Burn for Me (Chaotic Love)

23. Twenty-Three

Twenty-Three

9-3-2024

I’m just like everyone else.

-Jasmine

I glance up at the sky, pausing my steady brush strokes against the fabric in my hands. It's a stark contrast to what I usually prefer. Instead of stars emerging to illuminate the night, they are fading away under the bright beams of light that rise slowly, casting warmth over the vast city.

After our bath last night, Sam brought me a plate of food and checked the bandage he had placed on my backside. I haven't seen what it looks like back there, and I'm not in any hurry to find out. Sleep evaded me throughout the night; I couldn't drift off no matter how long I wrote because a bare, scarred chest wasn’t pressed against my cheek, and the steady, rough thump of a heartbeat wasn’t against my ear.

Eventually, I gave up and decided to see what kept him from joining me in bed. To my surprise, I found him on the couch, his laptop sprawled across his lap and soft snores escaping his nose. I had no intention of waking him, so I gathered the supplies for his mask and headed up to the roof.

I flick my attention back to the work as I finish painting the white markings, shifting to my side to relieve the pressure on my butt cheek. For the longest time, I hadn’t touched Sam’s balaclava; I didn't know what to do with it. But now, I can't think of anything better for him.

Dipping the brush back into the red paint, I glance over the wet markings, silently praying they don’t fade as they dry. It’s not perfect by any means—some paint has splattered on the hem, and a few lines look shaky—but I think it fits him.

It fits us.

A strange noise catches my attention, prompting me to glance over my shoulder. But I’m still alone, so I refocus my gaze on the sky. It's unusual for me; I've always loved the sunshine. The warmth feels like it could burn away all my bad feelings, and the light serves as a beacon of hope. However, as I tilt my head to watch the bright sunlight silhouette the tall skyscrapers, I don't feel the usual urge to take a deep breath.

I stand up and walk to the ledge, peering at the chaos below. Horns blare, and cars swerve as people rush along the sidewalk, unaware of the internal turmoil unfolding many stories above them.

This is what I wanted—to fully express myself and prove to those around me and myself that I’m not just a useless pawn in some idiot's game. I want to accomplish the right things instead of the wrong ones. So why am I still feeling this way? It’s like I’m stuck in limbo. Sam says he forgives me, which gives me a flicker of hope, but that feeling vanishes quickly when I realize I can’t forgive myself. No matter how much I try to justify what I did, I just can’t accept it as a desperate act.

As I step closer to the edge, my knees tremble, and my heart races. Sam's mask shakes in my grip, reminding me he’s not here to catch me if I lean too far. His face flashes through my mind, with memories flickering like a film: the first time his unruly hair fell over his deep brown eyes, offering me safety; the hard stares he gave me when I purposely acted out as if he could see through my intentions; and the ghosts of smirks that accompanied subtle touches.

I lean further, gripping the edge as my hair cascades around my face, tempting the drop below. But the memories that haunt me the most are the ones filled with disgust—moments when I sent his world crashing down. I can still see how his lips curled when he said my name as if it were a curse.

I’m just like everyone else.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes as the world around me falls silent. No matter how many apologies I offer or how hard I try to make amends, it will never be enough. I know I will always be questioned about my loyalty and the sincerity of my words. It only takes one wrong move for him to remember my betrayal—he would relive those seconds and regret all our stolen moments together.

My nails dig into the rigid concrete barrier as I try to pull myself together, but my thoughts are all over the place, making it hard to stay calm. I’m not in hell, and I’m not headed toward a bright light; instead, I’m stuck in this awkward space, watching the chaos I’ve created while trying to deal with stuff that I just can’t control.

I know I’m not a terrible person, but my life hasn’t been great, either. Sure, my choices aren’t always the best, but I never make them with bad intentions.

Good bad. Good bad. Good bad.

The words echo in my ears like the horns I’m sure are blaring below. There’s no way to be one without the other. I can’t beg God or make sacrifices to the devil to choose a side. I want to be good enough to be loved but also bad enough to fight for what I cherish: my family, my team, my friends, myself… Sam . How can I juggle all of this when I’m just one person?

