Chapter 58
The moment I open my eyes, I know he’s not next to me.
Not that I expected him to cuddle with me.
Despite what happened to his sister's and niece’s tombstone, he’s still distant and aloof.
I sit up and lean against the headboard, bringing my knees to my chest, wincing at the soreness.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had sex.
Exhaustion hits me, and I let my shoulders relax as I wrap my arms around my legs.
Thoughts barrel through me. Today is Sunday.
Tomorrow marks the start of the week, and it feels like a precursor to the end. I can’t avoid it.
It’s time to go home.
Home.
A sharp, cold feeling covers my body. Chilled, I rub my arms. My chest feels tight thinking about it.
I need to head back to the gallery, to my life.
So much is riding on Jacinda’s art show going well, and I have a million things to do.
And I’m days behind. I left Kingsley and then left for Stone’s place.
But sitting in his bed, sore from him fucking me, a part of me wants to luxuriate in this. To just live in the bubble of sex with Stone. Of talking to him.
But we haven’t talked about anything. Not my brother. Not what I found in the forest. Not what happened after he caught me. Not what will happen next.
I pause and listen, wondering where he is.
The cabin is a decent size, not huge, but who knows what secrets are lurking.
I haven’t explored simply because I haven’t felt like I could.
We’ve confined our time to the kitchen and the bedroom.
I don’t even know how much I can explore, considering that the man kills people. God knows what I would find.
Slipping out of bed, I stand, hobbling my way to his bathroom.
I turn on the water and wash my face, ignoring the marks on my body that are a testament to how I’ve spent the last few days.
I step into the shower and pick up his soap and the washcloth I’ve been using.
I’ve used it for the last day, and I love how it smells on my body.
Tingly and fresh. I have no doubt he made it himself.
I can’t reconcile this version of Stone.
The man who makes soap and body oil from scratch is the same man who kills.
A criminal. I wash my hair with another bottle that feels like a conditioner.
It also has no name, but he should market it.
It leaves my hair feeling smooth and lush. Finally, I step out and dry myself.
Naked and shivering, I look around his room, wondering what I’m going to wear.
I have no clothes. For the last day and a half, I’ve been wearing one of his shirts.
Not that I mind. He always smells good, and it’s not like his shirt stays on long.
Soon, it's on the floor, and his mouth is between my legs. I head to the drawer and open it, finding neat, folded shirts in gray, black, and white. He’s not one for color.
Pulling on a white shirt, I pull it over my body, and quickly braid my hair. As soon as the shirt hits my thigh, my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I need coffee or something to eat. I’ve been burning calories like crazy.
I leave his bedroom, moving slowly, taking in the log walls of the living room.
The single long couch. The fireplace. Memories of last night come to me when he lit the fire and had me ride his face while the fire warmed our bodies.
I stare at the exact spot where I gripped his head with one hand while I braced with my other hand on the floor.
I didn't care about anything except the feel of his tongue inside.
The scrape of his stubble on my inner thigh was like nothing I had ever experienced before.
My curiosity won’t be controlled, and I walk down the hallway, surprised when I spot Stone through an open door, sitting at a desk, his naked chest on full display.
I knock twice, and he looks up from where he was writing in a black notebook or journal.
A diary? I wonder if he writes down his feelings. Am I in there?
He closes it and opens a drawer. He tilts his head to the side and leans back in his chair, hands over that washboard stomach. Those dark eyes rake down my body. His perusal always makes me hot. A frisson of desire curls in my belly, and I shiver under his shirt. “Can I come in?”
“So polite.”
“It’s called manners.” I smirk, leaning against the door. His smile shouldn’t make me feel this good.
“We are way past manners, Countess, but I do like it when you say please,” He leans forward, “especially when my dick is inside you. Come here.”
“I don’t know if I should. Every time I listen to that request, my brain cells fail me and we end up having sex.”
“Is that my shirt?”
“Yup. I don’t have anything to wear since you cut them off me, remember?”
His eyes change, darkening. “I remember.”
I ignore that gruff statement and turn away. No sex. I walk into the room.
“Is this your office?” I look behind me, and his eyes are on my ass.
“Something like that.”
I continue to wander, taking in all the details.
It’s not as rustic as the rest of the cabin.
This room is darker; the walls are painted a deep gray.
A few black-and-white photographs cover the wall.
They are from a different era, perhaps a hundred years ago.
Pictures of various cultures. Men long dead stare at the camera, stoic.
I get closer, unable to see what’s at their feet, but a large fire is behind them.
There are more. Similar poses, but slight differences in the decoration on their bodies.
Others include colorful drawings that were done long ago.
I peer closer and see a scene of a group of Native people around a fire, and I blink in disbelief at seeing the clear body parts being roasted.
A tall man with a feathered headdress stands alongside other men.
“What is this?”
“Exocannibalism.”
“What does it mean?” Stone leans back in his chair and pulls out another cigarette, and then a small brown vial, shaking out a match, before striking it. A flame erupts and lights the tip; the orange ember is bright. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Every move is slow and precise.
“It’s the practice of eating one’s enemies during warfare.”
