23. Darragh
Chapter 23
Darragh
A part of me can’t actually believe that Valentina follows me into the house. She looks pissed as hell as she does it, arms crossed over her front and pushing up her pretty tits, her little sparkly flip-flops stomping as she goes. I don’t think she’s come here as an act of obedience to me. I think it’s almost the opposite. She’s followed me because she thinks I owe her something and she doesn’t intend to let me get away with it.
A foolish fucking endeavour, really. I don’t give anything I don’t want to give. And now, the terms have changed. Originally, I just wanted her inside my house.
Now, I’m going to watch her fucking do it.
She makes several more swipes for the bag from behind me – like a pissed-off cat batting at a bit of string – but she doesn’t get very far with that. All I have to do is hold the bag above my head as I open the door and lead her inside.
“For fuck’s sake,” she snaps. “What do I have to do now? Balance an apple on my head for you to throw knives at?”
“Don’t have any apples,” I tell her as we walk through the house’s huge entryway and into the open, modern kitchen. “I do have a peach.” I take it out of the bag and brandish it between us. Then, I take a bite. Hot summer sweetness explodes over my tongue.
“Gross,” she says, watching my mouth. “You’re supposed to wash that first.”
“Not afraid of a little dirt.”
“There are pesticides.”
“Not afraid of those, either.”
I turn from her, heading for one of the kitchen drawers. There are no lights on in here. Shadows pool and stretch. The glint gleaming on the paring knife’s blade is a faint slash of silver as I take it from the drawer.
Valentina stiffens. I can hear her rapid breathing.
I slice into the peach, cutting out a generous piece. I offer it to her, balanced on the blade of the knife.
“I don’t want a peach, Darragh,” she says, dark fire sparking in her gaze. “I want the stuff in that bag.”
There’s a part of me that wants to wrench open her mouth and slide the peach inside. Because who is she to deny me anything? A fucking Titone, standing in my house, spitting on my hospitality.
But a larger part of me simply wants to keep her here. So I hold the knife above my own face, opening my mouth to accept the next juicy slice. As I chew, I see the way Valentina’s gaze tracks the movements of my neck, my jaw, before she wrenches her eyes away.
“Here.” I put the remaining peach on the countertop then pull out the box of tampons. “Take it.”
I hold the box against my own chest, so that she has to come to me. I can see her pride roiling against the fact that she’s already come this far. She wants to tell me to go fuck myself and leave, slamming the door on her way out. I can see it in her eyes. But she’s already so close. A sort of sunk cost fallacy of the soul.
Dark elation courses through me when she takes a step towards me. And then another. And another. She snatches the box from my hand like a feral fucking thing, hesitating once she’s got it, as if she’s waiting for me to try to take it back from her.
“Go on, then. Bathroom’s over there.” I jerk my chin towards the open door beyond the kitchen. That bathroom doesn’t have any windows. So it looks like a black and empty cavern from here. A yawning mouth that’s going to swallow her whole.
And fuck me if she doesn’t raise her cute little chin and stomp right towards it.
But she’s so focused on being pissed and brave and ignoring me now that she doesn’t know I’m right behind her until she tries to shut the door and finds my boot in the way.
“What the hell?” she breathes from the darkness, one hand on the box, one hand on the doorknob. “What are you doing?”
“Supervising.”
“Supervising… Supervising what?”
I don’t answer her. Instead, I force the door further open and step inside. I turn on the softer of the two sets of lights in here. The dimmer one meant for the middle of the night when you don’t want fluorescent lights burning a hole in your fucking brain while you take a quick, sleepy piss. It sends soft golden dust drifting through the air. The warmest, barest illumination of her tumbling dark hair, her eyelashes, her achingly flawless skin.
“I’ll take this,” I tell her, hooking my fingers into the belt I’ve made of my own shirtsleeves at her hips and pulling the garment away. Once I’ve tossed it aside, my fingers skim the button at the front of her tiny denim shorts. “Need me to take off the rest?”
