Chapter 28
GABE
“Walsh needs to suffer,” I say, spreading floor plans of The Blue Room across the kitchen table in my apartment. We have been back in the city for two days. “But quietly. His screams can’t travel beyond the basement workshop.”
Amelia leans forward, tapping her finger on the blueprint. Her eyes spark with an intensity that makes her even more beautiful to me. Not just a canvas for my desires anymore—a collaborator.
“We could invite him to a private showing,” she suggests, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Something exclusive. Select works not available to the public.”
“He’d come for that?” I ask.
“The chance to discover art before anyone else?” Amelia laughs bitterly. “Walsh’s entire reputation is built on claiming he found artists before they were big. He’s pathologically afraid of missing the next big thing.”
I circle the basement area on the blueprint. “Adrian and I have soundproofed this entire section. Originally for jazz recording, ostensibly.”
“And actually for screaming victims,” she adds matter-of-factly.
I study her face, still amazed by how seamlessly she’s accepted this part of me. “Does that bother you?”
“What bothers me is that Walsh is still breathing.” She reaches for my sketchbook, flipping to a clean page. Her movements are artistic as she begins sketching. “We’ll tell him I’ve created a new series. Something radical. Something exclusive.”
I watch her work—quick, decisive strokes forming a gallery layout.
“We’ll hang three pieces here,” she continues, marking specific places. “Designed to draw him deeper into the space. The last one will be positioned before your hidden door.”
“And I’ll be waiting inside,” I finish, already visualizing the moment.
Amelia looks up, her eyes meeting mine. “No. We’ll be waiting.”
The correction sends a thrill through me. I lean across the table and kiss her hard.
“You understand what this means?” I ask against her lips. “If you’re there when it happens, you’re crossing a line you can’t uncross.”
“I crossed that line the moment I decided not to turn you in.” Amelia’s hand finds mine. “Besides, I want to see his face when he realizes who’s taking everything from him.”
I nod, squeezing her fingers. “Then let’s make this perfect.”
“He’ll need to suffer the way his victims did,” Amelia says, her eyes gleaming. “Powerless. Humiliated.”
I move behind her, sliding my hands over her shoulders to feel the heat of her skin. “And how did he make you feel?”
“Small.” Her voice hardens. “Like I was nothing. Just another desperate artist who should be grateful for his attention.”
“Then that’s what we’ll make him feel.” I press my lips to her neck, inhaling her scent—paint and something sweetly intoxicating that’s uniquely her. “We’ll strip him of everything.”
Amelia leans back against my chest. “I want him to beg. Not just for his life—for his reputation.”
“Oh? Tell me more.” This creative darkness pouring from her ignites something primal in me.
“We record it all. His pleading. His confessions.” Her breathing quickens. “Then after he’s gone, we send carefully edited clips to every gallery owner in Chicago.”
“Destroying him even after death.” I smile against her skin. “You’re more vicious than I expected.”
“I’m learning from the best.” She turns in my arms, eyes glittering with dark purpose. “What if we use his blood for something? The way Adrian uses it in chocolate?”
The suggestion—coming from her—sends heat coursing through my veins. “What did you have in mind?”
“I could mix it into paint. Create something beautiful from something rotten.” Her fingers trace my jawline. “Art made from the man who tried to control my art.”
“Perfect fucking poetry.” I capture her mouth with mine, tasting her excitement.
When we break apart, Amelia’s cheeks are flushed. “What if we make him watch while we create the mixture? Before we use it?”
“Christ,” I groan, arousal spiking through me. “You’re a natural at this.”
“It feels right,” she whispers. “Like taking out the trash. Removing something toxic from the world.”
I press her against the table, blueprints crinkling beneath her. “Every idea you have makes me want you more.”
I press her against the table hard enough that the edge must dig into her back. Her breath catches as I grab her ass, lifting her onto the scattered blueprints.
“Planning murder makes you wet, doesn’t it?” I growl, shoving her skirt up around her waist to find she’s not wearing underwear. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
“I knew we’d end up like this,” she admits, her pupils blown wide.
I drop to my knees on the kitchen floor, dragging her to the edge of the table. “Get down here.”
She slides off the table, her knees hitting the hardwood as I pull her into a bruising kiss. My cock strains against my pants, demanding attention. I break away, my breathing ragged.
“I want you to sit on my face,” I tell her, already lying back on the floor. “Now.”
Amelia’s eyes darken with desire. She strips her shirt over her head, tossing it aside before removing her skirt, as she moves above me. I position her, my hands gripping her thighs as she lowers herself.
“Turn around,” I command. “I want your mouth on me too.”
She shifts, facing my feet, and I hear her unzip my pants to free my cock. The first touch of her tongue sends a bolt of lightning through me. I groan against her wetness, pulling her hips down more firmly as my tongue explores her.
I feel her take me deeper, her mouth hot and demanding. My hands grip her ass, controlling her movements as I feast on her. The taste of her desire—sharp and sweet—fuels my own hunger.
“That’s it,” I mumble against her flesh. “Take all of me while I devour you.”
Her moans vibrate around my cock as she works me with her mouth and hand in perfect rhythm. I thrust my tongue deeper, feeling her thighs tremble on either side of my head.
