Chapter 10
Dalton
My relief is so immense it’s as though I blacked out for a moment. The potency of my arousal is steaming off my body as my brainpower trickles back.
It seems my conviction isn’t worth shit when Corvus is in the room, luring me in with dinner and sultry looks. Does he have any idea what power he has over me? It has nothing to do with the cage, or the debt. For my sake, I hope he never finds out the extent of it.
I run my hands over his sides with a happy groan.
I usually last longer, so I’m a bit embarrassed about how things have gone down, but I can’t take it back now. I’d rather sweep it under the rug and not mention that at all. What matters is that I got him off.
He keeps his eyes closed as he pants for air, seed cooling between our bodies.
I seize the moment and focus on his face, which looks so much softer in the afterglow.
His features are angular, sharp, but relaxation smooths out the tension around Corvus’s eyes, and the lips still glossy with my cum and saliva invite me in.
I want to cream them for the second time, and if I had the energy to get hard again now—
Corvus hums and pries his eyes open. “It’s getting late.”
I chuckle and give his lips a lick. “So? You got somewhere to be?”
“Yes,” Corvus tells me and stretches like a cat after a long nap in the sun. “I’ve got work early in the morning.”
I wrap my arms around his waist, still happily on top. “Okay, fine, let’s go to bed.”
We’re getting married. Me and him. It hasn’t sunk in yet, but as outrageous as that is, I want it.
I’ve always wanted to be chosen. Even if for the wrong reasons.
With time, I’ll prove to him I’m more than a good lay.
I will show him I can be good company, that I can brighten his day, and make him smile in a way that’s not tainted by malice.
“I’ll leave you some books with breakfast,” Corvus tells me, attempting to get up, only to give up on doing it the dignified way and rolling to his knees first. It’s a shame he already pulled up his pants and covered that pert ass.
I rise too, despite being dizzy, as if emptying my balls messed with my head. No surprise there. I can hardly remember ever getting this horny and overheated so fast. Like I couldn’t focus on anything other than fucking.
“I’m not much of a reader. You got Netflix?” I gleefully walk up to him and pull him into my arms. “Fuck, you smell good. Like Christmas spices and smoke.”
He goes rigid, like a cat picked up without warning. “Thank you. I composed this perfume myself,” he says, as if it’s nothing and pats my hand where it rests against his chest.
“What? How? Don’t you need a lab for that or something?” I kiss along his ear. We might be done fucking, but I’m still hungry for him. I want to know everything.
Corvus clears his throat and steps out of my arms. “I do have a workshop. Maybe… maybe I can show you tomorrow,” he tells me and steps into the hallway before I can catch him again.
I follow like he’s a carrot dangling in front of me. He’s so interesting, so hot, so pretty, and it doesn’t hurt that he gave me head as if his life depended on it. Ironic since that’s how he told me to fuck him on the night we met.
“That’s so cool. I want to see. Can you make one for me?” I’m both tired and giddy at the same time. Like a kid on Christmas Eve.
But excitement dims the moment Corvus opens the door leading into the basement rather than the way to his bedroom upstairs.
“Well… I suppose I could. What kind of perfume do you like?” he asks, as if he weren’t about to lock me up for the night, as if I’m a dog in need of crating so it doesn’t rip apart the expensive couch.
I stall, taking a step back. Won’t lie. This is hurtful. Haven’t we just connected? Didn’t he say he will marry me, no prenup and all?
“I’m not sure. There’s no smell I particularly hate, so whatever you feel is me. Whatever that would make you think wow, I need to climb him like a tree.”
He spins around, eyes darkening in the shadow of his lowered brows. “Absolutely not. Perfumery is an art. It needs to suit the person wearing it first.” With that, he descends the stairs, toward my inevitable destiny.
I stay on the landing. “Hey… Corvus, um… Why are we going down there?” Because I hope it’s not why I think it is.
A sigh, then, two taps of feet against the wood, and he’s peeking up at me from behind the wall. “I told you it’s temporary. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
I spread my arms. “What next? You’re gonna say it’s harder for you than it is for me?”
He blinks, then snorts, and a wide smile graces his features. It looks genuine. “No, it is definitely harder for you than it is for me, but try to put yourself in my shoes. If I’m to die, it won’t be by getting murdered in my own bed.”
I let my shoulders sag and take a few steps down toward my cage.
Since the tazing, he’s not been particularly cruel to me, so I’m not assuming he wants to trick me now all of a sudden.
The cage does have a mattress, snacks, and an unusually comfortable pillow.
Oh, and the eco toilet instead of the smelly bucket is a nice touch too, I suppose.
“This sucks. I thought we could cuddle,” I complain anyway, because seriously, what the fuck?
Corvus grunts and has the balls to roll his eyes at me as we enter the torture chamber behind the secret door. “I don’t cuddle.”
“Everyone cuddles.” I groan and turn in a way that allows me to avoid eye contact with the massive saw glinting on the wall. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe a man like Corvus, a man who has scalpels, knives and pliers in his basement really doesn’t cuddle.
How am I supposed to never cuddle with my husband?
He must see how ridiculous it is to avoid such basic human contact. Does he expect us to live like two friends with benefits, who count social security and tax breaks among the benefits?
I don’t even want to argue once he locks the cage behind me, lingering close instead of leaving me to my cold bed on the floor.
“Tomorrow, I’ll leave you to explore the house,” Corvus says, hand resting on one of the thick bars.
Which tells me he is in fact less worried about his marble countertops and more about me murdering him in his sleep. It’s somehow more upsetting.
I place my fingers over his. “It was a nice dinner,” I still say, because it matters to make an effort in a relationship. Whatever to make him stay with me a little longer.
His lips open, eyes widen, and he freezes, caught between leaning in and bolting. But as I move my foot closer to the bars, he rips his fingers from mine and steps away to where I can no longer reach.
“Goodnight,” he whispers and retreats so fast his shoulder hits the doorframe. “I’ll… I’ll leave the light on in the staircase.”
Is it messed up that instead of being pissed off I miss him already?