there, ready, and pressing into her. She tilts her
hips, accepting me. I keep pinching and hurting her, keep drinking
her tears, though I don't know why she lets me, or why she doesn't
say a word or even make a noise.
    She.
    Who has never known pain, could accept mine
and give me her tears. She was perfect. Why was she so perfect?
    I'm angry and confused and it feels like I'm
fighting her, although she's not fighting me. Just one stroke, two,
and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, and it feels all wrong,
yet something about the wrongness pushes me over the edge almost
immediately.
    I finish inside her.
    I shift down her belly so I can look, spread
her pussy lips with the fingers of both hands to isolate her clit,
swollen and poking out of the little bit of flesh that wants to
shield it. I hold her apart with the classic V of one set of
fingers so I can shove the same fingers of the other hand into her
cunt and stir them around in my spunk, getting them good and wet.
Then I pull them out and slide one (just one, because I don't
really want to hurt her) into her anus.
    I don't look at her, I can't. Because I'm
too fucking mean, that's why. God, she's so tight around my finger
it makes me moan, like it might cut off my circulation. She doesn't
moan, just makes a tiny whimpering sound, short and high-pitched,
and I say to her, "I want to see you come," then purse my lips and
blow a solid, tight stream of air over her clit.
    And… she comes.
    She wiggles a little underneath me, and her
head thrashes from side to side, her hair whipping across her face,
obscuring her expression for seconds at a time. When I dare to
look, her eyes are rolled back into her head, and, I swear, it's no
lie, her pussy has flooded, so much that her juice has joined my
finger in her ass, and it's loosening her up, just a little
bit.
    I purse my lips and blow a steady stream
over her clit again, and she hitches her breath and makes a mewling
noise, and the shiver runs through her entire form, like an
aftershock.
    I want to press my fingers over her
mouth and nose, make her smell herself, but it's too mean and I
don't do it.

Chapter 3
     
     
    H e fucked her on
the kitchen floor. She didn't argue or protest or tell him to stop.
It seemed silly to resist, like a delay of the inevitable. He hurt
her. She could still feel the ghost of his finger there – plunging
and cruel, grasping, mindless of Pretty receiving his cruelty. And
yet that felt inevitable, too, and long overdue. As if she'd had it
coming all along, and he was just getting around to doing it
now.
    After... he helped her to her feet, helped
her put her clothes back into place, as if she had merely fallen to
the floor for some unknown reason and required assistance to find
equilibrium.
    Part of her wanted to cry, part of her knew
he'd changed her again, just this one simple thing, and it made her
want to laugh and laugh, as if changing her was the point.
    No wonder society deemed his penchant for
the subversive to be dangerous. No wonder he always seemed to make
sense – he did make sense. His was the voice cutting through
society's bullshit.
    He was brilliant, her Jeremiah Quick.
    She remembered. She remembered it all.
    He touched each of her eyelids with one
gentle finger and she felt it like a thank you .
    "Come with me," he said. "I want to show you
something."
    His come dripped from her, leaving