31 - Adrian
“Water first.” Isa goes to the kitchen, pours herself a tall glass and drinks every drop of it before turning to face me. Her dark eyes find mine with that sharp assessment, waiting. “What is it you need to tell me?” she asks.
My voice comes out rougher than intended. "I know I’ve done some terrible things to protect you. And I used to tell myself I'd let you go if it was what you needed."
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she stays silent.
"That was the biggest lie I ever told myself.
" The final confession tears free like glass through skin.
"I would never let you go, Isa. Not if you begged.
Not if you ran to the ends of the earth.
Not even if keeping you destroyed us both.
I'd kill anyone who tried to take you from me.
I'd torch cities. I'd start wars. You're mine in a way that blood oaths and territory lines could never touch. "
The confession hangs between us, stark and unadorned. No more pretending I'm the warm man who brings coffee out of kindness. No more hiding the cage behind concern for her safety. Just the honest monster who would keep her regardless of the cost.
"I've been two men since the day I met you.
The charming host everyone knows, and the thing underneath that watches through walls.
" My hands shake slightly as I step closer, close enough to smell her.
Clean soap mixed with La Sirena's lingering perfume and the metallic tang of blood.
"But they're both me. The warmth is real, and so is the possession.
I'm done wearing masks, done pretending I'm anything other than the man who would cage you forever rather than lose you. "
She studies me for a long moment, turning it over the way she turns a blade. The man who stalked her, who built her life without permission, who just admitted he'd never release her no matter what.
"Good." The word comes out like a sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping as if she's been waiting her whole life to hear someone admit they'd never let her go.
I stand frozen, unable to believe she's accepting this. The worst truth about what I am, and she's choosing it.
"Good?" My voice breaks slightly on the word.
"You look surprised," she says, moving closer, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from her skin. "Did you think I wanted something safe, Adrian? Something tame?"
"I thought…"
"You thought wrong." Her bloodstained fingernails trail down my chest, finding the bruise Leonardo left, pressing just hard enough to make it ache. "I've spent too long years believing I destroy everything I touch. I need someone who can't be destroyed. Someone as dangerous as I am."
She presses closer, and I feel my control starting to fracture. "I don't want the man who'd let me go," she continues, her voice dropping to something darker. "I want the one who'd tear down the world before releasing me. So prove it, Adrian. Show me you're really the monster you claim to be."
The challenge in her voice makes my cock harden instantly, pressing against my pants with desperate need. She's testing whether I mean it, whether the cage is real or just more pretty words wrapped in charm.
"Prove it?" I catch her wrist, feeling her pulse race under my thumb like a trapped bird.
"You say you'd never let me go. That you're this possessive thing who owns me.
" She presses even closer, until I feel every curve of her body against mine, her nipples hard against my chest through our clothes.
"But you're still standing there being careful with me.
Where's the man who drilled holes in my wall? Who locked me in his apartment?"
My control snaps like cotton thread.
I grab her waist and lift her, carrying her toward the dining table, where several of my coloring pages lie, half completed. The botanical designs I spent hours perfecting, never crossing a line, every gradient built with obsessive precision.
“Hang on,” she says, making to move the perfect pages out of the way.
Her hand rests on a mandala that took three months.
I grab her hand, roughly, stopping her. “No. Watch me ruin them for you."
I kiss her hard, pressing her back against the table as the pages shift and crumple. Years of keeping everything inside careful borders, and now I'm destroying them for the woman who makes all my control meaningless.
We crash down onto the table together, and I hear the distinct sound of paper tearing beneath us. Sharp and final.
"Your pages," she gasps against my mouth, but I'm already pulling her shirt off, not caring what else tears beneath us. The fabric catches on the dried blood on her skin.
"Fuck the pages." My hands find her skin, still tacky with dried blood, and the feel of violence on her flesh while I destroy my perfect things sends heat straight to my cock. "Fuck the lines I've kept so carefully. Fuck the control that's kept me from having this."
More papers crumple and tear as I strip her bare.
Her jeans resist, but I want them gone, so I yank until the teeth of the zipper split and the denim peels from her legs, baring her entirely to me.
