Chapter 21 - Lila #4
He’s not wrong, but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much Shaw’s questions rattled me. “Just another day analyzing people like you,” I say, cutting into the steak with more force than necessary. “People who think violence is a personality trait.”
He chuckles, infuriatingly unfazed, watching me chew the bite I take. The steak is faultless—juicy, medium-rare, seasoned to perfection. “You’re eating my food, Delilah,” he drawls. “Doesn’t get more domestic than that. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to move in permanently.”
The word permanently snaps something inside me, the tension from Shaw’s probing, from the day’s careful navigation of lies, from the way Kent’s presence keeps unraveling my control.
I swallow the bite, slamming my fork down, the clatter loud in the quiet apartment.
“You think you can just play house?” I snap, standing so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. “Cook me dinner, act like you belong here, like you can tame me now that you know I’m as fucked up as you always were?”
His brows flit up his forehead in record time, as if he’s actually stunned that he’s pissing me off. Like it’s a surprise to him, that I’m not swooning over this fucking act. “Tame you, Delilah? I wouldn’t dare. I’m just feeding the beast I helped create.”
The words hit too close, stoking the rage I’ve been carrying all day—rage at Shaw, at the copycat, at myself for letting him back into my life. I want to scream, to shatter something, to make him feel the chaos he’s unleashed by being here.
But before I can, he sets the knife down and gestures to the table, his voice dropping to a command that vibrates through me. “Come here. You’re being incredibly rude when all I’ve done is spoil you.”
I should tell him to fuck off, to get out of my space, but my feet move before my brain can catch up.
It’s not obedience—it’s the pull of the Carver, the part of him that matches the darkest parts of me.
I stalk to his side of the table, glaring, my body thrumming with defiance and need.
He doesn’t touch me, just watches, his gaze stripping me bare as I stand there, refusing to sit.
“Wash my knife for me,” he says, picking up the carving knife and holding it out, the blade still slick with juices from the steak. His voice is calm, but there’s a challenge in it, a dare to see if I’ll bend.
I snatch the knife from him, my fingers brushing his, and for a moment, I consider pressing the blade to his throat, just to remind him who’s in control.
Something in his eyes—the raw, unfiltered hunger of the man who killed my father—makes me pause.
I can’t help myself when he looks like this, when I see the Carver instead of just Kent.
So I turn to the sink, scrubbing the blade with soap and water, the suds sliding over my fingers as I try to regain some semblance of control.
Behind me, I hear the scrape of his chair as he pushes it back, the sound making me shiver. Like every nerve-ending in my body knows he’s preparing for what comes next.
I finish washing the knife, my hands trembling not from fear but from the electric anticipation crackling through me. I turn, stalking back to the table, the knife still in my hand, and find him sitting there, legs spread, his posture all lazy confidence.
"Take off your panties."
When I still, scowling at him, he rolls his eyes with attitude that makes my stomach roil. “Are you fucking—”
"Or I could always cut them off and shove them in that mouth of yours," he suggests.
My chest is tight as I reach under my skirt, pulse thundering in my ears, and draw damp lace down my legs and step out of it.
He watches with blown pupils, his lips parted just so.
I only just manage to keep from shaking when he reaches out, taking the knife from me, his fingers lingering on mine. “Open your mouth, Delilah,” he says, his words commanding, holding the knife handle toward me.
Again, I hesitate, my breath catching. Yet the look in his eyes—pure Carver, all hunger and control—pulls me under.
I part my lips, and he slides the blunt handle into my mouth, pushing it deep until it hits the back of my throat.
I gag, my eyes watering, but he doesn’t relent, holding it there as saliva pools, soaking the handle.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dark with approval. “Make it nice and wet for me.”
He sweeps his arm across the table, sending plates and glasses crashing to the floor, the shattering porcelain amplifying the chaos between us. I flinch so hard I bite down on the handle.
He is smiling when he coaxes it back out of my mouth, the handle glistening, and wraps his napkin around the blade, gripping it tightly to keep it safe and steady.
He holds the knife upright on the table, the slick handle pointing upward like an obscene offering.
“On your knees,” he orders, pointing to the table. “Sink down on it.”
