Page 40 of Arseni
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, his voice so soft and convincing that I blush.
I’m old.Well, not really, but I feel too old to be desirable.I buy the most flattering clothes, the finest makeup, and run myself thin—literally.And none of it ever seems like enough when I look in the mirror.
So maybe I don’t hate that Arseni says differently.Maybe that’s why when he gathers a trail of his cum and brings it to my mouth, I suck his finger willingly, experiencing him with all my senses.The taste of his pleasure, the look of wanting parting his lips, the smell of his raw scent, the feel of wet cum drying on my chin.
I don’t hate it, and maybe that makes him right.Maybe I’ve been desiring this all along.
“Good girl,” he coos, stroking my head with a gentle touch.He tucks himself away and zips up his pants while I silently die inside.
I wish I didn’t hate myself for this.It would make life so much easier.
“Come,” he says, holding out his hand for me.“Let’s get you some real food.”
Real food.If he said that with less of a serious tone, with even a trace of humor, I’d probably shrink away from embarrassment.
But he doesn’t seem to be degrading me.Ironically, I don’t know if he’s ever spoken to me with more care.
It’s almost like I’m human.
15
ARSENI
She must be hungry.
It’s been twenty-four hours since Fox and I picked her up, and in my experience, that’s about how long it takes for hunger to become painful.It isn’t a coincidence that I waited until now to feed her, but she seems almost disinterested in the idea as she stares off, legs tucked beneath her on the kitchen floor.
I finish plating the leftover turkey and green beans, then stick the plate in the microwave.When I peek at Margot, she still hasn’t moved.Not an inch.She’s all dead eyes and wounded shoulders.
I’m not sure why the sight unsettles me.
After the microwave beeps, I take out the food and hold a hand out for Margot.“Come.”
She blinks slowly, looking half asleep as she meets my eyes.
Sad.She looks sad.
“Come.”
Breaking her gaze away from me, she climbs to her feet without taking my hand.I lead her to the tiny, two-person table meant for the help—God forbid they eat at the same monstrous dining table as Nikita—and sit.
When she goes for the other chair, I take her arm and guide her to my lap instead.She blushes as she stares down at her thighs.
There’s no protest from her as I run my hand up the back of her neck and tug her frizzed hair loose from her ponytail.It spills over her back in mocha brown locks, soft beneath my touch.I push hair back to tuck behind her ear.
“I never liked your hair pulled back,” I say, eyeing the knotted mess.It strikes me that I never saw it like this when I lived with her.It would be a Sunday when she had no intention of leaving home, and still, she presented herself as a woman without physical flaws.It feels ironic that I find her so much more beautiful now, more …real.
“Pleasing you was never my goal.”
She turns her head away from me, like she can’t stand for me to see her face.Her tone is overly defensive.You’d think I’d accused her of dressing up for me.
She was sensitive back then about these things too.Always denying her attraction, even when I was only poking fun.There wasn’t a time I seriously thought she’d fuck me, but my god, it was fun prodding.Any time I’d catch her looking at me, she’d blush.Any time I got too close, she’d shiver.
Now, it’s as if nothing has changed.And it’s strange.I can’t tell how much of her feels violated and how much is still bothered by her attraction toward me.Not because I’m a monster but because I’m young.My age seems so irrelevant at this point.
I caress her cheek but don’t bring her to face me when I notice her staring at the food.She looks even sadder now.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” she says.