The kitchen floor is hard beneath my back, but I barely notice the discomfort. All that matters is this primal connection—her taste, her scent, the wet heat of her mouth wrapped around me.
Her thighs begin to tremble against my face, her rhythm on my cock becoming erratic. I double my efforts, my tongue caressing her clit while my fingers dig into the flesh of her ass. The taste of her arousal floods my mouth as I push her toward the edge.
“Fuck, Gabe,” she gasps, pulling her mouth off me for a moment. “I’m going to—”
I growl against her flesh, refusing to let her pull away. Her entire body tenses above me, and then she’s coming, her release flooding my mouth as I drink her in. Her cries echo through the kitchen as she squirts against my tongue, my hands holding her in place so I can taste every drop.
Her losing control tips me over the edge. As her mouth returns to my cock, I thrust upward and explode, shooting hot pulses down her throat as pleasure tears through me. She takes it all, swallowing around me, her throat contracting with each pulse.
When the last wave subsides, she collapses on top of me, both of us breathing hard.
“Fucking hell,” I pant, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “You taste better than any fine wine I’ve ever had.”
She laughs, rolling off me onto the kitchen floor. “And you come like a fucking fountain.”
I sit up, my cock still rigid despite my release. “Look at that. Still hard for you. Always hard for you.”
Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight. “How is that even possible?”
“Sit on it. Fuck yourself on my cock. I want to see that perfect ass bounce while you take me.”
Amelia’s lips part, her chest still heaving. She moves slowly, deliberately, positioning herself in a reverse-cowgirl position.
“Like this?” she asks, looking over her shoulder with a wicked smile.
“Exactly like that.” I grab my cock, positioning myself at her entrance. “Now sit down and take what’s yours.”
Amelia lowers herself onto my cock, her back arching as she takes me inch by inch. The view of her ass descending onto me is fucking perfect—the curve of her spine, the way her hair falls across her shoulders.
“That’s it,” I growl as she begins to move. “Show me how much you want it.”
She rocks her hips, finding a rhythm that makes both of us groan. I grip her waist, guiding her movements but letting her control the pace. Her ass bounces against my thighs with each downward thrust, the slapping sound echoing through the kitchen.
I raise my hand and bring it down hard against her left cheek, watching the flesh redden instantly beneath my palm. She gasps, her inner walls clenching around me.
“You like that?” I ask, already knowing the answer as I strike her other cheek.
“Yes,” she moans, working herself faster on my cock.
I continue slapping her ass, alternating cheeks until both are flushed crimson. My free hand slides up her back, tangling in her hair to pull her head back slightly. The new angle makes her whimper.
“Gabe, fuck—it’s so deep.”
I release her hair, sliding my hand around to find her clit while my other hand moves higher, my thumb circling her asshole. Her rhythm falters momentarily as I press against that tight ring of muscle.
“Oh god,” she whispers, pushing back against my thumb.
I work my thumb inside her as she continues riding me, her movements growing more frantic as I stroke her from both angles. The tightness around my thumb makes my cock pulse inside her.
“Come for me,” I command, increasing the pressure on her clit. “Come all over my cock while I finger your ass.”
She throws her head back, obeying spectacularly as her entire body shakes. I feel her squeezing me from inside as she screams my name, her orgasm pulling my second climax from me. I thrust upward, emptying myself deep inside her with a primal groan.
Afterward, we lie entangled on the kitchen floor. My fingers trace the outline of my initials on her shoulder—still raw, still healing. Mine. The possessiveness I feel should unnerve me, but instead, it grounds me.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, her voice lazy with satisfaction.
I consider lying, but we’re beyond that now. “How you’ve become everything.”
The truth of it hits me as the words leave my mouth. Before Amelia, my life had clear compartments: the club, the hunt, the preservation of my victims. Adrian was my only real connection. But now—Christ, now my entire universe has reconfigured itself around her.
“I’ve had lovers,” I tell her, rolling onto my side to better see her face. “Submissives. Arrangements. But never this.”
Her eyes meet mine, questioning.
“You weren’t part of any plan.” My hand cups her cheek. “You were supposed to be a distraction. A cover. Nothing more.”
I think about how easily she saw the patterns in my work, recognized the predator behind my careful facade. How, instead of running, she stepped closer.
“And now?” she asks.
“Now you’re the only thing that matters.” The admission scrapes my throat raw—vulnerability was never my strong suit. “You’re in my blood, Amelia. Under my skin.”
She shifts, pressing her body against mine, and I realize I’ve never let anyone this close—not physically, not mentally. She knows what I am, has seen my gallery, understands the darkest parts of me, and still chooses to remain.
“I’ve never shown anyone everything before,” I whisper against her hair. “Never wanted to. But with you—fuck, with you I want to tear myself open so you can see all of it.”
I’ve built my life around the careful execution of plans. Amelia shattered that in a matter of weeks, and instead of rebuilding my walls, I’ve invited her inside the ruins.
“You’re my fucking world now,” I tell her, the words sounding like both surrender and triumph. "You're my muse, baby, but don't forget—beauty can hide the darkness."