Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
“I called him a monster and still begged him to make me scream.”–Aria Boschett.
Some days later, exhaustion hangs off me like a wet cloak as I step out of work. Another restless night tangled in Cyan’s bed, fighting my body, leaves me raw. But last night… there were no arms around me. No warmth, no Cyan. He never came home.
Johnny opens the passage door, the question slips out before I can stop it. “Where’s Cyan?”
Johnny’s mouth kicks up at one corner. “Missing him, huh?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I was just asking. He’s been coming home late a lot.
..and last night, not at all.” I keep my voice light, but the words taste sour; I know there’s a war going on and Lorenzo Rizzotto wants blood.
But Lucilla’s voice slithers into my head, anyway.
Elana said she sees him when he’s in Boston.
Johnny shrugs. “He’s had a lot on his plate. Office work, family business, other matters.”
Other matters. My mind twists with what he’s really doing. “Oh.” My reply comes out too soft, too unsure.
His teasing fades, and he studies me more closely. “You good, Aria? Something happen?”
“When Cyan’s in Boston, does he…” I catch myself and shake my head. “Never mind.”
Johnny raises a brow but doesn’t push. “Whatever you’re thinking, ask Cyan yourself.”
He offers his hand. I take it, sliding into the backseat. As I click the seatbelt, I catch Johnny glancing at his phone, thumbs moving fast over the screen.
Of course he’s texting someone; it’s probably Cyan. “Ari, you didn’t answer my question.”
The lie feels thick on my tongue, but I keep my promise to Lucilla. “Nothing. I have a headache, need food, and need sleep.” I inject some nonchalance into my tone, hoping he won’t press further.
Johnny studies me for a moment before nodding. “Alright, let’s get you home.” The ride is unusually quiet. I close my eyes, pretending to rest, but my mind is a mess of what-ifs and Elana-shaped images I don’t want to see.
This is good, I tell myself. He’s finally losing interest. I’ll get my life back.
But the ache in my chest calls me a liar.
I ignore it deciding that Cyan not coming home is great.
No more late-night stares, no belly-button caresses.
No waking up with his body wrapped around mine.
Maybe I’ll finally stop wanting what I was never supposed to have.
* * *
My father’s body drops forward. Blood pooled around his middle, bright and wrong against the pavement. My fingers lock around the grip of a knife handle. Dad’s warm blood drips from the blade’s tip–drip, drip… drip.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Hands grab me from behind, hauling me back.
I twist and see Cyan standing there, perfectly composed in a pinstriped vest, sleeves rolled, like he’s been working, handling things, cleaning up what I’ve done.
Except… the streetlights blink out. The knife vanishes from my hand. So does my father’s body.
I jolt upright in bed, a strangled sound tearing from my throat. My skin is damp, my heart pounding so hard my breathing is uneven. Just a dream.
“Dove.” Cyan’s voice comes from the edge of the bed. He’s still in one of his suits, jacket off, tie loose, eyes shadowed with concern. “What the hell’s going on? You were screaming loud enough to wake the dead.”
My breath saws in and out. “It’s nothing, it was just a nightmare.”
His gaze sharpens as he comes closer. “That wasn’t nothing.”
I don’t want to talk, don’t want to think. I don’t want to sift through guilt and ghosts and my cursed history clawing its way back to the surface. Without thinking, I reach for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. I need distraction, need sensation, need him.
He catches my wrists, grip firm. “What the fuck...” His voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “Aria.”
I try to twist free, to get where I want—where I need—but his hold only tightens.
“Aria.” His voice softens. “Look at me.” I drag my gaze up to his.
“Are you sure?” The question is simple. The answer isn’t.
I could say no. I could shove him away, cling to pride and logic and all the reasons this is a bad idea. Instead, my answer comes out broken.
“Yes.”
It’s not enough. Not for him. “Say what you want.”
My mouth goes dry, and I can feel my past pulling me back into its depths, and my words scrape against my throat on the way out.
“Cyan, let me fulfill your wish, and milk you dry.” I whisper.
“You’ve been dreaming about your cock in my mouth.
Let me make your dreams come true.” His pupils blow wide, his breath hitching for half a second, and then he moves, belt unbuckled, pants and boxers down to his knees.
Am I awake? No, not really, but doing this is better than my nightmares.
I grasp his thighs, pulling him closer. He lets me take him into my mouth.
The salty musk of his taste sends heat spiraling through my veins.
With my lips wrapped around his width, he groans low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through me, settling in my core.
Tangling his fingers in my curls, he grips my hair. Then Cyan thrusts, “Fuck...”
I feel the weight of him on my tongue, the taste of him, the burn of need tearing through me. I hear myself moan around him, feel my hand between my thighs rubbing myself off; I’m so close to coming, so fucking close and all of a sudden, he’s gone
***
I gasp, dazed, my body wound so tight it hurts.
My fingers are wet and trembling, trapped in his grip.
I blink rapidly; the haze is lifting. Fully clothed, Cyan watches me with his dark glasz eyes.
I glance about the room, and that’s when it hits me.
