Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
CARA
I trail my fingers blindly along the crumbling exposed brick walls, one foot in front of the other, waiting for that lurch of my belly when I finally reach the bottom.
I almost faceplant the metal door, the light creeping in around the edges burning my retinas the closer I get.
Pushing open the heavy door with my shoulder, I bite back the grunt of exertion.
‘No one said it was going to be easy on this curiosity mission, Miss Kitty,’ my brain offers unhelpfully as I quietly push the door closed behind me. The beautiful music that fills the hallway is much louder now.
I tread carefully around the stacks of chairs and old office equipment piled untidily either side of me. The scarred nubs where my fingers used to be beneath my prosthetic ache—reminding me of the last time I got too tenaciously curious for my own good.
The dial of an old radio is turned in a room ahead of me, the buzzing of static as a station is searched for ringing out into the hallway and letting me know I’m not alone; it makes me pause.
I run my gloved hand over the placard on the wall that reads ‘Morgue’ and wait for the sounds of grunting and whimpering that I had heard when I entered the hallway to ring out again over the Woodstock seventies playlist, hoping whoever is in the room is now distracted enough again not to see me peering in through the viewing window.
What appears to be a usually depressing, off-white tile room with scuffed linoleum flooring is prettied up with a draped gothic backdrop, the luxurious hanging black satin material secured to the ceiling.
Vibrant white lilies in tall vases line the back wall.
We’re obviously in a basement so there are no windows down here.
Vaulted cinnamon-scented red candles in twisted brass holders dotted around the space flicker as their bodies move.
It’s a stage set perfectly for an old Shakespearean sonnet reading, although I don’t think this particular performance is the kind that would require a script or any stage direction.
My feet plant themselves to the spot, hidden behind an old filing cabinet as I stare into the room with a wide-eyed gaze.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget what I’ve seen here.
I miss the days where something like this had the ability to shock me.
His hands explore her sweat speckled skin, tugging at her peaked nipples as she sucks the other guy’s cock between her lips greedily.
If I were here under different circumstances, I’d clap for the woman as the head of his length works its way past her gag reflex with ease and down into her throat—this is not her first rodeo into double-teaming, and the beautiful arch of her body is proof of that.
She’s taking them both like a seasoned pro.
As the guy settled between her lips arches his spine and throws back his head, I can tell he agrees.
I’ve grown to love the darkness, the depravity of it all, because it has been ingrained as my normal for so many years.
To think there was a time when I knew nothing of this world. That feels so long ago now.
I watch avidly as the Nosferatu porn hub special—two cocks—all the holes edition plays out to ‘ The Clash’s Should I stay or should I go’.
For once it isn’t the act but rather the participants that have my attention glued to the scene playing out in front of me.
As though the universe is trying to tell me my ability to be shocked is very much still within me, I pinch my lips together to silence the squeak of realisation when it finally hits me, a million and one questions filling my head in quick time.
The slapping of skin and laboured groans of the here and now sucks me back in.
If you had told me yesterday that I would be watching a live play-by-play of my boss fucking two mental patients, I would have called your bluff; my life may be crazy at times, but that is a little insane even for me.
It seems Blackwood Asylum has a few more bombshells up its sleeve.
I’ve been in this life long enough that gratuitous sex playing out in front of me isn’t much to write home about; when you’ve dropped your keys into a bowl on a governor’s yacht on New Year’s Eve where everyone is dressed as an animal from a production of The Lion King , the weird quickly becomes the unfortunate norm.
I’ve been maneuvered into more positions than a trapeze artist travelling with the Cirque du Soleil.
But this is something else.
Raven wasn’t wrong—the Knox brothers like to wear their cowboy hats every chance they get—even when they are nine inches top and tail dick deep inside my boss.
With their faces partially covered with handkerchiefs tied around their heads obscuring their mouths and noses, their hats dipped, the only identifiers from this angle are the tattoos that trail down across their hands and up their necks, and those familiar mesmerising emerald eyes ringed with amber.
They are the copy image of one another, twins in every way possible.
Their bodies are carved marble masterpieces fit for a museum, their broad chests heaving as they use Lenora roughly.
Not that I hear any complaints from her.
She has a black beaded crown with a gauze veil masking her face that hides her identity, but it’s those red-soled alligator-skin shoes that give her away, that and the way she commands their movements with an authoritative tone that gets my back up, her voice like nails on a chalkboard.
Lenora Blackwood’s face contorts with pleasure beneath the gossamer material; even though it is barely visible, I note the first real smile I think I’ve ever seen stretched across her face as the Knox brothers treat her to a rigorous double-team dick down that has my cheeks pinking.
I may be desensitized to an extent, but unadulterated lust still has a way of working me up—and right now, that woman is in her element.
You are sex-starved, Cara. You’re all hopped up on a certain six-foot-three wolf man, and you’re denying yourself.
I consider hurtling my head against the wall to silence the thought but then think better of it. A headache isn’t going to cancel out the mental image of Ezra bending me over that table and going to town inside me.
I’m done with that life though; this is my new start.
‘Here we go again with the new start bullshit. You wanted freedom from being controlled, not from enjoying what a man can do to your body. What THAT man can do to your body,’ the voice in my head i’ve been trying to ignore snaps—acutely aware of my fascination with the brooding psych patient.
I side-step the viewing room window. My hands feel restless as I bunch my uniform between my fists. I’m too wound up. Who knew denying myself what I want would be this hard? In quick-time, I relay all the reasons why I shouldn’t explore what I am feeling with Ezra Wolfe.
Alittle of the stress I’d held onto after being so berated by the almighty Lenora Blackwood thankfully settles. I can’t imagine ‘it’s a-okay to sleep with your patients’ is a subclause in the welcome committee guide, so somewhere over the years, she too had lost her way.
I sneak a last lingering peek at the show, diverting my eyes from the exceptionally formed penises when they change up their positions, as though it’s a betrayal to Ezra.
Done with my Christopher Columbus mission into the unknown, I make my way back up to the records room.
The scent of old books, dust, and crumpled papers preferred over the lube, rigorous sex, and cinnamon-scented candle wax from downstairs.
The part of my brain that has decided that fucking with me is its life-long dream perks up and doesn’t miss a beat .
At least someone is getting some.
I offer it a simple and to the point ‘fuck you’ in response.
Of all the moments in my miserable existence when I could have lost my shit—this isn’t one of them.