“Jasmine.”

Gasping, I quickly push away from the ledge and stumble back as I look around. Swallowing hard, I take a moment to compose myself, realizing that I’m still alone. Picking up the paints, I calm my breathing and immediately direct my attention to the ledge.

I lied; I’m not alone. I never am.

No matter where I go or what I do, I’ll always have deep brown eyes following my every move. I’ll see a toothy grin that looks like it could bite, reassuring me that I’m strong even when I don’t feel like it. I’ll hear a foul-mouthed comment thrown my way just to draw a laugh. I’ll have a team at my back, ready to fight for me when I cannot do it alone.

Sam. Sharkie. Moe. Even Caspian.

I’ve always protected the family I was born into, but the only one who has remained consistently by my side is the family I found. I am not just one person; I’m an army of masks, each carrying more threats than the last.

Shoving the small containers and brushes into the waistband of my sleep shorts, I head out the door. I squint against the darkness, reaching for the railing while keeping Sam's mask close to my chest.

“You need to work on being aware of your surroundings, Darlin’,” he says.

My heart races, and I worry that if it keeps up like this, I might end up with a heart attack by twenty-four. It doesn’t take long for me to realize who it is, and I relax my shoulders, turning to face him with a straight face.

“You need to work on not hovering so much.”

He gives me one of those almost hidden grins that makes it hard not to smile in return. He walks over slowly, his footsteps echoing, and then he stops, grabbing the fabric of my shirt and pulling me closer.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead, which makes me frown at the unexpected sweetness.

“Good morning?” I reply, a bit taken aback.

His lips linger for a moment longer before slowly drawing back with a huff that sounds like a laugh. Fiddling with the fabric in my hands, I raise it to his line of sight, and his brows furrow in confusion.

"I finished your mask. I’m sorry it took so long," I say, shrugging in an attempt to play it off. However, his emotionless expression makes my heart sink. I know it’s not perfect, but I had hoped he would still like it.

He finally lets go of my shirt, and I step back, glancing down the stairs.

"Do you have an extra? If you don’t like it, I won’t be upset if you wear a spare."

It will hurt my feelings, but I won’t voice that. I turn to him, searching for his rough features or brown eyes, but instead, I see the skull imprint on his mask as he tilts his head.

I change my mind; my feelings won’t be hurt if he doesn’t wear it because it’s horrifying . I step back, gripping the rail as my foot finds the step below.

"Do you remember your safe word, Little Devil?" His mask shifts with his jaw.

"Yeah, it’s hard to forget," I tease, trying to hide the fear in my gut, but my nerves slip through in my voice.

"And you feel comfortable using it, right?"

I smile, but it fades as he steps closer, forcing me back. I've never had someone so determined to ensure my comfort.

"I trust you?"

"Are you asking me or yourself?" His low voice catches me off guard, but he grips my shirt to keep me from falling. "Easy."

"I trust you," I say firmly as I reach out to touch the fabric. He leans into my touch, and the mask brushes against my palm where his lips should be. I can't help but grin at the motion. As quickly as the tender moment arrives, it fades with a single word that breaks the thick, musky air.

"Run."

Oh, God.

He releases me as soon as the word gets out, and I sprint down the stairs faster than I ever thought I could. Each breath burns, and though I don’t look back, it feels like he’s right on my heels. I brace myself against a railing, almost losing my balance, then turn to keep running.

A loud slam echoes, forcing me to slow down and glance back, but he’s gone—no sign of him anywhere. My stomach twists as I carefully approach the next flight of stairs, searching for any sign of his presence.

“Sam?”

There’s no reply, and the heat in my veins intensifies.

“Sam?!” I raise my voice, checking the numbers on the wall. There are still a few flights to go down, but I’ll take my time since he isn’t here.

“You’re not running.” The voice echoes off the walls, startling me enough to sprint down the stairs again, only to collide with a barrier at the next turn.

I step back to face the monster when it hits me that he’s still dressed as he was on the couch: no shirt, just sweatpants. Glancing up the stairs, I’m tempted to ask how he managed to get to this spot before me, but I’m interrupted as he steps forward, the exit light highlighting the deep red lining of his mask.