The fantasy of sucking his cock is a messed-up, fucking dream where my past and my present collided.
Shame slams into me, hot and vicious. “No,” I breathe. “No, no, no.”
I try to yank my hand away, desperate for any kind of friction between my thighs. But Cyan the bastard, doesn’t let go. His grin is slow, dark, and far too satisfied.
“Well,” he drawls, “that was quite the show, Dove.” I want to kill him. Or kiss him, or both.
“Do something,” I snap, voice rough with need, “or go to hell.”
He chuckles, low and sinful. “I’m already there, baby. And you?” He leans down, his breath ghosting over my cheek. “Looks like you’re right here with me.” I hate that he’s right. My body and mind just committed full-on mutiny and turned on me, just like he said it would.
I’m trembling, aching, teetering on the edge. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I hiss. “I was so close.”
His eyes burning into mine. “Who were you dreaming about, Dove? Who had you so desperate you were rubbing yourself in your sleep?”
My face burns. “Shut up.”
With my free hand I reach down. He catches my wrist stopping me then with deliberate slowness, he lifts my sticky fingers to his mouth.
My breath stutters as his lips opens and sucks my slick fingers in, tongue teasing, tasting, owning the moment completely. My hips jerk up, muscles clenching—betrayal in every nerve.
“Ah-ah.”
He moves on top me in one smooth motion, pinning my wrists above my head.
His weight settles between my thighs, his cock a hard, undeniable presence through his suit pants I close my eyes, savouring the contact.
“You think I’d let you finish yourself after that?
” His voice is smoke and gravel. “After I caught you moaning my name?”
My eyes fly open. “What?”
He brushes his beard against my ear. “Like you do every night.” Mortification crashes over me.
Every night. The wretch he’s known. He’s listened.
“You’ve been dreaming about me, haven’t you?
” His tone is thick with arrogant satisfaction.
“Waking up aching, running to the shower, hoping you can masturbate me out of your system.”
“I said. Shut up.”
His chuckle is dangerous as he rocks his hips, grinding against my soaked core. Sparks shoot up my spine, my body arching into him despite my anger. “Dove, just now you begged for it,” he taunts. “You begged me in your sleep. Why deny yourself when the real thing is right here?”
His hand slips between us, knuckles brushing my bare heat. I gasp, every muscle tightening. “Let me give you what you need,” he coaxes. “You just have to say it.”
No. Yes. No. I’m not supposed to want this. I’m not supposed to want him.
Images flash—Lucilla’s glass shattering against the wall, the way she looked broken. Then there’s him and Elana. The idea of Cyan walking into someone else’s bed as easily as he walks into mine.
I should shove him off me, remind him that he’s a monster. Instead, my body presses closer, traitor that it is.
“Tell me what you want, lass,” his finger flicking against my nub again. “Come on Aria, say the words and I’ll make it good for you.”
“I can’t.”
His lips curve. “Can’t or won’t?” He tilts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
There’s hunger there, yes–but there’s patience underneath it.
A terrifying kind of certainty. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, voice pure sin.
“Say it.” My pride is hanging by a thread.
My logic is already gone. All that’s left is heat and ache and this man pinning me like he owns not just my body, but the part of me that stopped running.
“Cyan…” My voice breaks on his name.
“Yes, Dove?” He rolls his hips again, slow, deliberate torment. I moan. I swear I’m seeing stars. “Say it,” he breathes. “Or I stop.”
My mind snaps. I can’t take it anymore. “Fuck me,” I choke out. “Cyan… I want you to fuck me.”
The effect is immediate; his control fractures.
In one rough, efficient motion, he frees himself, shoves his pants down just enough, and presses the thick head of his cock against my entrance.
Then he pushes in, stretching as he sinks in deep.
The feel of him in me is shockingly perfect.
My walls clench around him, greedily pulling him in as he buries himself to the hilt.
“Holy… fuck,” he grits out, eyes squeezing shut for a beat like he’s fighting not to lose it. “You feel like fucking heaven, Dove.” I can’t think. All I know is him—his body, his scent, his heat. His hands lock on my hips, holding me tight as he tries to give me a moment to adjust.
I don’t want it. “Move,” I gasp. “Fucking move, Cyan.” That’s all it takes.
He growls low in his throat and thrusts deep. The world narrows to the rhythm of his body pounding into mine. Every stroke hits the right spot inside me that sends me spiraling higher, unraveling piece by piece.
“You’re everything I want,” he rasps, his accent roughening. “You are fucking mine, lass.” His words brand me as surely as his body does. “Who does this pussy belong to?”
I don’t recognize my own voice when I gasp, “You. I’m yours. It belongs to you.”
The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, tearing through me.
I crash into sweet oblivion. My muscles convulse around him, vision going white at the edges.
I hear him swear, feel him tense, and then he follows me over, thrusting hard as heat floods inside me.
For a moment, we’re both still. Breathing, just existing in the wreckage of what just happened.
Cyan exhales, leaning down to brush his lips against my damp forehead.
“Finally,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. He kisses me, and something in my chest shifts.
Because I know, with bone-deep certainty, there’s no coming back from this