Chapter Twenty-Seven Darius #2
“Thank you,” Monika answers, and for whatever reason, I’m feeling less jealous when Monika smiles at her. “And, uh . . . sorry again for this time. And last time . . .” Maybe that’s why.
The woman smiles even as the tops of her cheeks tint pink. “No problem. I’m just glad you’re all right.”
“Thanks.” Monika blushes again, and I can’t stand it because it’s so fucking cute.
I want to wrap my arm around her, but she’s got deep stitching in her shoulder—over thirty of them where the dart went into her.
I’ve been doing an excellent job of repressing the urge to call the Marduk and tear his face off so far.
I know I will tear the Marduk’s heart out of his chest and I know exactly how I plan to do it, but I am not doing shit until Monika’s better, until the Wyvern is recovered, and until the COE has a plan to protect them in case of inevitable retaliation.
Because when I go for the Marduk, he will suffer as he never has.
And as someone who is fast friends with rage, I know that the Marduk will want his vengeance after I enact my plans.
I will need to use that instability in his emotions to break him entirely, and cut the head off the feral animal he is so I can mount it on a pike on my balcony.
My overall master plan has been rewritten: Kill, fuck, marry, destroy. So long as I can keep my dick in check, the Marduk dies first, before everything.
I texted Simone in the car to meet us at my penthouse.
She’s been around, coordinating the movers, and is there when the doors open up.
She smiles at Monika but waits to speak until I do.
It’s been a preference of mine since the dawn of our working relationship, but I find myself suddenly annoyed by it.
“You can talk, Simone. And you don’t have to wear a uniform.
Tell Simon not to wear a uniform either.
Just tell him to dress however he wants.
And get me a new car. I want something comfortable.
Custom made, of course. I still want to have a privacy divider.
And a soundproof interior. For . . . reasons. ”
Monika chokes. Simone is taking notes, but Monika has her looking up when she interrupts, “Your name isn’t Simone, is it?”
She glances at me. When I don’t say more, just frown, she chuckles lightly. “No. It’s Raven. Taranis’s other assistant isn’t Simon either. It’s Davíd.”
“Simon and Simone?” Monika elbows me in the ribs. “You’re absurd.”
“I’m working on it.” I grimace at Raven and say, “Did you see the contract I sent you?”
“I did.”
“And did you decide?”
Raven nods quickly, surprising me. “I’m interested in staying on, particularly within the new terms.” A raise being one of them. Fixed hours being the other. No longer on call and no longer required to manage a tenth of my previous schedule being the last key amendments.
“Good,” I say, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. I assumed she wouldn’t be interested, even with the added perks. I’m no longer a Champion and I’m generally an unpleasant creature, and yet, here she is.
“She’s your PA?” Monika asks.
“Yes.”
“I thought you were quitting?”
“Except where cases of my girlfriend diving headlong into danger are concerned.”
Raven snorts. Monika shakes her head, “Good grief.”
“Yes, that’s what you’re causing me—grief.
Now, let’s get you settled onto my new couch.
” I push her down the hallway, muttering over my shoulder to Raven as I go, “Please also get rid of these doors. I don’t like them.
They aren’t comfortable. And get that designer in who said something about giving my walls texture—whatever that means. ”
“Are you redecorating?” Monika asks, trying to look over her shoulder at me but her bandages get in the way. I grab her by the top of the head and turn it forward.
“Yes. Someone I happen to like told me my apartment was uncomfortable, and since I’d like her to make this her permanent residence, I am having it tailored to her liking.”
Monika stumbles. “You . . . didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” I answer, catching her elbow as I guide her to my living room. “My things were designed by someone who hates me and I never even noticed. I want things to be warm. I want to make this feel like a home for you.”
“Well, I like the rug you’ve got here and in the foyer.
Reminds me a lot of the one I have. Very colorful.
Already the space feels warmer. And, ooh!
You started the fireplace,” she says as we enter the living room area.
It’s here that she comes to a dead stop. “Oh. My. God. Are you fucking serious?”
“Are you hungry? I was thinking of making saffron risotto, but if you don’t like risotto, I also have ingredients for broccoli-cheddar soup. The doctor said you might have discomfort chewing with your facial stitching . . .”
“You Robbed My Flat!”
“Risotto it is.” I pull out the ingredients I’ll need and set water to boil.
Monika is still standing in the center of the space, in the no-man’s-land between the living room area and the kitchen.
The kitchen is still black, but I wanted her opinion on what colors to paint it first before going all out.
The living room, however, is an explosion of hideousness that I rather like.
Her yellow couch looks like it’s made of Big Bird’s skin. It is also her couch.
“What . . . what did you do?”
I sigh. “I spent hours looking at furniture and decided that nothing I could select would be better than what you already selected for yourself, so while you were at the hospital, I had Simone and Simon move it all up here.”