“So, that’s it, then? You’re going to stand there and watch me put a tampon in?”
“Was planning to sit, actually.”
There’s a bench with big cushions beside the shower in here. It always struck me as the stupidest furniture choice. Who wants to lounge around on a bench in the fucking bathroom?
But now, it strikes me as perfectly-placed. I sit down on it, leaning back and draping my arms along the cushions. Valentina stands in the centre of the room. Her jaw works. Her eyes flash. Prey that’s too proud to admit it.
Then, a vindictive sort of calm comes over her features.
“Fine,” she says. “I’m not modest. And you’re obviously not scared of a little blood. You want to watch me do this like some kind of pervert? Be my fucking guest.”
Big words. I tilt my head, daring her to do it.
She slams the box down on the counter, rips it open, and fishes out a tubed wrapped in crinkly plastic. Then, moving quickly, as if worried she might lose her nerve if she slows for even a second, she wrenches her shorts and panties down over her hips in one vicious movement. With a few wiggles and kicks, the clothing is abandoned.
“Goddamnit,” she whispers under her breath. There’s a big patch of dark, dark red on her panties. So much blood that there’s no way it hasn’t soaked through to her shorts underneath.
So much blood that there has to be some on my shirt, too.
And that fact does something to me. Does something I don’t fucking recognize. My heart is beating too fast. My spine feels like a dog has started using it as a chew toy. I run my fingers aggressively along my jaw, my mouth, feeling my own gaze go dark, rabid, ravenous as it trails up from her bloodied underthings, to her bare thighs, to her pussy.
It's there. Right there . Waxed or shaved entirely smooth, the skin looking so soft it makes my mouth go dry. She’s paler in this place, a perfect triangle of tan lines that would probably make a good portion of the straight male population come on sight.
I’m rock fucking hard. Without even realizing I’ve moved, I’m leaning forwards towards her, my elbows balanced on my knees, my hands clamped together in taut and pulsing fists.
I need to do something. Grab something. Strangle someone. Fist my own cock. I’ve never jerked off in front of a woman before. Never had to. They’re always enthusiastically on their knees or on their backs for me. Not standing in the middle of the room while I watch and the air turns to frothing poison between us.
There isn’t just blood on Valentina’s underwear, but on her skin. A rusted stain along her inner thighs that I catch sight of when she steps slightly apart. I want to feel that blood on my fingers. On my cock. I want to rinse it from her skin – me and only me – so that when she’s clean again she has to fucking thank me for it.
I don’t like the thought of her bleeding unless I’m the one who’s made her bleed.
Just like she did to me, that very first day. Those marks she gave me will be with me always. Put the inked needle to my skin today to guarantee it.
She rips open the tampon’s wrapper, and I take that opportunity to drag my gaze from her cunt to her face. There’s a bit of wariness in her expression, but also a smug sort of confidence unfurling there. And all at once, I realize exactly what she’s doing. I know exactly why she agreed with that biting, false sweetness to do this in front of me. I know why she didn’t fight me.
Because she thinks it’s shifting the balance of power. I’m not making her do it if she chooses to do it herself.
She thinks it’s giving her back some of the control.
And it makes me fucking crazy that she’s right.
I rise with a swiftness that sends her stumbling backwards. I pluck the tampon from her fingers and keep walking, forcing her to back up until she hits the wall.
“Legs apart.” My voice is rasping. Metallic. An axe being broken on stone.
Her eyes, eyes that a moment ago held so much glinting triumph, widen in defiant shock.
She’s probably going to spit in my face again.
Well, fucking let her, then. I’ll lick it off my own skin this time if I have to.
“Don’t get shy now, pet,” I growl. Nudging the plastic tip of the tampon’s applicator between her thighs, I relish the strangled gasp, the spasm of her muscles, when I put pressure on her clit. Heat blazes through me, so forceful and feverish that I’m fairly certain it’s going to cook my brain right out of my skull. Even now, thoughts feel stretched and strained, instinct taking over. I lower my mouth to her throat, grazing my teeth over the place her heart beats. So fucking fast.
