12. Fucking a Nun
Fucking a Nun
Onyx
At the confirmation of Paris’s name, Havoc’s grip on me tightened slightly, yet he didn’t say anything else.
What is he thinking?
I decided not to ask, letting him ponder that piece of the puzzle since. . .it truly didn’t matter anymore.
What will happen to us?
I scanned the space seeing the same thing that I’d seen for the past several hours.
The dark ocean stretched endlessly in every direction, and the rain came down in relentless sheets, pelting the surface of the water and creating a symphony of small splashes that echoed around us.
I was terrified of our oncoming deaths—either from starvation or dehydration.
Either way, days from now our cold, lifeless bodies would probably be drifting in this endless ocean.
And no one would know our names? Or what happened to us? Especially, Kendall.
My brother would no longer get phone calls from me or payments.
And he’d know deep in his heart that something happened to me, but wouldn’t have any way to find out. He would just understand that now. . .it was only him. . .in this lonely fucked up world.
Oh, Kendall. I’m so sorry.
For some reason that seemed worse than death.
Our raft rocked, and it felt like such a tiny, fragile vessel adrift in this dark ocean of despair. Each rise and fall of the waves felt like a reminder of my vulnerability, of the very thin line between life and death.
And because of that. . .this great amount of fear gnawed at me.
I’m going to die out here in this ocean.
Since rushing away from the yacht, I had thought about my death at least every damn hour.
In fact, earlier I’d considered simply slipping into the water and letting the sharks take me. The desperation had grown so overwhelming that the thought of an end, any end, seemed almost comforting.
But Havoc had kept pushing me forward and telling me to paddle and. . .I just did it.
A flash of lightning burst across the sky.
Then, thunder rumbled above.
What’s going to happen to us?
At least, in his arms, the fear still lingered, but it was tempered by something else.
A fragile bit of hope.
Sure, the storm raged on, and rain soaked us to the bone.
But the warmth of Havoc's body pressed against mine provided a small bit of comfort.
It helped me get through the tougher parts of this night— the gnawing hunger, the parched throat, the uncertainty of our survival.
All of that loomed over me like a dark cloud.
At least I have him to die with.
Unable to help it, I snuggled closer, relishing in the heat radiating from his body. Despite everything, despite the fear and the desperation, there was a small part of me that found solace in his presence. As long as Havoc was with me, I felt that maybe, just maybe, we had a chance.
I glanced up at him, studying his face in the moonlight.
His dark hair—soaked from the rain—clung to his forehead in a way that made him look even more ruggedly handsome.
His eyes were intense and calculating.
His features were sharp and chiseled.
He was a man that somehow embodied the possibilities of death and pleasure in every way.
And being in his arms felt like being held by a brutal force of nature.
His muscles were hard and unyielding, yet his embrace was surprisingly gentle.
There was a warmth there.
A comfort I hadn’t expected from a merciless killer like him.
I looked up again, tracing the contours of his face with my eyes.
Despite the darkness, I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his lips curved into a slight smirk even in this dire situation.
He had raw power and somehow. . .wicked, undeniable charm. I would have swooned if I hadn’t known that he’d killed over 200 people in his assassin career.
Then he spoke and his voice held a deadly edge. “Did Paris say why he wanted me dead?”
“No, just that I had to wait until after you gave him some information.”
“You were in the sex club when he arrived?”
“Of course.”
“Of course?”
“I arrived with him, but I was dressed as a man.”
“No.”
“Yes. Dreadlocks braided up and under a top hat. Mustache and beard. Fake bodysuit complete with a beer belly under a designer tux.”
“Clever. No wonder I didn’t see you.” He studied me. “Did Paris train you?”
“No. It was his uncle many, many years ago.”
Havoc's eyes narrowed slightly. “Yet. . .somehow Paris became your boss?”
“I would do odd jobs for him here and there.”
“Why do I feel like there is more to that story?”
“Well. . .we began to have a sexual relationship.”
Another dark chuckle left Havoc. “And I thought Paris wasn’t comfortable with pursuing his desires.”
“Well. . .you were half right.”
“How?”
“There was no emotion with our sex, not that I wanted love.” I sighed. “However, sex was always weird with him.”
“Elaborate.”
“Why?”
“There’s no TV out here, just the moon and rain, yet. . .I am more entertained than ever before.”
I swallowed down hard. “Paris liked to do this odd thing when we had sex, and it was always the same thing.”
Humor hit his voice. “Do tell.”
“He always wanted me to dress up in a nun outfit.”
“High-collared dress, down to the ankles, and veil?”
