CHAPTER 6
RYAN’S POV
“Ryan.”
Her voice broke the silence, but I couldn’t even look at her. My hands were already trembling, my chest was burning like I’d just committed the most unforgivable sin, and maybe I had.
“I’m so sorry, Anna. Fuck… I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
I was pacing like a lunatic, dragging my hand through my hair while my other hand curled into a fist. I couldn’t fucking breathe. My heart was pounding too fast, like it was trying to break through my chest just to escape what I’d done. I looked up once and saw her adjusting the strap of her nightdress, and fuck, that visual alone nearly broke me. The way her breast dipped into the silky fabric again, the curve, the bounce, the fucking hardened nipple poking through the thin loce… fuck. I was going to lose it again if I didn’t leave right that second.
So I did.
1 groaned and rushed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind me before I ended up pinning her to that kitchen wall and fucking her right there like some deranged monster. I couldn’t even look at her again. Not after what just happened. Not after I tasted her like that, touched her, felt her cunt soaking wet against me, heard her moon my name and beg me to take her like she didn’t care about anything else.
I stormed into my room and slammed the door shut, locking it behind me and yanking the key out of the knob. I flung it across the room, didn’t even care where it landed. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want a way back out. My cock was still painfully hard, throbbing in my pants, my boxers soaked from how fucking turned on I still was. I was a mess. My dick was dripping, swollen, so fucking ready to explode and yet I couldn’t touch her.
“F–uuuuck!”
I grabbed the remote from my nightstand, slammed my thumb on the secret button and watched as the door slid open to my hidden room. The one place I went to when I couldn’t take it anymore, when the thoughts of Anna drove me completely fucking insane. This was the one place I allowed myself to let go, to be the version of myself I couldn’t show anyone else.
The room was drowning in sketches of her.
Paintings, drawings, canvas after canvas lined the walls and floor. Anna at twelve, thirteen, fourteen… I had them all. Every year. The earlier ones were done from memory, the way she looked the day I left, the last moments I held onto. The rest were from screenshots, brief glimpses I caught whenever Mom or Dad video–called me and she’d walk past in the background, not knowing I was there, not knowing I was staring at her like a dying man crawling through the desert and seeing the only source of water.
I picked up a blank canvas with shaking hands, grabbed the nearest brush and let my brain take over. I didn’t even think, I couldn’t. My body moved on its own, pointing every fucking detail that was now permanently etched into my mind.
Her hair, messy and wild, the strands falling over her eyes.
Her expression…. fuck… it was confusion, shock, lust, hunger, need, all rolled into one. Her lips were swollen from my kisses. Her breast, only one of them exposed, the red nipple already hardened and wet from my mouth. Her dress was twisted around her waist, pulled up in the most erotic way, giving me the perfect view of those thick, soft thighs. The strap of her dress had fallen off her shoulder, and fuck, I still remembered how it felt under
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my fingers when I slipped it down.
The way she looked as she adjusted herself afterward, dragging that strap up slowly, her fingers brushing her own skin, her nipple falling back into the nightdress and poking right through the lace, still visible, still hard, still fucking tempting, god, it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen in my life.
I groaned, deep and broken, as I reached for another canvas.
Two.
Three.
In less than an hour, I had painted three images of her, all from tonight alone. First, her walking into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes like an angel just waking from sleep, wearing that sinful fucking nightdress. Second, her against the wall, legs around me, her breast in my mouth, her lips parting in that soft moon that wrecked me. Third, her standing there afterword, adjusting herself, completely unaware that just watching her do that was enough to make me fall apart.
And now I couldn’t take it anymore.
I dropped the brush, growled, and ran both hands through my hair, smearing black paint into it, not giving a single fuck anymore. I was falling. I was crashing. I had been trying for months, years, to fight this sick obsession, to not go there, to not touch myself while thinking about her, to not give in.
But I couldn’t fight it anymore.
I unzipped my pants roughly, pulled out my cock that was now painfully swollen and leaking with precum, and spit into my hand. I grabbed it tight, groaning the second my palm made contact with the sensitive head.
“Fuck…” I hissed, my eyes burning as I stared at the second painting.
The one with her breast exposed, nipple glistening, thighs parted. I groaned again, louder this time, as I started stroking. Slow at first, dragging my hand up and down, letting my thumb swirl around the wet tip.
This was what I promised myself I would stop.
This was the one rule I kept trying to follow: Don’t jerk off to Anna.
But that rule was fucking dead now.
Because this time was different. This time I had almost tosted her, felt her body wrapped around mine, felt her soaking cunt grind against my dick, felt her moan against my mouth, heard her beg me to fuck her.
Nothing was the same anymore.
My pace picked up. I gripped myself harder, spit again into my palm and kept stroking, faster, harder, my chest heaving while my eyes stayed locked on the image in front of me. Her breast, that nipple, the way the strap hung off her shoulder, the curve of her thighs, the hint of her wetness I had felt against me–fuck.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck… Anna,” I groaned, louder, my voice echoing through the room like a prayer and a curse all at once. I leaned back, legs wide, one hand gripping the base of my cock, the other reaching down to squeeze my balls as the pressure built in my spine, in my hips, in my entire fucking soul.
I rubbed the precum around my shaft, moaning, biting down on my lip, trying to hold off but I couldn’t anymore. I was too far gone. I stroked faster, my hips bucking into my hand now, chasing that edge, chasing the only fucking relief I had.
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“Shit, Anna… fuck, baby… I want you… I fucking wont you so bad…”
And then my orgasm slammed into me like a wave, hard and brutal, and I cried out as cum spilled out in thick ropes all over my hand, my stomach, even the edge of the canvas. I didn’t stop until every last drop was out of me, until my body collapsed against the wall, exhausted, trembling, broken.
And then the guilt came crashing in.
I stared at my hand, my mess, my paintings.
I had fucking done it again.
I had failed again.
And I hated myself for it.