The smoke surrounds him. That same delicious scent I’m addicted to wafts toward me, tickling my nose. I turn back to the drawing and read the inscription at the bottom. “What’s the difference between regular cannibalism and exocannibalism?”
He blows the smoke to the sky and puts his cigar down before standing.
“There are many types of cannibalism. This one specifically is about consuming one’s enemies is about conquest, revenge.
It is believed that to consume your enemy you humiliate them.
The ultimate act of indignity. The Azande, Iroquois, Aztecs, The Dayak people of Asia, the Attacotti, the Wari people. ”
He says it almost reverently, respectfully.
He clearly admires the gruesome tactic. Jace mentioned in passing that Stone was in the Marines, but I hesitate to ask him about it.
My experience with Adam taught me that not everyone is comfortable talking about their military experience.
I’ve had sex with him, but what I know about him could fit in my palm.
His mother is suffering from dementia. His sister and niece were murdered.
He tattoos for a living and has killed two men.
No wait. Three. He was also in prison for manslaughter.
That’s it. A palmful. I keep moving, eager to know more about him.
The frames on one wall catch my eye. I step closer and realize they are not frames with glass.
I realize they are made of leather that has been stretched and secured to the frames with what appears to be additional leather strips.
I step closer and see that each one has a scene drawn onto it, delicate drawings of a landscape.
Trees. A lake. There is also an X scored into the material.
I’ve never seen anything like it before.
“These are cool. What are they made of?”
“Various animals I’ve come across.”
“You kill animals?”
“Yes. I hunt them down and skin them then I tan the skin as a keepsake.”
“I didn’t take you for a mountain man, hunting animals.”
“There is a lot you don’t know about me, Countess.” He stands and moves closer to me. Strong arms wrap around my waist. Stubble scrapes along my neck and cheek. “And you’re very nosy.”
“Then stop being so mysterious.” I look behind me, staring up into his face.
“I want you again.”
“Again?” I lean into him, and he squeezes me a bit more. “Not sure I can handle it again.”
“Aww, is my countess’s pussy sore?”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Then we can use your ass and your mouth.”
As much as it would feel good to let him fuck me again, I need to know more about him. I can’t let him distract me with sex. “Tell me who those men were. The ones in the forest. What happened to them?”
He pauses and turns me around until I face him. When he kisses my lips, I indulge and let myself get caught up in his seduction, before I push at his chest. The man is an expert at diverting me. “You want to know so badly, Countess? Why?”
“Because I want to know you.” I want to feel like this is more than just sex, I silently add.
He laughs cruelly, and I wonder why my statement makes him laugh. “You want to know me?”
“Yes.”
He leans against the wall. “You might regret it.”
“Tell me.”
“They rape women and children.”
“Oh, God.” I cover my mouth with my hand.
“That name means nothing here. God doesn’t favor men like them.” He pushes off the wall and walks back to his desk.
“But why not let the police handle it?”
One dark eyebrow lifts, “Sorry to burst your naive bubble, but they don’t care much when the criminals they’re supposed to get off the streets pad their pockets. Judges are on their payroll, and prison is a palace.”
“I’m not naive, Stone. I just want to understand.” His eyes narrow, and I can’t decipher what the look means. “Won’t people come looking for them?”
“No one is going to claim them.”
“But what about their families? Don’t they ask questions?”
“I don’t give a fuck about their families. And if they do have family, then they’re better off without those men in their vicinity.”
“But that’s—”
“That’s what, Countess? Cruel? Callous?”
I lift my chin because I don’t know what to say. The line between right and wrong feels very blurry right now.
“Do you want me to beg for forgiveness?”
Do I? I don’t know how to answer, because from the look on his face, forgiveness is the last thing he would seek. He seems to feel no remorse.
“Having regrets about fucking me? About enjoying my cock when I’ve murdered men?”
I frown and cross my arms. Yes, he took lives, but what he described makes it hard to feel much sadness for those men.
“There’s still time to beg for forgiveness and pretend that my cum isn’t in your throat and dripping from your pussy as we speak. You can leave if you want. Go back home to your gallery and paint, and ignore the bad biker who lives next door.”
His crass words should deter me, disgust me, but make me hotter, more lubricated, ready for more.
He trails his lips down my neck and bites the skin right above my pulse point.
“It won’t hurt my feelings.” His fingers find their way between my legs, “But I have a feeling that you won’t.
” His fingers slide up my slit. “Seems like you want more.” He lifts his head and raises a sharp black brow.
I swallow, tasting the last bit of the cherry candy and his unique flavor. “Hmmm. Thought so.”
When he lays me down again, I open my legs, and when he slides that deliciously thick cock inside me, I let him.
And when he fucks me, sucking and biting on my nipples and playing with my clit, I lift my hips.
When he pushes my legs back to my chest, I moan and hold on to those thick forearms. When he tells me to look down at his dick inside me, I look, watching the uncovered surface move in and out of me, shiny with my arousal, the metal of his piercings glinting in the firelight.
When he tells me how pretty my pussy looks taking his cock I agree with him.
When he adjusts my body and those same body adornments hit my G-spot, I call his name.
When he kisses me again, and I taste the smoke on his breath and that cherry candy, I come screaming his name.
When he groans above me, grunting, spilling his cum inside me, I don’t regret it.