“All of it.”
“Hmmm.”
I quirked my brows. “What?”
“That sounds sexy.”
“It was strange and. . .even more. . .he would never want me to take the nun outfit off or take his clothes off either. We had sex completely clothed. He even kept a hat on.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, exactly what I said. We would be completely clothed, and he would just pull up my dress, slip my panties to the side, and unzip his trousers, while keeping his waist band still buttoned.”
To my shock, laughter escaped Havoc, rivaling the storm and thunder. Surely all the fish and other things swimming under us heard him.
I blinked through the raindrops. “You think that is funny?”
He laughed some more. “I think that is fucking fascinating.”
“There was no intimacy, no touching,” I sighed. “I felt less like a lover and more like an object to him.”
Boring.
I returned to resting my head against Havoc, my mind drifted back to my last encounter with Paris.
I could see it vividly—Paris’s elegant office in London, dimly lit by the flicker of a single lamp.
The heavy scent of cedarwood filled the air.
Paris seated behind his large mahogany desk, and his sharp eyes watching me as I entered, dressed as he had instructed.
The high-collared nun outfit barely hugged my body, the black fabric swaying with my movement.
And as always, he didn’t say a word, just motioned for me to come closer.
And I walked towards him.
The power dynamics were always clear with Paris, and I had grown accustomed to the predictable way he exerted his control.
Right before reaching the desk, he stood up and came over to me.
And his hands were gentle but firm as he guided me to the edge of the desk, positioning me just where he wanted.
My breath always hitched as he lifted the black dress up, barely exposing my thighs to the cool air.
Silently, Paris gently slipped my panties to the side and then unzipped his trousers.
Even now on this raft, I could hear the sound of the zipper, for some odd reason that always sent a shiver down my spine.
The hat he wore cast a shadow over his eyes, but I could feel his gaze, intense and focused on me.
Meanwhile, he never wasted any time once he pulled his cock out of the hole the opened zipper made.
I often wondered if the edge of the zipper hurt his length when he fucked me and if he welcomed that pain.
Regardless, always with one swift motion, he entered me, and his strokes were controlled and deliberate enough to make me gasp and grip the edge of the desk for support.
The whole time he watched me.
Then, the familiar rhythm would begin. Paris’s thrusts deep and steady, igniting my body with pleasure.
And although he remained fully clothed with his body pressing against mine, the fabric of his suit rubbed against the sensitive skin of my thighs, tantalizing my senses.
The desk always creaked under us and Paris’s breath always came in measured, controlled gasps.
His control was absolute.
And when Paris’s pace quickened, his grip on my hips tightened and the edge of the desk always bit into my thighs.
Yet, the discomfort only added to the intensity.
Havoc spoke, pulling me out of the vision. “Did you love it when Paris fucked you?”
The rain began to lesson.
I looked back at him and saw the lust rising in his gaze.
Had Havoc been envisioning Paris and I fucking in his mind?
Did it turn him on?
I replied as honestly as I could, “Whenever Paris fucked me, I always came.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“But I do love to cum.”
A dark groan left him.
Apparently Havoc was the sort of man to get turned on even when we were lost at sea and completely at the highest level of desperation.
“Onyx.”
The rain shifted to light drops on my skin. “Yes?”
“Did you love it when Paris fucked you?”
“I liked it.”
“But not loved it?”
“Not love. He always came with this final, deep thrust, his body shuddering against mine. His breath hot against my neck.”
“Mmmm.” A very wicked smirk spread across Havoc’s wet face.
“And then. . .that was it. I straightened, adjusting the nun outfit and he stepped back, zipped up his trousers and gave me a nod.”
“A nod?”
“Yes. We didn’t talk much.”
“And then what?”
“He would say in this very calm, businesslike tone, ‘Goodnight, dear Onyx.’”
Havoc shook his head.
“I would leave after that unless he gave me a job. Then, I would get the details and price, before leaving.”
Havoc’s eyes gleamed wickedly in the moonlight as he processed my words. “I suppose Paris is a man of kinks, then.”
“What kind of kink makes a man want to keep his clothes on during sex?”
“There are many possibilities. It could be a control thing.”
“How?”
“Keeping clothes on, especially for someone in a position of power, can be a way to maintain dominance and control over you and the situation. It’s like saying, 'I’m not vulnerable. I’m always in control.'“
I never guessed that Havoc would be a deep thinker. Honestly, I assumed he would just be a psychotic, mindless idiot that was more animal than man, but he was proving me wrong.
I eyed him. “And the nun outfit? What do you think that meant?”