“If I catch you, I should get a reward.”

“You won’t catch me,” I say confidently, tilting my head to study how the paint splatter almost looks like blood.

“Don’t sound too confident,” he laughs, pulling me from my thoughts. I push past him and keep moving, knowing I can’t outrun him. But the thrill of the chase ignites a rush, drowning out my morning doubts.

“I haven’t been able to taste that pretty little cunt yet. I think that should be my motivation.” Hearing his voice, I quickly duck under the stairs to avoid being seen. “What do you say, Darlin’?”

Once the door slams shut, I quickly look for a hiding spot. Sam’s sharp; he can count my steps and guess which stairwell I will pop out from, so I dive into a supply closet and lean against the door, covering my mouth to keep my breathing steady. A soft click forces me to shut my eyes, straining to listen. Footsteps go by, then start pacing around before stopping completely. I brace myself, waiting for him to burst in and catch me.

Alright, think. If he’s in and out like that, he’s taking another route to cut me off faster than I can run.

My heart pounds as his footsteps fade away, but he’s still not gone from the stairwell.

The elevator.

I sneak out of the closet, checking the cool, gray space to make sure it’s empty before looking for the exit sign. As I move, my paint and brushes slip from my shorts and crash to the floor; time seems to freeze as I watch the container roll through the rails. It finally smashes at the bottom, and Sam’s laughter bounces back to me.

“Naughty girl.”

I don’t let him finish before I bolt for the exit and dash straight into the elevator. The couple stepping out probably thinks I’m losing it as I rush in.

“Sorry!” I exclaim, hurriedly pressing the button for my floor. Looking up, I’m met with the confused horror on their faces and a masked figure lingering at the door I just left, slowly disappearing behind the barrier.

I can't stabilize my thoughts or relieve the tremors in my thighs. No matter how much I fidget or shift my weight, I'm still hyper-aware of the throbbing sensation and dry mouth. I glance from the slow-moving numbers to the floor and then at my reflection. Instead of turning away, I take a moment to look at myself. My hair tousled, and my cheeks flushed. There's a small bruise on my calf, but what stands out is that I'm smiling.

My smile fades as the doors open, and I’m thrust into a sprint. I rush into our room, slam the door shut, and lock it. I know it’s a futile attempt—he could break into the White House if he wanted—but at least it buys me some time.

“You’re just delaying the inevitable,” his voice echoes in the space, prompting me to scan the room for him. Unable to spot him, I scramble around, searching for anything I can use to create a barrier between us. However, I stop short when I see his laptop shattered on the floor and my notebooks scattered everywhere.

"Accounting issues," he mutters, causing me to jump at how close his voice sounds. I leap over the mess with a squeal, rounding the bed, and shoot him a questioning look as he steps out of the dimly lit bathroom. With a subtle movement, his eyes flicker to the corner and then back to me.

Right, the cameras.

“I’m glad you figured it out?” It feels more like a question than a statement, yet it draws a ghost of a smirk to the corner of his mouth. Apparently , it amuses him not only to have me running around like I’m practicing drills but also to see me looking completely bewildered, like a deer caught in headlights. I glance at the damp rag in his hand and then at the mask. He’s terrifying like this, and yet I can’t help but feel a rush of excitement when he calmly shuts the door and trails his hand down his abdomen.

“I’m sorry, Darlin’.” Have I ever heard him apologize to anyone other than Tide? Better yet, why is he apologizing in the first place? He steps closer, and I lean against the mattress.

“You still should’ve told me, though. We could’ve figured it out sooner.” His voice drops to a whisper, and it all clicks into place. He has found all he needed to know. Even though it feels like a weight has been lifted off my heaving chest, it still doesn’t make me feel as if it was a good enough excuse for what I did.

“The accountant was adamant about his position and how things were handled.” I pant as he lunges toward me, so I quickly crawl over the bed and cower behind the other side.

“Well, he’ll pay for what he did to my wife—putting so much stress on her when all she was trying to do was protect herself,” he tuts, shaking his head while watching me, trying to determine my next move.

