Parker

“I figured it out when you moaned my brother’s name while coming around my cock.” His eyes dipped down as if to remind me I was still on him.

“If he can make you come harder than you did around my cock, he deserves a medal.”

“Fuck.” He pushed me down harder on him, grinding his cock between my thighs. “I can’t figure out what’s worse—that you’re twenty-fucking-two, that you’re my brother’s best friend, or that my mouth has never touched your pussy.”

My darling Venom,

Let me preface this by saying, if you cry, I’m going to disown your ass all the way from Hell. Not that I believe in Hell. And not that I particularly believe you’ll cry. Just covering my bases here.

Here goes nothing.

Let it be known that this is not a suicide letter. It’s a letter that happens to be the last one I’ll ever write.

I’m telling you now not to blame yourself for anything that happened. In fact, you were the only reason I lasted these four years.

I’m not going to get into the whole why-I-did-this part.

If scars tell stories, I have none. No bumps, valleys, or grooves. No blemishes to remind me of the damage I have caused. My skin is a liar. It is smooth. Unmarked. An empty canvas. One day, my sins will catch up to me, and when I die, it will be with a scar.

“Her future needed her, so she turned her back on her past.”

‘Don’t shrink yourself to help others grow.’

Guilt is pain’s fuel, and it rekindles it every time the flame fades.