Chapter 17 #2
And for some reason, in this moment, I can’t help but feel completely serene. This silly little idea and him agreeing to it, and us being here. This is so right.
The bedroom smells like us, my strawberry body wash mixed with his vanilla and tobacco cologne, the faint scent of the coffee I had this morning behind Flynn’s back because he still tries to give me tea, the leather of the costume.
It’s domestic in a way that should terrify me but instead makes me feel safe.
As I look at the clothes on the bed, I hear him walk slowly toward me. The floorboards don’t creak under his weight—he’s too controlled for that, too aware of every movement. I turn and catch his gray eyes staring back at me. I can’t help but feel my cheeks warm up as he stops right beside me.
“And what are you dressing up as, little hunter?”
“You.”
Flynn tilts his head to the side, a sign of amusement growing as one eyebrow raises. “Me? You want to dress up as me,” he questions, then states.
“I mean,” I try to get my words out, and for some reason, I find myself stuttering. “I will be dressing up as a vampire,” I manage to say, clearing my throat. “A Victorian vampire to be more exact.” Because I know exactly how much he likes corsets.
He proceeds to lick his lips and make a sound that is a mix between an exasperated groan and a full-on growl. The sound is pure sex, pure want, and it makes my knees weak.
I drop my costume right beside his, and I see him press his tongue against one of his fangs and bleeds. The small bead of blood wells up, dark and red against his pale lip. I can’t help but snort at the act.
I guess he approves of my choice.
“I do like the sound of that. Very much.” His lips are on mine so fast I jolt in surprise. He’s hungry, and infuriated, and desperate, and all mine.
I can feel him hardening in his pants as he presses his body on mine.
The ridge of his erection presses against my hip, and I grind against him instinctively, drawing another growl from his throat.
Gods, I can’t believe this is the effect we always have with each other.
“You’re making it very difficult to keep this punishment up,” he whispers on my lips.
“One week, fangs,” I reply, almost tasting copper on his soft lips. My hand brushes his shaft through his trousers, feeling the heat of him even through the fabric. “I will resist one more week. For you.”
“Good girl.”
Heat reaches my cheeks, and I feel the dampness of my panties growing. Those two words should not have the effect they do, but here we are. “Time to role play,” I say to try and change the subject.
Flynn insisted on driving downtown, and at the speed he’s going, I feel we might not actually make it in one piece.
The Aston Martin purrs beneath us, the engine a low growl that matches the tension in the car.
Yes, he had to buy a stupidly expensive car that clearly says, “Look at us, we’re stupidly rich and we want everyone to know.
” London at night blurs past the windows—streetlights creating streaks of gold and white, the Thames a dark ribbon reflecting the city lights.
The leather seats smell expensive and new, and I’m trying very hard not to think about all the things we could do in this car if we weren’t under sexual house arrest.
He’s also not paying attention on the road. At all. He’s too focused on my cleavage. Now who’s the twelve-year-old boy?
I do get that this corset is holding on for dear life, and my boobs look absolutely incredible in this costume, but damn, boy, let’s not get into an accident because of a pair of tits.
The corset is black velvet with blood-red lacing, pushing my breasts up in a way that’s borderline obscene.
The skirt is layers of black tulle and silk, short enough to show off my legs in fishnet stockings.
I’ve got a black velvet choker with a cameo, long black gloves, and I’ve styled my blonde hair in loose curls that cascade down my back.
The fake fangs are the finishing touch, and they’re driving me absolutely insane.
I can’t help but touch the fake teeth I’ve put on, and fuck, they’re annoying as hell. “How do you deal with fangs all day?” I ask, hoping to get his attention. I massage my gums as I wait for his response, feeling the plastic press against my teeth.
He laughs a little and then his eyes are finally a little higher up. On my face. “I’ve got a few years on you with those,” he says, shrugging. “You eventually forget about them. They become a part of you,” he adds, now paying full attention to my mouth.
For a moment.
Yeah, because two seconds later, he goes back staring at my body.
“Eyes up here, buddy.”
“I can’t help it. You look exquisite, Talulla. Best birthday gift I could ever ask for.”