I let out a snort. It’s unladylike and a bit embarrassing, but I don’t need him to seek revenge for me. I’ll handle it myself because one thing’s for sure: I’m not going to let another life I cherish be added to a list.

“What are you doing?” I ask, tilting my head curiously as he reaches for the wooden bar holding up the bed curtains and snaps it off. The soft fabric falls to the ground, and the bed shakes from the force.

“Punishment.” He slams the rod against his knee, snapping it to size and wrapping a rag around the end.

“For what?!” My eyes widen, darting between the stick and him.

“You scared me earlier.”

“By hiding?!” I rush for the door.

He steps in front of the door, and I collide with his chest as the fabric erupts into flames, only to die down into a dim glow. I can’t believe he thinks he’ll put me near a live flame. Behind the glass of the fireplace was one thing, but this…

“By almost jumping,” he says calmly, but the flickering light from the laptop gives me a glimpse of the turmoil in his features, barely concealed through the eyehole. I tumble back onto my butt and wince as a searing pain shoots through my leg while I try to scramble away.

“How did you…? No. I wasn’t going to—” I gasp as my breathing turns into shallow puffs. He steps forward, lowering his hands to his sides, where the fire travels up the rag but stops just before reaching the stick. If he feels the heat, he doesn’t show it.

“You didn’t. That’s all that matters.”

I claw my way up the side of the bed, attempting to escape as I did earlier, but he wraps his palm around my ankle and jerks my body back.

“But now…”

Shutting my eyes, I try to think of anything other than the red and orange hues that can disintegrate anything nearby. I kick to break his hold, but it tightens as he shifts his weight.

“I caught you.” He taunts and flips me onto my back. “So, I get my reward.”

My calf itches, and my skin starts to warm, so my legs spread to avoid the heat.

“Look at you spreading your legs like a good little whore for your husband.”

“I was trying to get away.” I bite out, but it trails into a soft moan as the fabric of his mask dampens against my skin from the trail of kisses he starts to leave up the flesh.

“Now you’re just trying to rile me up, aren’t you? You know I like it when you fight.” His words muffle against my flesh as my thighs clench around his head involuntarily. It’s as if my body responds without my mind's permission.

“You'll submit, though. You always do.”

A chill spreads across my skin, and I suck in a breath through my teeth, realizing it's not from something cold; it's a tingling sensation from getting hot. That thought causes me to force my eyes open to see where he hovers the makeshift wand above my shorts.

“Don’t let it burn me.”

It’s funny how I always end up a pleading, begging mess when he puts me in these positions, but I don’t mind. Especially since it never fails to draw his attention. He loosens his grip on the handle, letting his fingers brush delicately against the fabric of my shirt.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Darlin’.” The flames lick dangerously close to my abdomen while the horrid smell of burning fills the air, making my stomach churn. In an instant, my thoughts fade away as he nuzzles his nose along the fabric of my shorts. A warm blush spreads across my cheeks, deepening in color when he lets out a low, approving hum that sends a shiver down my spine, contradicting the warmth I feel.

“Sam! You’re going to get it on your mask.” I push at his shoulders, and he growls in response, curling one hand around the back of my thigh and pulling me closer. I yelp, gripping the mattress to avoid the flame as it gets too close to my skin. If he’s affected by the way my heartbeat drops to my clit, he doesn't show it. Instead, he nudges my shorts, pushing them aside.

“Good.” He groans, and I squirm against the fabric, grazing back over my pussy, itching the soft surface. The fact he doesn’t pull away or make an attempt to prevent my juices from soaking the fabric but presses his mouth straight to my core and nuzzles into my clit instead has my head tilting and my eyes fluttering.

It’s becoming harder to focus on the flames so close by as a tingling sensation spreads from my toes up to my nose. So, I watch them dance in hooded brown depths instead.

This time he moves his mouth slower up to my clit and sucks hard enough it pulls with the fabric into his mouth. My back arches, and his nails dig into my skin with the force it takes to hold me still. The skull's corners pull into an impression of a smile, yet it feels anything but warm. It resembles a predator who has just captured its prey and is preparing to tear it apart.

