Naomi #3
After today, I don’t even think I can look at him the same way, much less the family he spawned from. He is worried the prenup is my exit plan, when he should be asking himself if I’ll even make it down the aisle.
I find myself in the library, a room I’m sure hasn’t been used much by this lot, judging by their preposterous ideas.
How could they think I would ever sign?
The thought of marrying into a family that sees marriage as transactional makes my stomach lurch. I sprint to the hidden door built into the bookshelves and swing it open, stepping through into the overdone half-bathroom.
It’s a miracle I make it to the sink.
What would my mother-in-law think of me, snot-nosed and dry heaving into her golden sink?
She’d probably turn up her nose at the disgusting display.
I clutch the countertop, using the marble's coolness to center me. Christian and I used to come in here a lot. Either fucking, fighting, or trying to catch a break from his family—it’s the perfect place to get what I need: silence.
Darkness usually bothers me, yet I don’t turn on the lights. Only a sliver of light glows from a crack in the door. And I stand there shaking, pulse racing, and struggling to steady myself. I close my eyes and try to quiet the voice inside me that keeps screaming, You're dying.
brEATHE, NAOMI. brEATHE.
I try to drag in a deep breath to stop the hyperventilation, but the air feels so thick, and the corseted bodice of my dress feels as if it might kill me.
“Talk to me.”
My eyes snap open, and. I stare into the mirror above the golden sink—my blood instantly runs cold. Behind me looms that familiar intruder, his red-and-black mask gleaming like fresh blood against midnight leather. My ribs feel like they’re caving in, but no scream escapes my throat.
“Did you follow me here?” I exhale, breath trembling. My eyes lock on the mask’s glossy vermilion panels and the dark eye-slits that dare me to panic.
He shifts closer, the crisp scent of smoky sea salt clinging to him. “Why? Does that matter?”
I press my palms flat to the marble counter, nails grazing the edge. Steam from the running tap fogs the mirror in swirling tendrils around us. “You can’t just show up wherever you want. We’ve been over this. Breaking and entering is illegal. Why do we keep replaying this scene?”
He tilts his head, voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade.
“Appreciate the civics lesson, Gorgeous,” he purrs, voice laced with amusement. “But looks like you’ve got bigger problems.”
Cocky, quick-witted—of course, he’d be a smart son of a bitch. I’ve always had a thing for arrogance wrapped in intellect. I huff, desperately trying to slam down the ache stirring in my belly. “You think you’re cute, huh? Always with that cocky attitude.”
He steps closer, his hands landing on top of mine, fingers brushing the sensitive pad of my wrist. “No,” he murmurs, “but apparently you do.”
That voice—Satan’s demonic gift—floods my senses.
The rasp of his words unfurls something raw inside me, a mix of longing and dread. I clear my throat, sliding my palms from beneath his, and crossing my arms in a vain attempt to steady my racing thoughts.
“I’ve never even seen your face. How would I know?”
With a swift motion, he kicks the bathroom door shut. The slam reverberates in my ears, extinguishing the last sliver of pale light from the library. “Would you like to?” he asks, his breath warm against my ear.
With the soft rustle, a dull thud echoes as the mask falls onto the countertop.
“Why did you take it off?”
“You wanted answers, didn’t you? Here’s your chance.”
“I could turn you in.” My words tremble in the humid air.
He leans in so close I feel the heat of his breath, his lips trailing against my neck as my breath quickens. “You could,” he agrees, quiet confidence wrapping around me like a noose. “But that would end our game—and you wouldn’t want that.”
A slow burn slides through me, knotting my stomach with desire. I don’t notice I’m moving backward until I feel him—hard, unyielding—pressed against my lower back.
“You’re distracting me,” I whisper, voice thick with need.
“From what?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear before the sting of his bite. It leaves me reeling. Shaking. Shell Shocked.
“Those ridiculous papers, you should burn? Or the reasons he doesn’t deserve you?”
His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me closer.
“Or maybe those filthy little thoughts you’ve been having about us?”
God, I’m fucking sick.
And the sickness runs so deep—a venom coursing through my blood—like something’s rotting under my skin, like I’m splitting open from the inside, and the only thing holding me together is the sound of his breathing behind me.
My hands grip the edge of the sink so tight I feel the edges biting into my palms, but I don’t let go. If I let go, I’ll turn around. And if I turn around, I know I won’t leave.
Because I want him, I want him in a way that makes me disgusted with myself.
It’s filthy.