My body obeys before my mind can argue, climbing onto the table, the wood cool against my knees.
Like he has me under a hypnotic spell. I position myself over the handle.
"Stop," he says, and I do…just for him to reach out, and tuck the edge of my skirt so neatly into the waistband.
Leaving me exposed when me as I lower myself to his fucking whims, the wet handle sliding against me with a cold, thrilling pressure.
My eyes water at the intrusion I press down on, rocking down slowly, too slowly—
Until Kent fists a handful of my hair, his grip tight enough to make my dye-darkened roots burn. “You can do better than that, Delilah,” he growls, guiding my hips up and down, forcing a rhythm that makes my breath hitch. "If you can't take this, how will you take my cock?"
He steps back, relinquishing his grip on my hair just to rip open my blouse with a single yank, buttons scattering across the table.
Ruthlessly, his hands shove my bra down, freeing my breasts.
Like a needy plaything, I push my chest out for him, inviting his mouth.
He ignores the gestures. Instead, he watches me.
Watches the tits he'd praised last night bounce with my every movement, his eyes dark with hunger. His hand returns to my hair.
While the other works his cock, stroking himself in time with my motions, the sight of him so raw and unfiltered it sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this, Delilah,” he says, his voice rough with desire. “Twisted little slut.”
I don’t argue the name this time, letting Delilah settle over me like a claim I’m too far gone to fight. The handle moves inside me, guided by his grip on my hair, each thrust a mix of pleasure and edge that has me trembling.
“Stop,” he exhales, and I freeze, panting, my body screaming for release as I hover on the edge. Arguments, vehement and blistering, singe my tongue. “Lie down,” he says. “Head off the edge for me.”
For me, he says. Once, I would have done anything. Anything, for him. And he hadn't stayed.
I hate myself for the way I comply now, regardless, moving to his instructions until I am flat on my back on my own dining table, with my head hanging off the side, the world tilting upside down as blood rushes to my skull.
Enraptured by him when he steps closer, his hands finding my breasts, pinching my nipples hard enough to make me gasp.
“Take my cock in your mouth, pretty girl,” he says, and I do, my lips parting as he guides himself in, filling my throat with rocking, insistent thrusts.
Keening, I swallow around him, my hands gripping the table edges, my body trembling with the intensity of it.
My eyes fill with tears that spill as he groans, mean and guttural, his fingers tightening on my nipples as he uses my mouth.
I let him. I let him use me until he comes, hot and bitter, and I take every drop, my throat working to please him even as my own need burns.
When he pulls back, I’m shaking, my voice a whine as I insist, “I need to come! Kent—Kent, please.”
His palm comes up to cradle my face, his thumb swiping a tear from my wet cheek. He bends down and presses his lips to my forehead, knocking the breath from my lungs all over again.
I almost can't process when his fingers trail down my stomach to find my clit, pinching it hard enough to make me cry out.
“My precious slut,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with shadow-black affection.
My vision is blurred with tears, and I watch his silhouette round the table with predatory grace, his eyes never leaving me, the knife still in his hand, its handle slick with my saliva and arousal.
He kneels between my thighs, his free hand spreading me open, exposing me to the cool air and his unrelenting gaze. With such care, he positions the knife handle at my entrance, the wet handle sliding in with an utter lack of resistance that makes my breath hitch.
His mouth descends, tongue flicking against my clit, teasing with light, maddening strokes before he sucks hard, drawing a moan from deep in my chest.
Relentlessly, he fucks me with the knife handle, each thrust calculated, deep, and unyielding, his lips and tongue working in tandem, building me higher with ruthless intensity until I’m trembling, every nerve screaming for release.
The combination is too much: his tongue, the handle, the sting of his pinch.
It feels like a span of seconds until I come so hard my vision whites out, my ears ringing as my body convulses, my scream muffled by the aftershocks.
I’m barely coherent when I hear him chuckle, his breath hot against my thigh. “That’s your phone, honey.”
I blink, disoriented, the ringing now distinct—a shrill vibration from my bag across the room. Reality crashes back, the wrecked kitchen, the shattered plates, the knife still in his hand.
I’m a mess, blouse torn, body trembling, but the look in his eyes tells me this is far from over.