He releases the bundle of nerves with a muffled pop, and I wince as the rough texture scratches my nub, sending an odd amount of pleasure and pain.

“Be a good girl and pull up my mask so I can taste you properly, yeah?”

I don’t want to move. It’s embarrassing enough that he’s barely touched me, and I already feel like the tight rope in my abdomen is about to snap. I don’t need my trembling hands to give it away as well. Those intense eyes narrow, and an eyebrow raises as I remain motionless.

Taking a deep breath, he stands and slowly pulls the rag from the wand, dropping it to the floor. As the flame goes out, he kneels at the edge, but before I can push myself out of his hold, he has already pulled me in his direction.

“Fires gone. It's just you and me.” He mutters as he places his lips on the healing handprint on my thigh. I gently push the fabric until it rests across his nose. Now that I can see the stubble lining his jaw and his canine tooth coming into view as his tongue runs over it, my muscles relax. I'm tempted to tell him that it wasn't his pyro tendencies that had me frozen, but now that that’s out of the way, I will play with him like he does with me.

"I told you that you always submit." He laughs, but my palm meets his head sharply before he can lower again. Watching his nostrils flare in agitation is the highlight of this whole situation because, for this brief moment, I know I'm testing his patience.

I'm on the verge of making him lose control.

“You didn't say ‘please.’” I tease, tilting my head innocently. He shifts his hand to grip the handprint bruise, a warning evident in the flex of his fingers as if that would stop me now. I lean closer, enjoying the way he is kneeling at my feet, worshiping my skin with his mouth as he gently withdraws my shorts from my body.

“Beg me to let you eat my pussy like a good husband.”

The words aren't entirely out of my mouth before he brushes his fingers through my lips with a wicked grin.

“Please,” he rasps without hesitation and dips his pointer into my hole, “let me worship you like the goddess you are.”

I draw in a deep breath, trying not to react to the way I clench around him or how he drags his tongue towards the apex of my thigh, hovering before he reaches the peak.

“Will you kindly let me fuck you with my tongue?” He laughs, his breath hitting my clit, making me suck in a hiss through my teeth.

“I’d appreciate it if you gave me the honor of making you come with my mouth.” With that, he withdraws his finger and circles my cunt. I brace my hands behind my back and watch his head slowly drop as if he’s genuinely waiting for permission.

With a nod of my head, there is no time wasted before his mouth is back at me, vigorously lapping at clit as he plunges another finger deep into my velvet heat. I writhe against the way he begins curling his knuckles until I feel like I'm levitating off the bed.

It's like watching a starving, savage animal. His teeth graze my skin, and his fingers dip into my flesh as drool drips down his chin. Not only does he look at me like I'm a meal, but I’m slowly learning that he might actually see me as one.

There's too much happening, and my body is buzzing with the need to focus on one thing at a time before I become overstimulated. It's too late, though; I'm already pulling at the sheets and bracing a hand on his shoulder, trying to decide whether I need to pull him closer or push him away.

My efforts only make his grip shift to my hips as he refuses to let his mouth leave my throbbing hole. Normally, I love how vocal he is when we're intimate, but right now, it's his lack of words that have me shamelessly grinding against his face. Each moan and grunt that crawls through his throat vibrates through my bones, making me feel as if he's enjoying this as much as I am.

“Sam, wait–” I moan. My brows furrow, and my lips part as the pressure starts to build in my abdomen at an intensity I've yet to experience. Gasping, I fight against his hold, nearly crawling back on the bed, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he withdraws his fingers and stands while placing a gentle nip against my clit.

“You're gonna have to use your safe word if you need me to stop, Little Devil.” He says in a strained, hoarse whisper that has me questioning what I want right now. I slump back into the mattress, and he dives back in, bracing his palm into the comfort as his arm wraps around my hips to draw my pussy into his mouth.

Now I understand why Sam enjoys having control in the bedroom. It serves as a reminder that the decisions and choices are entirely yours. If I were to say a specific word, he would stop immediately, and if I begged for more, he would happily oblige. It’s a freeing feeling without uncertainty about what happens next because I hold all the necessary answers.