Just like mine.
Fuck her. Fuck her for making me want to fuck her. Fuck her for the fire in those golden eyes. Fuck her for the fact that I can’t sleep if I’m not near her.
Fuck her, because I’ve never done drugs in my entire goddamn life, but I think she’s become the most potent one. My own personal addiction.
Fuck her for the shuddering high of it.
And fuck her for the withdrawals.
“Legs. Apart.” I say it directly against her throat, my lips imprinting the words on her fragrant skin. Shit, she smells delicious. Why the hell does she smell so good? She shivers, and her fingers fly to my chest. But she’s not pushing me away.
She’s not opening her legs, either. It’s some last bastion of resistance against whatever the fuck this is between us. Because she feels it too. I know she does. She’s panting and tense, her nipples puckering against my chest.
I wonder if she hates it as much as I do.
“Fine,” I mutter. Within moments, I’ve spun her around. She cries out, her hands slamming against the wall to maintain her balance. I hook my free hand against her hip, pulling her ass backwards towards me, forcing her to bend at her waist.
Don’t need her to spread her legs if I’ve got her like this from behind.
And, shit, what a view. I pause, breathing hard, just to grudgingly admire it.
She’s got a perfect heart shaped face. And a perfect heart-shaped ass to match.
Below, her pussy is on display, and even smeared with blood it’s one of the most clawingly beautiful things I’ve ever seen. A sight that makes me want to get down on my knees and pray. Pray for what, I have no fucking idea.
I’ve never begged for forgiveness. Maybe I should beg for salvation. But I’m beginning to think – to dread – that the only salvation left in this world or the next is in her eyes, her skin, the profound perfection of her pussy.
“Fuck you,” I breathe raggedly, “for being so fucking flawless.”
I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud until Valentina twists her neck to meet my eyes. Hot gold and long lashes. Confusion spins in her gaze.
“What?” I grunt, pressing the tampon applicator against her until I feel the slick, sucking give of her cunt. “No one’s ever told you that before?”
I find that hard to believe, considering how maddeningly obvious it is. As I press the plastic tube inside her and watch a frisson of wary heat go through her expression, I force myself to find a flaw. Some kind of imperfection, an edge of ugliness. Something I can latch onto to say, “There, see, she’s just as pathetic and forgettable as everyone else on this planet.”
But she’s not. I know she’s not, even as I repeat the process again and again, my eyes scraping over her skin so hard they should be leaving scars.
Her legs are shaking. Her hands have curled into fists against the wall. She’s no longer looking at me, but letting her head hang down between her shoulders.
“What are we doing?” she whispers. “What are you doing?”
“Told you before,” I grunt, fighting to keep my voice even, fighting to maintain control. “I wasn’t going to stand by and let you bleed.”
I slide the plastic further, further, until my fingertips meet her flesh and I can’t go any deeper. Valentina’s barely breathing. She might even be holding her breath. Trying not to make a sound.
Maybe trying not to come.
That thought goes right to my balls, a swift, aching stab. My hand on her hip surges lower, sliding over skin that feels like paradise, until I find her swollen clit. I let out an animal groan when she arches frantically against me in response. I circle that hot point of her flesh, my eyes falling shut against the hellish holiness of the sensation.
She’s so fucking soft down here. It’s like touching a goddamn angel’s wings. I inhale deeply, as if she’s weed, as if she’s crack, as if she’s the shit that killed my mammy and sent my da swinging ’til his neck gave out.
I promised myself I’d never get addicted to anything. Not money, not violence, not pussy. Not what comes in crystals or needles or smoke.
I promised my grandda, too.
There’s an ocean between us, but I can practically hear him in this room with me right now. Telling me to keep my fists up, telling me to hit before my opponent can hit back. Telling me that pain is the only thing worth feeling, and that obsession can kill a man as surely as a bullet.