Havoc’s lips curled into a thoughtful smile. “Religious imagery can be powerful. For some, it’s about the taboo, the forbidden.”
“And nuns are pure.”
“Dressing you up as one was probably his way of corrupting purity for those few moments.”
Lightning flashed.
Havoc gazed up at the dark sky. “From what I remember about Paris. . .he grew up in a Catholic household. Maybe when he was a teen he became fascinated with fucking a nun.”
“Or maybe a nun fucked him.”
“Maybe.” Havoc put his view back on me. “Then again, it could be simpler. Maybe he just likes the idea of a powerful woman subdued, even symbolically. Putting a dangerous female assassin in a nun outfit—it all fits with that kind of odd fantasy.”
Finally, the rain faded away leaving behind a gentle wind.
“Yesterday. . .” I grinned. “Did you get turned on with the woman and all the octopuses in the tank?”
He chuckled. “Aww. You saw that too?”
“I did.”
“Of course I was turned on.”
“Of course?”
“I’m a man of many tastes, Onyx. The conventional and the unconventional both find their place in my desires.”
He watched me, and I thought about the moment on the yacht where he’d been choking and groping me.
It was fucked up but I had been absolutely turned on, even though it was against my will.
What was it about the mind or the psyche that would trigger hot lust in me from such a perverse scenario that was also terrifying and dangerous?
And was it truly lust?
Or had it been just fear and adrenaline turning my body on?
It was as much a mystery to me as Paris's fantasy of the submissive nun.
Havoc spoke, “Then, Paris decided to kill you. Why?”
“As you said, he probably was trying to save millions.”
“Paris has billions. No. . .” Havoc shook his head. “Killing you was personal. He probably didn’t even think you could get me. I’d just killed thirty-five assassins in the last month—men and women hoping to get the bounty on my head. Surely, he knew your odds were low.”
I widened my eyes. “No. . .”
“Yes.” He studied me. “You had a sexual relationship with him. Something doesn’t add up.”
I considered that. “Maybe.”
“Now you say maybe. Why?”
“After six months of our. . .situation, I grew bored and decided to cut Paris off. A week later, he gave me this job.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
Havoc's expression darkened as he processed this information. “Paris was heartbroken.”
“That can’t be right. There was nothing real between us. It was just. . .convenient.”
“To you, but to him. . .it was more, so much more that instead of letting you be with someone else, he thought it would be better to kill you.”
A cold shiver ran through me, and it had nothing to do with the rain or wind.
Could he be right?
Was Paris really that pathetic?
Had Paris truly been so twisted in his affections that he would rather see me dead than free of his cock?
The raft rocked gently, the rhythmic motion almost soothing. I glanced at Havoc, his face shadowed in the dim light. He was a paradox—brutal and gentle, ruthless and protective. Despite the countless lives he had taken, he now stood as my only semblance of hope in this vast, dark ocean.
Paris and Havoc.
Two men, both deadly, yet so different.
Paris had always been controlled, meticulous in every aspect of his life, including our twisted sexual relationship.
Our encounters were cold.
Detached.
Almost clinical.
It was never about love or even lust.
It was about power and control.
Paris had kept me at arm's length, both physically and emotionally, ensuring I was just another pawn in his grand game. Even his final act of sending me to kill Havoc felt more like a strategic move than a personal vendetta—until now.
Havoc, on the other hand, was raw and unfiltered. He didn't hide his intentions behind a facade of propriety. He was straightforward, brutally honest, and in a strange way, that was more comforting than Paris's calculated bullshit.
In Havoc's arms, there was a warmth that Paris could never provide.
A sense of being truly seen.
Even in the face of death.
But Paris’s betrayal.
Now as I floated in this endless sea, I felt a surge of determination. Paris might have orchestrated this situation, but he had underestimated me. He had seen me as a disposable asset, a tool to be used and discarded.
But I was more than that.
I had survived the storm, and I would survive whatever came next.
I imagined myself back in London, the city lights casting long shadows as I moved through the streets.
I saw myself standing before Paris's office and then pushing the door open.
He would be there, seated behind his mahogany desk, eyes sharp and calculating.
But this time, it would be different.
This time, I would be the one in control.
I thought about the look of surprise on Paris's face as he realized his mistake.
I bet that cold, detached exterior would crack.
And then, fast, I would end it.
Havoc spoke, pulling out of my fantasy for revenge. “Onyx. . .”
“Yes.”
“Am I imagining things. . .or do you see that?”
“See what?”
My heart pounded as I turned.
Oh my God.