Page 60 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

I hate him.

I hate myself more.

I miss Thailand.

I miss being free.

I miss being a person instead of a pawn.

Then I reached for my Bible.

Opened it to a random page and read until the words blurred together, and I couldn’t tell if I was praying or just talking to myself.

When I finished, I closed the book and set it on the nightstand.

Then I went downstairs.

The kitchen smelled faintly of copper and something floral—lavender maybe, from the candles I’d lit the other day.

Layla’s body was still on the floor.

I stepped over it without looking down.

Walked to the coffee maker and started a fresh pot.

This was a dick-swinging contest now.

Me and Amai.

And I was ready to prove mine was bigger.

Metaphorically, of course.

Physically, Amai had a damnpythonbetween his legs.

That was another complaint I never had.

The man was blessed in ways that should’ve been illegal. Thick. Long. The kind of dick that made you rethink your lifechoices and question whether you’d ever really been fucked before him.

And the voodoo in it?

Jesus.

The way that shit would have you offering up your free will like it was nothing. Like you were born to surrender. Like his pleasure was the only thing that mattered and yours was just a side effect of his generosity.

I felt the heat rising in my chest.

Felt my body responding to the memory of him inside me, moving with that slow, deliberate precision that made you forget your own name.

I physically shook my body.

Snapped myself out of it.

“This ain’t that,” I muttered under my breath.

The coffee maker beeped.

I poured myself a cup—black, no sugar—and walked to the back door.