5. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Creed
D arkness is my element. I thrive in the shadows.
Every night… except this one. Not while she’s on my couch.
Instead, it settles on the room like dust, clinging to the hard edges of the furniture and the sharp planes of my body.
The world outside is muted, subdued by triple-glazed windows, thick blackout curtains, layers of isolation that make every sound a ghost of itself.
But inside, my mind refuses to allow silence.
I lie on my back, arms folded across my chest. The clock on the nightstand pulses: 02:19.
I haven’t slept in thirty-one hours. This isn’t unusual, but it is inefficient. I demand better from myself. My body is fucking temple and this woman has me in enough of a spiral that she’s wearing on my carefully constructed control.
Across the apartment, I hear nothing. My little kitten sleeps on my sofa, or pretends to. I imagine her heartbeat, the rhythm of her body, how it might sound if I pressed my ear to her throat. How it would feel to sink my teeth into her soft skin and feel her pulse spill her blood into my mouth.
Now my cocks hard. Defiling that perfect woman, making her scream my name, making her come just because I can… the urges running through my body make it impossible to think about anything else.
I want to mark her pretty little body with our blood, to see what she will do when I unleash on her. I’m not a good man and I’ve never pretended to be, but she…
I don’t think she’s a good girl.
In fact, I think she’s a very, very bad girl.
She could take what I give and give it back in equal measure, I’m sure of it.
Fuuuuuuck.
Sleep will not come.
I need a fucking drink.
Standing and stretching the tension from my neck and shoulders, I finally decide that booze is going to be the only thing that will take this edge off.
I step into the hallway, move past the living room without looking at her.
I know exactly where she is. The spatial memory is flawless.
I know the configuration of her limbs, the way her left hand curls under her cheek, the loose tangle of hair that escapes the blanket.
I allow myself no detours. The whiskey is my objective.
If I deviate, I will claim that cunt and split her open.
No. I want her to come to me. And she will. I’m halfway there already.
Heading to the liquor cabinet, a small glass-fronted shrine set into the far wall, I open it, select the Lagavulin, pour two fingers into a heavy tumbler. Usually I spend time admiring it, but not tonight. I don’t waste time savoring the aroma.
The first sip is a burn. The second is a detonation. The whiskey traces a line of fire down my throat, blooming in my gut, radiating out in circles of numbness. I welcome the chemical anesthesia. I want the edges dulled, the noise inside my skull muted.
I set the glass down with a controlled thud and lean against the counter, closing my eyes.
I see her. Not as she is, but as she will be: spread out on black sheets, skin pale as milk, eyes wide and unblinking. My hands on her throat, her pulse a rapid race under my thumb. The image is both arousal and threat, and I am powerless to distinguish which is more urgent.
I pour another and finish the drink in one swallow.
The world softens, just a fraction. My muscles unknot, the persistent ache in my jaw recedes.
I return to the bedroom, leaving the glass unwashed on the counter. I give no fucks. The loss of control is intentional. I want her scent in the apartment, her presence to linger in the molecular haze. She is an anomaly in my system, and I haven’t yet decided how to resolve her.
I strip the shirt, fold it, place it on the chair by the bed. Lying back down, I stare at the ceiling.
The moon tracks slowly across the wall. I watch it until the light begins to blur, the boundaries of the room dissolving at the periphery.
Sleep comes, at last. It is not peace. But it is enough.
My breath slows, deepens. The heartbeat that would not be silenced finally surrenders.
In the dark, I dream only of her.
Julianna
My eyes are closed, but I can’t fucking sleep.
There is too much of him here, his presence in every molecule of the air, the ghosts of his footsteps reverberating through the quiet of his home.
The couch is a stone altar, uncomfortable and deliberate, and I lie on my back, arms pinned to my sides, eyes fixed on the ceiling’s uneven shadows.
From the bedroom comes the soundtrack of his insomnia.
Restlessness is not new to me, but in him, it sounds like violence suppressed.
Sheets whisper. The bed frame protests in tiny metallic groans.
There is a rhythm, almost, to his need. I wonder if he’s dreaming of me, or if his nightmares are more powerful than that.