I know by now that I'm an incoherent, mumbling, whining mess with the sounds that fall from my mouth. It feels like he is still holding fire to my skin with the way it tingles, and I can't tell if the spots forming in my vision are due to my refusal to breathe or the tension bunching in my muscles.

“Please, stop holding back.”

I wasn't expecting him to continue begging; I had hoped he would turn the tables and take control. But I won't lie: hearing his voice in that broken gasp as he draws in a breath before delving his tongue back into my cunt is addicting.

It makes me want to let go of the little restraint I have left as I teeter on the edge of being thrown over. The only problem is that this churning in my stomach feels different—it's tighter and more challenging to control with each drag of his tongue between my skin. I'm acutely aware of the sheets clinging to my skin and the dampness trailing back toward my hips, creating a wet spot at the small of my back. He lifts me higher, and I wrap my ankles around his neck, earning a groan in response. I can't take a deep enough breath, and I can't find a place to put my hands to hold onto something.

“I’ve got you.” he hushes through a moan and that thin rope I had been desperately trying to hold onto slips through my fingers with a broken cry.

For a moment, everything is blank and numb. No heavy panting or moans echoing off the walls back at me; there aren't fingers gripping into my flesh or saliva sticking to my skin. It's just black.

Tremors wrack my entire being as he slowly lowers me back onto the mattress and trails a path of feather-light kisses up my torso to my neck, where his face presses into the spot. I place my hands on his chest, hoping his typically steady heart rate can ground me. However, I find it futile as it pounds just as wildly against my palm as mine does against my ribs.

I'm only now noticing how damp my palms are and how a slickness transfers from his scruff to my throat, so I lightly tap at his chest to determine where it's all coming from. Pulling back, he tears the mask from his sweat-soaked head, and the dim light shimmers off his body, creating an almost ethereal glow.

“You're too sweaty and sticky, and it's too much for me to handle right now.” I huff through my heavy breathing, trying to say it as gently as possible.

“Darlin’,” he drawls, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips before retreating behind his teeth, “most of it is from you.”

My eyes widen, and despite the jelly-like weakness in my muscles, I try to scramble away. Never in my life have I caused such a mess, and it's pretty embarrassing to realize just how far he has pushed me. I know it’s been a few years since I’ve had a man’s mouth down there, but I didn’t expect that to happen.

“Let me take care of you. You suck at letting me try the aftercare shit.” He huffs as he grapples to try and pull me back on the bed, but I evade his grasp, pulling the hem of my shirt down.

“I need to pee first,” I exclaim as he lunges to grab my arm, causing my knees to wobble. With an exasperated sigh, he slumps back onto the sheets.

“Go ahead, Darlin’. When you’re done, I need to re-bandage your arse.” He waves his hand dismissively, as if irritated, but the genuine smile across his face says otherwise.

“It’s fine; it needs to breathe anyway,” I laugh breathlessly as I disappear through the doorway. It almost sounds like he’s stripping the sheets off the bed. A moment of silence passes, then his voice returns to the stern, grumpy tone I’ve come to love.

“I’m serious, Jasmine. This isn’t up for debate.”

I roll my eyes, quickly strip off my clothes to clean up, and then slip into that robe I like. However, curiosity wins out, and I turn my hips toward the mirror and stand on my tiptoes to examine what he had done last night.

My jaw nearly drops, but not at the sight of the bruised, broken skin looking like perfectly steady hands did it; it’s the thick line through my tattoo and the single word that has me trying to grapple with whether I’m angry or shocked.

“Sam Morana!” I yell, tracing my fingers over each letter. I need to find out his middle name so that it sounds more intimidating whenever I yell at him. I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities to do so.

“You’re lucky it says ‘devil.’ I was half tempted to carve my name into your skin instead.” He calls out casually, as though what he said wasn’t completely insane. There must be something seriously wrong with me. Spending all this time with the psychos I call my team has messed with my head because when I look up in the mirror, I catch myself smiling.

“Beds clean. Now, get your pretty arse in here and lay with me before we have to get ready!”