It’s obsession.
It’s that thing that creeps into your bones and whispers, “You’d let him ruin you, wouldn’t you?” And there’s part of me that still has sense, screaming no—but I’m losing the fight.
Because the truth is… I already let him in. Every time he looks at me—like he’s starving. Every time his voice drops low like a secret meant just for me. Every time he shows up in places he shouldn’t be, and I don’t tell him to stop.
I don’t run. I never run.
And that’s what makes me sick.
I have a ring on my finger. A fiancé outside those doors. A future lined in gold and lies. And here I am, hiding in a bathroom like some trembling little thing, praying he ruins me in a way that shatters my psyche.
Because this? Him? It’s not just temptation. It’s destruction. And I want it.
I want him to destroy me.
His other hand splays low on my stomach, teasing the space far too close to the hem in my dress, and my heart starts to hammer in my chest.
“I should go,” I whisper, though the words lack conviction. “Everyone’s probably looking for me.”
“Then go, Naomi,” he taunts, his voice rough, daring. “Leave.”
My feet don’t move, staying rooted to their spot even as his hand slides beneath the fabric of my dress. His smug chuckle vibrates through my back, sparking an all-out war in my body. I shouldn’t want this…But I do.
“Tell me, Little Dove,” his voice is a silken snare. “You want me to fuck this needy pussy until your screams echo out into the halls, until he knows you aren’t his anymore?”
The words cut through my restraint, unleashing a rush of wetness between my thighs. I want it—God help me, I do. I want him to obliterate every thought in my head; to erase the pain with pleasure so blinding it makes me forget my own fucking name, forget this sham of an engagement.
“We shouldn’t,” I rasp, shivering as his fingers graze the seam of my panties.
“But you haven’t moved,” he coos, pressing a scorching kiss to my neck.
My breath gets caught as his thumb finds the perfect spot, circling my clit with delicate precision. I fight to steady myself, desperate not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.
“That’s because you’re in my damn way,” I snap. “Move.” I spin out of his touch, shoving my weight against his chest, though he doesn’t budge, his laughter a dark melody that only fans the flames of my arousal.
“Cute,” he drawls. “I’ve always liked that sharp tongue of yours. Think it’ll stay that way once I have you on your knees?”
“Maybe,” I add a bit of fire to my tone. “Or maybe you’ll get something sharper—like my teeth.”
The sharp inhale he takes is a triumph, though it dissolves in a low, filthy groan that makes my resolve quiver. “Fuck, that sounds like heaven.”
“You’re sick,” I spit, shoving him again.
Without warning, his rough hands clamp onto my hips as he hoists me onto the counter. My dress hikes up, baring my thighs to the cool surface as he presses between them.
“Must be folie à deux,” he purrs, splitting two fingers on either side of my clit, stroking me through the slickness of my soaked underwear. “Two depraved minds, perfectly in sync.”
I bite my lip, desperate to muffle the moan threatening to escape, but he works it out of me, each deliberate stroke shattering my defenses. “Two sick fucks, alone in the dark. Getting off on our fantasies,” he continues, his voice a velvet whisper.
“My husband takes care of those,” I lie, the quiver in my voice betraying me.
He laughs, low and wicked, his fingers finding a rhythm that makes my thighs tremble.
“Is that so?” He pinches my clit, hard enough to make me cry out. “Does he know you like being fucked until you cry?” he says, adding more pressure to my sensitive bundle of nerves. “Because I do.”
“Shit,” I hiss, my hand flying between my legs to stop his torture, the havoc he’s wreaking on my body fucking maniacal—I’m adrift in a tsunami.
“Move your fucking hand, Naomi,” he commands, his voice rough with desire.
My nails dig into his palm, easing the pain by only a fraction, before he pushes my panties aside, sinking a finger into me. My walls clench around him instantly, slick and wanting as he circles my clit with his thumb.
“FUCK!” I cry out.
“Dammit,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight, so perfect.
” Something wet and warm lands on my clit, sending a shiver down my spine.
“You’re so wet for me already, Little Dove.
But I want the memory of our sins all over your skin, deep inside your tight little cunt, so you won’t be able to forget how good I make you feel.
” He pulls his finger out to the tip, adding another as he thrusts back inside of me, the sound of my pussy laying all of my truths bare.
“God,” I gasp, my hands clutching his hoodie for support. My head falls back against the mirror, cool glass tempering the warmth coursing through my veins, as I spread my legs wider for him.