At 3:12, the noise stops. It is a silence so absolute that it becomes a presence of its own. I listen for the slow, regulated breath of sleep. When I’m sure of it, I count sixty more seconds, then rise.
I don’t move quickly, even though the thought of what I’m about to do sends a sense of urgency through me.
Since he brought me here, I’ve thought of nothing else except impaling myself on his cock and finding out if he’s more man than beast. My feet touch the floor without sound.
The blanket slips from my shoulders, pooling on the cushion.
My legs are unsteady, an artifact of exhaustion, or anticipation, or both.
The apartment is cold, but my skin runs hotter than it should. The hallway is a tunnel of moonlight, the gray floor a runway to what I want. I pause at the entrance to his room.
His back is to me. His body is a sculpture, perfect in every way.
His tattoos are beautiful in the hard lines that spread across his skin.
The muscles are at rest, finally, his spine a long, elegant line from neck to coccyx.
The sheet rides low, barely covering the arch of his ass.
I feel a wave of something, sharp and electric, in my throat.
Desire like I’ve never experienced before courses through me and my thighs clench, trying to keep control of myself.
I hover in the doorway, as he shifts in his sleep.
His head is turned just enough that I see the edge of his jaw, the hollow beneath the ear, the way his stubble shades the skin.
His arms are above his head, fists loose.
The veins on his forearms are rivers, running down his skin and all I can think about is those hands gripping my hips as I grind down on him.
Just a taste…
I swallow, and the sound is loud in my skull. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I turned back, if I abandoned this intrusion and retreated to my own corner. But I know myself. I don’t surrender to impulse; I dissect it, then indulge it.
Everything in my life is controlled chaos, every thought analyzed until I reach a suitable conclusion… but not with him. With him, it feels like chaos I can’t control.
And I kind of fucking love it.
I approach the bed. Each step is a negotiation with gravity, a challenge to see how long I can maintain control before the need overtakes me.
At the foot of the mattress, I stop. The dim light runs across his back, painting a line from shoulder to waist. There is a scar at the base of his spine, thin and silver.
I want to know how he got it. I want to press my tongue to it and taste the difference between healed and whole.
Kneeling on the edge of the mattress, I test for any reaction.
He doesn’t move. The breathing is slow, even.
I pull back the sheet, inch by inch, revealing more of him.
His body is mapped with scars, some old, some not.
His skin is cool under my palm when I touch him.
I trace the length of his flank, the convex curve of hip, the absolute lack of softness anywhere.
He shifts under my hand, but does not wake. I kneel higher, climbing the bed, straddling his waist with my knees just outside his. My heart hammers, deafening.
His boxers are tight, black. I peel them down with surgical precision, exposing him.
He is beautiful, the kind of beautiful that terrifies you because you know it can destroy you.
I study him, memorizing the density, the color, the shape of want made flesh.
With slow strokes, he comes to life. It doesn’t take long until I’m drooling at the monster in front of me.
With my breath suspended, I shift to the backs of his thighs, opening my knees for balance.
I dip my head, hair brushing his skin, and take him into my mouth.
The tip is velvet and salt, already flushed and hot; I circle him with my tongue, slow and deliberate, pressing up along the underside.
He hardens further as I draw the head between my lips, the taste of his pre-come sharp and heady.
I savor it, letting it bloom on the roof of my mouth before I take him deeper.
He twitches in his sleep, a low sound escaping his throat, a half-formed groan, the animal behind his composure.
I am careful, so careful, running my lips down his shaft, feeling the pulse beneath the surface.
I wrap one hand around the base, squeezing just enough to feel the flex of him.
My other hand presses against his hip, steadying myself as I work him.
I want to wake him with pleasure so intense it short-circuits his control.
I want to make him feel as feral and helpless as he makes me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why is he making me lose control like this?
Before I can make him come, I stop and move forward, straddling his hips, positioning his fat cock at my entrance.
I lower myself, slow and measured. The angle is awkward, but I do not care. I guide him inside, the stretch a beautiful burn. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from making a noise. He slides in, and I am so wet I have to brace myself on his ribs to keep from collapsing entirely.