6. Nero
6
NERO
T he reason for my visit slips my mind when Miranda guides us toward her kitchen. She’s dressed casually in leggings that show off every inch of her curves and an oversized shirt that does a shit job of covering up said curves since it is knotted in the middle of her stomach.
She’s shoeless and sockless, and even if I hadn’t heard her declaration while she ripped her door from its hinges, I’d still be aware she has no intention of taking back her cheating spouse.
Anything non-girlie and bulky has been packed and stored next to the entryway table. If the singe marks on the lawn, and the spitfire stubbornness in her eyes, are anything to go by, anything small and perishable is now soot.
My butterfly is still soaring high.
“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?” Miranda spins to face me, wafting a scent that is uniquely her. “Japanese whisky?”
When I shake my head, she shrugs before she downs a healthy mouthful from a bottle that retails in the high three hundreds.
With the twitching of her nose announcing the tingles racing across her plump lips, she checks the denseness of a yellow batter in a mixing bowl before switching off the mixer and transferring the ingredients into a circular pre-prepared cake tin.
“I bake when…” Lines sprout across her nose when her expression tightens into an adorable scowl. “I used to bake when depressed. It doesn’t feel right saying that now.”
When she gestures for me to sit across from her, I slip onto a backless stool without protest. I don’t usually take orders—I give them. But something about this woman has me acting differently. Less murderous.
I could play it off as if I’m mellowing as I age, but that would be a copout. I wasn’t mellow when I popped a bullet into a thug’s head because he thought he could outsmart the Popovs’ head hacker by doctoring the IP address of the company profiting from Miranda’s metamorphosis. And I wasn’t chill when I realized how many people had seen images of Miranda and me in varying arrays of undress.
For the most part, in the X-rated exposé, Miranda is covered. I was too up in her business to allow inches upon inches of her skin to be left without the attention of my hands, mouth, and cock, but the portions of her body you could see, and her expression when she orgasmed, turned my heart to stone.
I want to be the only man privileged to see them, and you can be certain I’ll murder anyone who dares to look after me.
I’ll track them down, every single one of the fools who have seen the footage, but I figured I should give the lady of the hour a heads-up on her recent surge in popularity before she finds out from someone other than her co-star.
“Help yourself,” Miranda offers when she mistakes my moment of contemplation as desperation to sample one of the many baked goods on her kitchen counter. “There’s more here than I could ever eat.”
She mutters something under her breath, but I miss what she says. I can’t hear a thing over the moan that rumbles up my chest when I pop a weird-looking rice bubble slice into my mouth. It tastes like heaven and sin—an equivalent of the flavors of its creator’s pussy.
“That…” I stop talking, too busy stuffing another slice into my mouth to continue. “ Mm .”
Miranda’s grin makes my dick ache. “Ferrero Rocher slice”—she places down a similarly sized slice, but it is yellow instead of chocolatey brown and has shredded coconut on top—“is the perfect accompanier for a lemon coconut slice. The mix of sweet and sour and smooth and tarty is…”
She puckers her lips, and all I can think about is having them circling my cock.
I missed the chance when her confidence dipped to a point I couldn’t ignore, but I’m not disappointed. Her pussy tastes godly, faultlessly matching her thoughts on her baked treats.
“… perfectly divine.”
I don’t even try to conceal my moan this time. The slices are delicious, and my taste buds dance with euphoria as much now as they did the afternoon she sat on my face.
A sense of achievement highlights Miranda’s gorgeous features as she cuts a piece out of all the baked goodies and places them onto a diabetic’s-one-way-ticket-to-death charcuterie board.
She doesn’t eat a single crumb. I want to say it is because she is full from sampling the goods while baking them like she did the whisky, but my top-of-the-class stalking skills announce that isn’t true.
She’s either holding back because she hates being eyeballed while eating, or she is a person who gets pleasure from watching others be pleased.
She didn’t seem the latter when she lowered her pussy onto my face, but you can never tell.
I could smell how wet Tasha’s pussy got while explaining to me how Miranda’s severance of the camcorder cable wouldn’t have removed the footage that had already been uploaded to her Only Fans page. And unlike the man I killed thirty minutes ago, the wet patch on the front of Miranda’s husband’s pants when she found him in the walk-in closet wasn’t urine.
Roy pissed himself at the start of the proceedings. It smelled nothing like the rank smell that poured out of the closet when he wordlessly begged for Miranda’s forgiveness like he wasn’t surrounded by multiple pictures of his deceit.
Miranda’s stomach grumbles again, drawing me from dangerous thoughts. It has grumbled multiple times over the past twenty minutes, sounding as ravenous as my mouth is to become reacquainted with her pussy.
I’m not the smartest man to ever be born, but it still kills me to admit it takes me three to four minutes to unearth why she’s depriving herself of the items she slaved over for hours.
I almost backtracked on my pledge that I was satisfied with the outcome of my revenge plot when Roy couldn’t hide his confusion for a second longer when I went to retrieve my gun.
He was of the same belief as everyone else in my realm—that a woman over a size two shouldn’t be gawked at with admiration.
He thought a handful of negative and highly untrue comments about bigger ladies would have me running into the arms of the closest supermodel.
His lips didn’t move an inch when I said I couldn’t wait to take his wife for a second run.
I was stirring him. My life is way too complicated to throw someone as innocent as Miranda into the mess, but Roy didn’t know that.
He arced up—stupidly.
I forced him to sit the fuck back down with both my fists and my words before I told him with utmost certainty that I wasn’t playing when I warned him to stay away from Miranda. The instant she sat on my face, she was placed under my shelter. Anything done to her is done directly to me.
I’ll kill a man for looking at me in the wrong manner, but it will be a lengthy death full of torture and deprivation if he dares to utter a bad word about Miranda under his breath.
Miranda’s relaxed, calm composure shows how good Roy’s absence the past three days has been for her, but it’s done little to re-establish the confidence he eradicated from her on the daily before he filed for divorce.
And I’m done pretending it has.
“What do you say, printsessa ? Lick for a lick and bite for a bite?”