But I don’t feel like I’m dying. I’ve never felt more fucking alive. Usually, I only feel this way in the ring, when I’m dodging and punching my opponent into oblivion.
Or when I’m killing someone.
But rubbing Valentina’s little clit beneath my calloused fingers blows every other sensation right out of the water. My cock is so hard it hurts. My skin, my very bones, feel like they’re mere moments away from combustion.
Valentina’s swearing, her moaning, her defeated cries of, “Oh, God ,” wash over me, a rhapsodic revelation. I’m in church. I’m at an altar. I’m stripped and shattered with every fucking sin on display.
I’m in trouble.
She comes, and it’s beautiful, and that’s all I can think. I’m in trouble. I am so fucking lost. Like if I let go of her, if I stop touching her now, my brain and blood and body – my whole goddamn life – will vanish.
Like I never existed at all.
My eyes fly open, because this must have been exactly what my da thought. When he woke up and found she wasn’t breathing.
He must have thought that everything was gone. Including him.
Like I just took a blow to the head, I stumble away from Valentina. My shoulder hits the wall, and I stay there for a second, trying to steady myself. Trying not to fall, trying not to come, trying not to puke.
Valentina is breathing hard. Slowly, she lets one weak hand drop from the wall. It goes between her legs, pushing on the applicator to eject the tampon inside her. She shudders when she pulls the bloodied, empty plastic out. Then, she tosses it into the garbage.
She picks up her panties and does the same thing with them.
As predicted, her shorts are bloodstained. She bends and grabs them, but I stop her with a word.
“Wait.”
She stands, watching me in silence, with the denim held in front of her body. Apart from a hot flush in her cheeks, her expression is pristinely emotionless.
Like this hasn’t affected her at all.
I grind my teeth together, hating the smooth mask of her composure. Hating it, and wishing I had some of it for myself.
“Clean yourself up,” I say in a low voice. “I’ll be right back.”
I leave the bathroom, and as I walk down the hall to my bedroom, I hear the shower’s spray behind me.
My bedroom has its own bathroom attached. I hurl myself into it and smack my hand against the wall to turn on the lights. My fingertips are bloody. They leave a smear of red on the white light switch.
I barely stop myself from licking them. Like a fucking dog.
I stalk over to the counter and violently undo my jeans, wrenching out my cock. I’m tall enough that I can get my stiff dick up over the sink so when I start tugging myself, I’ll come right down the drain.
I jerk myself hard, wanting more pain than pleasure from the act. I’m not doing this to feel good. I’m doing this so that I’ll be able to fucking breathe around her again.
My breath grates harshly in and out of my lungs. Hot friction builds on me, in me. I shunt my hips forward, creating a near-bruising pressure against my balls, as I stroke myself in quick, aggressive motions.
All it takes is the memory of that angel-soft pussy against my hand and the scent of her hair to send me spewing into the sink. I swallow a groan, grinding my fist even harder up and down my shaft, not stopping even when I get so sensitive it hurts.
Finally, I let my hand slow. My chest heaves, and I stuff myself back into my pants with a muttered curse. Then, I wash my hands. Valentina’s blood mixes with my come as the water carries it down the drain.
I don’t exactly feel better, but I do feel some slight relief. Like a pressure valve has been released somewhere inside me. I feel emptier because of it. Colder. But maybe that’s the point.
After drying my hands, I go into my bedroom where I’ve got some clothes and supplies for spending my nights here. Outside, I hear waves crash, battering and unforgiving. I open a drawer in the wooden dresser – because I bought all the furniture that was in this place – and pull out a pair of my own black underwear. When she walks out of here tonight, she’ll be wearing something of mine.
When I emerge from my bedroom, I don’t hear the shower running anymore. I find the bathroom empty. The box of tampons is gone, and Valentina’s shorts are no longer on the floor.
The kitchen is empty too. As is the counter.
She left.
And she took the rest of my peach with her.