Chapter 21
The Trickste r
“ W hat are you doing?” she asks, body tensing as I step inside.
My shirt is gone, and her eyes catch on the scar carved across my torso—the raised, ugly seam the bullet left behind when it killed me. For a moment, she just stares, breath caught like she’s seeing the wound rather than the man.
Instead of answering, I lower myself to the floor between her spread knees, positioning my body at her feet while she leans back against the bars. The reversal isn’t lost on me—the captor entering the captive’s space, yet placing himself exactly where he can consume her.
“Jack?” Uncertainty creeps into her voice as I take her ankle in my hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers.
I press my lips to the first scar—a thin white imprint almost invisible against her pale skin. The taste of her skin is salt and smoke and heat, alive against the dead tissue of her scars.
“Mhmm.” I groan low in my throat, unable to stop myself, the sound vibrating against her flesh.
She inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away. My mouth moves higher, to the more deliberate marks on her inner thigh. These aren’t random; they’re a language written in flesh, a cry no one bothered to hear.
“What are you doing?” she whispers again, but t he question has changed shape, become something else entirely.
“Tasting your pain,” I murmur against her skin.
I move methodically, kissing each scar like I’m mapping territory—nuzzling, licking, sometimes biting just hard enough to make her gasp. Her body trembles beneath my attention, caught between retreat and surrender.
When I reach a particularly big mark near the crease of her thigh, I bite down, harder than before.
Eve’s back arches, a moan escaping her lips as her fingers find my hair.
Rather than pushing me away, she threads her fingers through the strands, holding me against her damaged skin like she’s afraid I’ll stop.
My breath roughens against her inner thigh, confession spilling from me between kisses. Words I never meant to give her emerge between marks I leave on her skin, as if her scars are drawing out my own.
“I used to drink until I couldn’t feel my face,” I murmur against a particularly deep line near her hip. “After Ruby. Cocaine too. Anything to blur the edges.” My tongue traces the silvered tissue, feeling her pulse jump beneath it. “Nothing worked until you.”
Eve’s fingers tighten in my hair, not pulling away but holding me in place. The contradiction mirrors everything between us—resistance and surrender wrapped into one gesture.
“What changed?” she asks, voice strained with the effort to sound clinical despite the way her body responds to my mouth.
I bite down gently on the crest of her hip, feeling her shudder. “You see too much. Makes it hard to hide.” My hands slide under her thighs, palms pressing against the backs of her knees to open her wider. “Now it’s your turn to tell me something. Why do you prefer the mask?”
“I… I don’t know,” she lies.
Lifting my head, I meet her gaze over the landscape of her body. Something raw passes between us—recognition that cuts deeper than I intended. “Don’t lie to me,” I growl.
“I’m not,” she bites back, so I sink my teeth into her flesh, not letting go until she gasps. “Fine. Fine. Okay, I do know.”
“You want the monster,” I reply for her, thumb tracing circles on her inner thigh. “Not the man. The mask lets you pretend you’re not giving in to me. Just to something faceless.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “Does that bother you?”
“No.” I lower my head again, nuzzling the soft skin where thigh meets hip. “It fascinates me. The doctor who diagnoses everyone else but can’t admit what she craves.”
“And what do you crave, Jack?” Her voice is steadier now, challenging despite her vulnerable position.
I pause, mouth hovering over the lace edge of her underwear. The truth rises unbidden, dangerous in its honesty. “This. You. Falling apart under my hands. Fighting even when you want to surrender.” I exhale hot against the fabric, watching her stomach muscles tense.
My fingers hook into the sides of her underwear, dragging the material down her legs. She shifts to help, a small cooperation that feels like victory. When the fabric clears her ankles, I toss it aside and settle back between her thighs.
The scent of her arousal slams into me—sharp, musky, intoxicating. My cock hardens instantly, straining against my jeans as I groan and bury my face closer, inhaling deep like I’m starving for her. I want her to see me savor it, to know I’m addicted to the way she smells before I even taste her.
“Jack,” she warns, but there’s no force behind it.
I lower my mouth to her inner thigh again, working my way up with open-mouthed kisses that leave damp traces on her skin. Each scar receives attention—reverent and possessive all at once. My hands slide beneath her ass, lifting her slightly to give me better access.