“Their names are Raven and Davíd, and what do you mean ‘all of it’?”
“I mean all of it.”
“All of It?” Her voice ends on so high a note I strain to make sense of it.
“Yes. All the furniture, anyway. I have a few spare guest rooms that aren’t decorated yet—I don’t really have guests, if you can believe that.
I figured you’d want to turn one of those into your photo-developer room—Do they call that a red room?
Am I making that up?—and another into an office, if you need one.
Or we can share mine. I won’t need it much anymore. ”
“You . . . you!” She storms up to me, coming around the island, which is her first mistake.
She comes close enough to grab, which I do, taking her by the back of the neck.
The shortened, burned strands of her hair still haven’t been trimmed and have an odd texture against her coarse, wavy hair.
Her hair has so many textures. Curly, wavy, some straight pieces near her ears.
I card my claws through her hair, tilt her head back far, and kiss her for all she’s worth. I kiss her in anger and rapture. I kiss her mostly to distract her, and it works. She relaxes in my arms, her own fists falling slack around my wrists.
I walk forward, forcing her to back up until we round the kitchen island and enter the living room, where I press her down onto her soft Big Bird couch, spread her legs, and use my mouth to bring her to orgasm once and then again.
I wait until she’s boneless before pulling back.
Her lips are wet with my spit and her cum, and her vulva and clit are swollen.
It’s a lascivious sight that’s hard to ignore.
I fight against my hardened abdomen and the erection demanding attention.
I’m about to leave her there to nap or relax and return to the kitchen to prepare her food when she reaches out and grabs my pant leg, her fingernails exciting my nerves as they trail over the bare skin of my knee.
“Please, please, Darius.”
I catch my breath and hold it. “I’ll be back with your food.”
“Please, I’m begging you. Feed me.”
“You’re injured . . .” I choke.
Her palm skims the front of my pants, moving over my zipper roughly. “I just want to swallow.”
Fuck. “If I let you swallow, will you forgive me for the furniture?”
Her eyes widen. She hesitates, but then I undo my zipper. “Yes,” she gasps as I pull my blue cock free. “Did you know they call this a knot?” she says, sliding her finger around the hardened ridge of my shaft.
“Who calls it that?”
“Vanessa and Emily. Vanessa learned the word from her romance novels.”
“You don’t read romance novels?”
She shakes her head. “I read political biographies and books about cameras. The hottest thing I’ve read lately was a review of really, really big lenses.”
I snort. “I like you.”
She looks up at me with a grin. “I like you too. Now, give it to me.” She sticks out her tongue as far as it will go, and I’m too weak to do anything but exactly what she’s asking.
I start to stroke myself and her eyes flutter as she watches my every move.
It’s such a poor replacement for her mouth, hands, ass, pussy .
. . but it’ll have to do for now. Until she’s healed, has entirely forgotten she once had an apartment four floors down from mine, and the Marduk is no longer a problem.
If I have to hypnotize her with sex, so be it.
“Fuck,” I grunt as she starts to whimper my name, begging me to come on her, in her, fill her with my knot. “You make such filthy fucking sounds.”
I use my right hand to stroke my shaft while my left hand reaches down to her breasts.
I fondle them through her sweatshirt, use my tail to massage my testicles, and collapse onto one knee on the edge of the couch, putting my cock just below lip level.
Releasing her tits, I use two hands to cover the knot. Grunting, I choke, “Open your mouth.”
She opens her mouth, such an obedient little whore, and sticks out her tongue as far as it’ll go just as the release hits me like a truck.
Cum erupts from the tip of my cock in a bright white, with a slightly silverish hue.
It hits the side of her face before I manage to shove the head of my dick into her mouth.
I don’t stuff her fuller than that, even though I want to.
I empty and the sight of her throat working so rapidly to swallow load after load just makes me come harder, in a more violent stream.
Sweat beads on my hairline. Electricity buzzes up my horns.
My tail’s tip rings my balls and squeezes, and I damn near have a fucking stroke when she suctions her lips.
I must come for five hours. Maybe it’s only five minutes, but it’s both the longest and shortest five minutes of my life. Because when it’s over, there’s cum all over her mouth, dribbling down her chin, wetting her lips, and dripping onto her sweatshirt.
“Fucking Christ,” I hiss.
“Can I lick your knot, Darius?”
Fuck yes. I remove one hand and bring my knot to her mouth, let her lick the cum from it and suck on as much of it as she can until finally, it starts to recede.
“Goddammit,” I say when I’m finally able to let go of it without it feeling extremely sensitive, so sensitive it borders on painful.
I drop down onto my back and lie on the bright turquoise-pink-yellow-and-tan carpet I robbed from her apartment.
After a few minutes of silence, in which the only thing audible are our labored breaths, she finally says, “Fuck it. Keep the couch. I want the knot.”
I laugh. “Deal.”