Isa's underwear is nearly transparent with wetness, the proof of it already soaking my hands as I drag it down.
The colored pencils scatter and roll off the table like bullets from a spilled clip.
One breaks under my knee as I shift to spread her thighs, the wood splintering with a crack like bone.
She shudders as I step between her knees, one ankle hooked over my shoulder, the other crooked around my hip, and she drags her nails down my pulse, scoring bright lines along my throat.
"You're still surprised I want this," she says, breathless, voice edged with laughter and hunger both. Her hands fist in my hair and yank my head up so our eyes lock. "You think you're the only one who breaks things?"
"Look at you," I rasp, tracing her slit with my fingertip, then plunging inside. "You're soaked. You want me to ruin you." I add another finger, then a third, and her hips cant off the table, straining for more. The stretch makes her blink, pupils blown wide, her mouth opening in a soundless gasp.
She arches against me, and another page tears completely in half.
The sound fills the apartment like applause.
My masterpiece, the mandala I've been working on for three months, splitting straight through its perfect center.
The sound might have horrified me once, but instead I press my weight into her, feeling the chaos, the destruction, the proof that nothing I've ever made with my hands matters as much as the woman writhing against them.
"Adrian," she moans as I slide two fingers inside her pussy, finding her already clenching around me. "Fuck, I need…"
"Tell me exactly what you want," I order, curling my fingers inside her, thumb circling her swollen clit. "Tell me what you need from your monster."
"I want you on your knees," she hisses into my mouth. "Eat me until I can't stand. Ruin all your pretty pages. Fuck me so hard I forget my own name."
I grip her thighs and pull her to the edge of the table, more pages tearing beneath her, and drop to my knees.
I bury my face in her, tongue tracing the seam between violence and vulnerability, and taste her arousal, salt and sweetness.
The first taste of her undoes something in me.
Not because she's wet—though she is, soaking, her arousal already on my chin before I've barely begun—but because of the dried blood still on her skin from the Lins.
She killed for me. She walked through blood to find me.
I groan against her, tongue darting over her clit, then flattening to lap her in long, punishing strokes. She fists my hair, pulls so hard the pain spikes to pleasure, and grinds herself into my mouth, chasing her own annihilation.
"Right there," she pants. "Don’t let go. Don’t fucking let go—"
I don't. I work her with the same obsessive precision I once gave to every careful line and gradient, except now I'm using it to destroy her.
I work her with desperate hunger, my tongue circling her clit while my fingers pump inside her pussy.
She tastes like the fires of hell, her wetness dripping down my chin as I feast on her.
She comes with a scream, her whole body convulsing, thighs vise-locked around my head.
But I don’t stop. I keep licking, keep sucking, keep working her, and when she tries to push me away, I grip her tighter, my nose pressed against her clit, tongue thrust inside her as if I could reach her soul and devour it.
"Adrian," she chokes, "I can’t—"
"You’ll take every fucking thing I give you," I growl, and she shatters again, this time with a raw, desperate sob. Her wetness floods my mouth, and I swallow, not missing a drop. If I could open my chest and let her climb inside, I would.
When I finally stand, my face is slick with her, mouth raw, my cock a brutal ache behind my zipper.
She’s sprawled across the table, limbs shaking, eyes glazed with something close to awe.
Tiny bits of torn artwork cling to her back, confetti in her hair, and I know she’ll never be able to look at this apartment without remembering this moment.
I slide my hands up her thighs, over her hips, and flip her onto her stomach. "Hands on the table," I say, voice gone to gravel.
She obeys immediately, flipping onto her stomach and bracing herself on the table. The position puts her ass on perfect display, her pussy glistening and swollen from my mouth.
I tug my belt loose, the metallic jangle echoing through the ruined silence, and free my cock. It’s so hard it hurts, precum already slicking the head, and I rub it along her folds, teasing, drawing out the anticipation.
"Is this what you wanted?" I ask, rubbing the head of my cock through her wetness, teasing her. "The man who'd never let you go?"
"Yes," she moans, pushing back against me. "Fuck me, Adrian. Show me I'm yours."