When I finally reach the apex of her thighs, I pause, breathing hot against her center without making contact. Her hips shift, seeking, but I hold her still.
“Ask me,” I demand softly.
Her eyes narrow, defiance flashing. “No.”
I smile against her thigh, admiring her stubbornness even as I plan to break it. “Then I’ll wait.” I press a kiss to her skin, just beside where she wants me. “I have all night.”
A frustrated sound escapes her throat. Her fingers tighten in my hair, trying to guide me. I resist, keeping my mouth maddeni ngly close but never touching where she needs it most. The power remains mine, even from my knees.
“Please,” she finally whispers, the word dragged from her like it costs her something vital.
“Please what?”
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. “Please… taste me.”
The surrender in her voice sends heat coursing through me. I reward her by dragging my tongue slowly through her folds in one long, deliberate stroke. The taste of her floods my mouth—salt and sweet and something uniquely Eve—as her back arches off the blanket.
I start slow, methodical, learning the terrain of her with my tongue. Each stroke maps a different reaction—what makes her gasp, what makes her thighs tense, what draws those perfect little moans from deep in her throat.
Cataloging every response, I mentally build a playbook of her pleasure that belongs to me alone.
“God,” she breathes, head falling back as I circle her clit with the tip of my tongue. “Jack…”
The sound of my name in that broken voice is intoxicating. I amp up my efforts, alternating between broad, flat strokes and precise flicks that make her hips jerk against my hold. My hands grip her thighs, spreading her wide, putting her on display just for me.
What begins as controlled exploration quickly fractures into hunger. I devour her like a man starved, moaning against her cunt as her taste floods my mouth. Her wetness slicks my lips, coats my chin, drips down to my throat until I’m marked with her in a way that feels like branding.
Eve’s restraint fractures by degrees. Her fingers guide my head more insistently now, pressing me where she needs me, and I let her.
Not because I’ve surrendered control, but because her desperation feeds my own hunger. I want to feel her come apart on my tongue, want to consume the pleasure I force from her body.
“More,” she demands, voice raw with need. “Please, husband, more.”
I slide two fingers inside her pussy, curling them until she cries out, the sound reverberating off the bars like a hymn to ru in. With my other hand, I press lower, circling her tight asshole.
“Have you ever been fucked here, wife?” My voice is husky and low.
“N-no,” she moans. She lets out a small yelp as I grip her thighs and pull her down so she’s half lying, half sitting. The perfect position for me to play with her ass.
“Fuck, you shouldn’t have told me that,” I rasp. The thought that I’m the first one to play with her ass makes my cock throb painfully from behind its denim prison. I remove the finger circling her ass, bringing it to her mouth. “Spit on it.”
She does, and once it’s fully coated in her saliva, I bring it back to her puckered opening. Her breath hitches as I slowly push it into her tight opening, stretching her as my tongue works her clit.
Her scream turns ragged, body jerking between the double intrusion, writhing helplessly against my mouth and hands. The cage doesn’t feel like it’s containing her anymore—it’s containing us, this savage ritual that belongs outside time.
Her pussy clenches hard around my fingers while her ass tightens around the one I’ve buried there, every muscle spasming under the rhythm I force on her.
My tongue lashes her clit, and I groan into her cunt as she writhes—the vibration making her buck harder, grinding against every point of me inside her.
I’m lost in it now—her taste, her heat, her body convulsing on my hands and mouth—everything I ever wanted to ruin and consume. The taste of her grows sharper, her arousal flooding my mouth as she approaches the edge.
“Let go,” I command against her flesh. “Come for me, Little Bride. Now.”
Her body obeys even if her mind resists—back arching, thighs trembling, a cry tearing from her throat as she breaks apart. I groan into her as I feel every clench around my fingers, every contraction milking my hand.
I don’t stop when she comes; I push her higher, dragging her through one orgasm into the next, curling my fingers deeper as I pump her ass in ruthless counterpoint. She’s sobbing, shoving weakly at my head, but her body betrays her—clenching, pulsing, milking me for more even as she shakes apart.
I rise up on my elbows, watching her face as she comes down—cheeks flushed, eyes half-closed, lips parted with rapid breaths. Something dangerous and possessive claws through my chest at the sight. This is mine now. This unguarded moment when all her walls have crumbled.
“Beautiful,” I growl, licking her wetness from my lips before pressing a final kiss to her thigh.