40. Layne
Chapter forty
Layne
I n the loft, the smell of breakfast gently awakens me. My body still feels the intensity of last night, and the delightful ache brings a smile to my face. After untying me, Wes went above and beyond to ensure my safety and well-being, taking care of me by giving me a shower and tucking me into bed. The intensity of the sex was so overwhelming that it left us in a state of euphoria and exhaustion. I wouldn’t hesitate to let him do it again.
Down the ladder, I spot the packages under the tree, a roaring fire in the wood stove and him. Wes is in plaid pajama pants, with no shirt and a Santa hat. God, why does he always have to look so good? Classic Christmas music plays through the sounds system of the cabin, bringing a smile to my face. As I make my way over to him, I spot the table set with breakfast. I can’t contain the joy that fills my heart.
Wes did this all for me, knowing I missed out on Christmas as a child. Best husband ever award goes to him hands down. This man is trying to undo a lifetime of hurt and missed memories all because he loves me .
“Merry Christmas, Layne.” He presses his lips to my forehead as he pulls me into his chest for a hug. “Breakfast or presents first?”
“I’ll be a good girl and eat breakfast so that it’s still hot.”
Wes serves me breakfast, French toast, bacon, eggs and strawberries. I raise my eyebrows at him as I watch him eat the strawberry he spears with his fork. “Eat, Layne.” I giggle as I take a bite, and moan at the syrupy goodness.
“Fairytale of New York,” plays and I sing along as we eat. Behind Wes, I can see out the window and it’s snowing pretty hard. We finish up eating and I clear the table, scraping the plates into the trash and then sticking them in the sink of water. Once I’ve finished, we head to the tree. I grab the gift I wrapped for him.
Wes sits on the floor in front of the wood stove, his cup of black coffee in hand. I thrust my gift toward him. “You put all of this together, you get to go first.”
He places his cup down and takes the gift in his hands, his jade eyes softening, and a smile spreading across his face. He rips the wrapping paper like a little kid and lifts the lid on the box. Wes pulls out the mask from the bed of tissue paper. I am giddy with excitement!
“I found it in a shop in Berkeley when I was out with Atlas and Sky. It’s an authentic “Scab mask” from 2004.” Wes has been wearing a balaclava because a buckle on his old mask and we haven’t found a permanent fix for it. So it was luck I found this one while out shopping.
My support of his “hobby” is no surprise. How could I not when all he wants to do is make sure people are safe? Despite everything, his look says it all. He crawls over to me. My heart stops for a moment, watching him crawl, going back to him, crawling toward me after killing Bannister. He scoots next to me and kisses me, tender and sweet. “Thank you. This means so much to me, baby.”
Wes reaches under the tree for two gifts. One is an envelope, the other a rectangular box.
“Technically, this gift,” he holds up the envelope, “is for both of us. So open this one first.” He places the box in my hands. I rip the wrapping paper off and open the lid. Inside sits three beautiful silver blades. Each blade bears an engraving and skulls. One has our wedding date, another has “ Ma Petite Mort “ and the last one has, “ Gràdh, do Bhuanadair. ”
I look up and him and smile. “What does it say?”
“It says “Love, Your Reaper”, in Scots Gaelic. You’ll have me with you always. I made sure they would fit in your harness when I had them made. I didn’t think they would be ready in time. But the day you went to Berkeley, the guy called and said they were ready. Talk about luck.” Wes takes one out and twirls it between his fingers.
It’s so hot when he does that . “Show off,” I huff.
“You love it.” He isn’t wrong.
He cuts the envelope open and hands it over to me. I pull out a printed itinerary and plane tickets. I bring the paper closer to my face as I left my glasses upstairs. The only words I can distinguish are Ireland and Scotland. Wes smirks and grabs it, reading it aloud—a two-week trip to Ireland and Scotland for our honeymoon in April. Thoughtfully put together with the help of his mother.
“Wes! This is amazing. Thank you, babe.” Tears well up in my eyes. When he asked me where the one place I would want to visit given the chance, I told him Ireland and Scotland. I didn’t think he would make that happen. I’m learning to not doubt him. If I want it, Wes is going to do everything in his power to make it happen.
“The fun I’m gonna have chasing you all over the Highlands, baby.” He has this glint in his eye that tells me I’m going to be getting a lot of exercise during that trip. Wes leans in to kiss me and I just know he is going to be insatiable .
“I better start running now, then.” I chuckle against his lips, breaking away, clutching my box of knives to my chest. Rising, I make my way over to the kitchen to start the dishes. I set the box on the table and slip one knife into my waistband. The chill of the metal blade makes my skin tingle.
With my hands in the soapy water, I wash the dishes left over from breakfast. We plan on leaving later tonight, hoping to miss the traffic tomorrow leaving Tahoe. I’m singing along and hips swaying to “Naughty Christmas” from Lacuna Coil when I feel Wes push up against my back. He grips my arm and spins me to face him. In his other hand is a knife he took from my box. The one that reads, “Love, Your Reaper.”
Before he can raise his blade, I already have mine against his throat. “So slow, my Buainteoir . You need some practice.“ I drag the blade down a little and knick his collar bone. The little drop of crimson leaves a trail as it slowly drips down his chest. I lean into him and slowly lick it up, and with his blood on my tongue, I pull his neck down. Our lips collide, and I eagerly delve into his mouth with my tongue, savoring the taste of him. He groans as his blood hits his tongue.
“Hold on to the knife,” he whispers into my mouth as he picks me up and carries me over to the sitting area. Wes bites and sucks on my neck as he drops us down to the floor. Flat on my back, he takes the knife and holds it between his teeth as he lifts my shirt over my head and pulls my leggings and underwear down. The tip of the blade touches my outer hip and the sharp sting sets fire to my flesh as he drags it down.
My eyes are on his as his tongue laps at the cut, alternating between kissing my wound and licking. Hunger in his eyes, he moves to my pussy, his tongue stained crimson. I’m already wet and ready for him. Wes moans as his tongue lavishes my clit, dipping his tongue lower and inside me.
“Oh, fuck. Wes, just like that.” My back arches off the floor as he sucks my clit into his mouth .
He rises on his knees, spreading my knees further apart. He pulls his pants down so they are just under his ass. His cock is hard and precum beads at the tip.
“Your husband is gonna fill this pretty pussy, baby. I’m gonna fuck my baby into this perfect body of yours. You’re gonna be a good girl and take it all.” He thrusts his cock inside of me. Wes hovers over me, holding himself up on his elbows. Putting the knife in my hand, he brings it up to his neck. “If I don’t make you come, kill me. My life would not be worth living if I can’t make you feel the absolute nirvana I feel when I am inside you.” With his lips on mine, he devours my moans, replacing them with his own.
“I fucking love you, Layne.”
“And I love you.” Never have I meant those three words more.
Wes’s thrusts are deep and rough, inching us closer to the tree. The sharp blade grazes his neck, nicking him and a few droplets of blood trickle down on me. Wes’s hand wraps around my throat, squeezing, building a delicious pressure. With each of his thrusts, the hazy tingling grows more intense. My grip on the knife loosens, and he moves my arm away as it clatters to the floor. “We don’t need that anymore. You’re about to come for me, aren’t you baby?” He moans. My vision spots and I let out a strained whimper as my pussy clenches around him. I ride out my orgasm, coming harder than ever with his hand around my throat. He removes his hand just as my orgasm peaks, and he empties himself inside me. His moans and curses fill the little cabin. “Good girl, Layne. You take your husband’s cock so well, baby.”
Best fucking Christmas ever.