The words take a second to process, and when they do, I feel like I’ve been slapped. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re telling me it’s your birthday? Like this? Why the hell have you never mentioned it?”
“Because you never asked.”
The casual way he says it makes me want to stake him all over again. “Oh,” I say, looking down at my gloved hands. “You’re right. I guess I felt it was a little insensitive to ask a dead person how many years of life he has on him.”
“Well, you know it’s twenty-five of life.”
“And how many of non-life?”
He smirks at my question, going back to paying attention to the road. The streetlights cast moving shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. “A little more than twenty-five.”
Well, can’t blame a girl for trying. He’ll tell me the exact number at some point…I guess tonight is not that night.
“Wait, we’ve been seeing each other for like a year now, how didn’t this come up before? What did you do last year on your birthday?”
“Took you to see your favorite band, and then fucked you senseless. Fucking perfect gift if you asked me.”
The memory hits me like a freight train—the concert, the way he’d looked at me in the crowd, the hotel room after where he’d made me scream his name so many times I lost count. “I staked you the morning after.”
“But you didn’t kill me. Still perfect birthday to me.”
“I think you should be the one going to a therapist.”
He can’t help but laugh, the sound rich and genuine. “Maybe I should.”
“I should have baked you a cake. When we go home, I’m baking you a cake.”
“You in that dress is already enough, truly.”
“But—”
“Again with the buts?”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Can’t believe this is how I find out about your birthday.”
“Yours is on December 24th, right?”
“How the hell do you know that?” Because I didn’t tell him that.
I tell no one that. I don’t like my birthday.
At all. Christmas Eve babies get the short end of the stick—combined presents, forgotten celebrations, everyone too busy with holiday prep to care.
I just never liked it, so I try not to really celebrate it. I avoid it like the black plague.
“My love, you’re on social media. And also, I have my sources.”
“Touché.”
His eyes trail back on my body and then up to me.
His stare is so intense I feel I might liquefy in front of him.
A predator that still doesn’t understand that he has caught his prey for the rest of my days.
“I might need to ask you to keep my jealousy under control tonight,” he says, his icy-gray eyes never leaving mine.
I tilt my head a little. “I will always want you, Flynn. You don’t have to worry about that.”
He snorts. A short rough laugh that makes my core throb. “It’s everyone else around us being able to see you that worries me.”
“They can look, but they can’t have what’s already being claimed.”
Flynn growls at my choice of words, and the sound is pure possession.
Yup. Claimed. I might have hated the idea just a year ago, but now? Now it’s all I think about. I’m his just as much as he’s mine.
“Let’s go give them a show then. Shall we?” he says, parking the car right in front of the venue.
The building is an old warehouse in Shoreditch, the kind of place that’s been converted into a trendy club with exposed brick and industrial lighting.
The bass from inside thrums through the air, making the ground vibrate.
There’s a line of people in costumes stretching down the block—zombies and witches and sexy nurses and all the usual Halloween fare.
He rushes to my door and opens it, extending his hand to me to help me out.
I’m an independent woman, his equal, he made sure to remind me over and over.
I might be submissive in the bedroom, but here?
Here I’m in charge, and as much as these gestures might have looked over the top, I can’t help but accept his hand.
His palm is cool against mine, his grip firm and steady. He helps me out of the low car, and I’m grateful for it because this corset is not designed for easy movement.
I know how much it means to him seeing me accept his moderated control.
“You’re such a gentleman,” I say, the corners of my lips lift up.
“My darling, I’m quite the opposite of a gentleman.”
We walk toward the door, his hand on the small of my back, and with that, we step in.
The dark atmosphere makes it hard to see, but the laser lights help with looking at the scene in front of us.
Humans everywhere with every kind of costume.
Laughing, kissing, dancing, and well, getting very close to fucking.
The air is thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, artificial fog, and too many competing perfumes and colognes.
The music is so loud I can feel it in my chest, the bass line thumping in time with my heartbeat.
Strobe lights flash in time with the beat, creating a disorienting effect that makes everyone look like they’re moving in stop-motion.