30. Maeve
CHAPTER 30
MAEVE
He takes me home. His first act of mercy of the evening.
The ride passes in a blur, and the climb in the elevator up to his apartment may or may not have occurred. I have no memory of it. Who saw us? Did they ask questions about what they saw, or was any curiosity answered by his name, Cygnus .
Water runs in the background, reminding me that this is the bathroom. I know this part of the apartment like my own hand. This isn’t foreign, and everything is okay. Diego stands near me, his presence keeping me sane and fucking me up all at once.
He killed a man right in front of me, and the dark bloody prints of my husband’s fingers adorn my face like some warrior queen. I’m sick, I’m scandalized, I’m fascinated. The woman in the mirror stares back at me, but I don’t know who she is. I studied some psychology in school and read about dissociation, but I have never felt the singular effects of losing complete contact with one’s true self until now.
The lies catch up with me for the first time in my life, and I don’t know who I am anymore. Brown hair, pale skin, blood, a murderous husband, hot, hot kisses. Diego’s large body covers my back, and he kisses my neck, looking at me through the mirror.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
His fingers hook under my T-shirt, and he pulls it over my head. Next goes my bra. I watch his face attentively. I’ve gotten addicted to the way he reacts to my body. A breath comes out in a sigh. My nipples stiffen under his stare. A disjointed laugh slips out.
“Maeve...” he says, and it’s almost regretful.
I’m too inside my own head to offer him any words of encouragement. What would I say anyway? It’s okay? That seems like a slippery slope, and what’s wrong with me that I just saw a man being gutted, but all I can think about is making it more comfortable for the murderer? I should be horrified by what he did, and I am, but for some reason, I know very deeply he would never harm me the same way, though he would protect me violently if need be. He can keep up in the world I chose to enter. Hell, he runs it.
His hands snake up to my chest, and he takes my breast in one hand. I relax into his hold, my head hitting his shoulder. I move my neck to the side to give him access, and he slowly kisses me, tasting my skin.
“You shouldn’t have killed him,” I try this argument again, though I should know it’s a losing battle. He hasn’t budged the other twenty times I’ve complained.
“You’re going to make me kill every man who looks your way.”
His cock hardens at my back. He’s insane. Tucker never looked my way. Diego sent him a picture, and now he’s punished someone for his mistake. Fatally, I might add. No one should have seen those pictures, and Diego made sure they did. Now that seems like a valid reason to kill?
“I’m too pretty for that. Please don’t do that.”
He laughs, and I admit my response isn’t what it would typically be, but I’m a dancer with an ass—men look at me.
He pushes me forward until I hit the sink. I lean forward, placing my hands on the porcelain and he removes my shorts and shoes. I watch him in the mirror as he works, appreciating the way his eyes heat, looking at my ass. You can’t fake that sort of attraction. For a fleeting moment, I think he’s going to fuck me right here, still covered in Tucker’s blood. His warm palm makes contact with my ass, but that’s all it is, a spank.
Diego’s arm circles around me, and he turns me toward him as he pulls my knees out from under me. He carries me to the shower much more gently than he ever has. He places me inside, waiting until he’s sure I have my footing. The second the hot water hits my back, I breathe out in relief. I close my eyes and let the water spill over my face, washing Tucker down the drain.
He takes his clothes off and tosses them in a pile before getting in with me. I step out from the stream, letting him take my place, and the water pouring over him only makes him more attractive. He’s a vision with the four piercings through his cock, so tempting I have to force myself to look away. I keep thinking that at any moment, he’s going to finally touch me, and things will heat up again, but he surprises me by picking up the sponge and putting some soap on it. He lathers it up and works on cleaning the blood off my skin.
This is not the kind of relationship we have. He doesn’t do anything nice for me, and his presence is not comforting. He’s hot, complicated, and maddening, but somehow, this is so different from what I’m used to that it’s even scarier than his violence. How does he know how to take care of my needs? He washes down my arms and kneels to soap my legs and feet.
“The other one,” he says, referring to my foot, but his eyes are on my pussy.
Warm water drips between my breasts and down my stomach, and goose bumps break out all over my skin as we watch each other. It reminds me of the night he proposed, when he ate me out for the first and only time. I was too blinded by the experience and my own naivety to see what he had in store for me. Everything about that encounter was intense, so good I barely believe my own memories. Sometimes I can still feel the ghost of his tongue piercing between my legs.
Would it mean anything if he did it again? If he gives me pleasure, does that mean he’s done torturing me? He let me come the last time he fucked me, and that changed things between us, but so did making me an accessory to murder. Was that the point he was trying to make? That I was complicit, and he owns me now? It’s not a bad point, but it’s in stark contrast with his gentleness.
I don’t get that answer even though his mouth is a mere two inches from where I want it. Instead, he stands and grabs the shampoo. He pushes me to turn around, and the bottle complains loudly when he squirts shampoo in his palm. He sinks his fingers in my scalp, and I groan with the sensation. He’s rough, but it feels incredible. My shoulders relax, and I let him take care of me even though I don’t understand how we got here. What the hell did I finally do right by him?
I hum under my breath, showing him I like it, but he’s quiet. Shivers run down my spine when the piercings touch my lower back. That’s all it takes; I immediately want them inside me once again.
“Diego.”
“Tip your head back.” That’s his only response, but I obey him. He carefully washes the shampoo out of my hair. There’s nothing implicitly sexual about the act, but the more he touches me, the more turned on I get. Death and I have had a rough relationship so far. I’ve lost so many people I love, but I’ve never seen it close-up. It makes me want to live.
I reach behind my back, grabbing his cock and feeling the myriad of piercings. I’m curious about who did this to him, and I’m hot and jealous, wondering if it was a man or a woman. He chokes in surprise as I squeeze. He’s so thick I can barely close my hand around his shaft, and my mind is set at this point. I stroke him slowly, feeling each one of the piercings, savoring them.
Diego grips my hair aggressively, tilting my head back and to the side so forcing our eyes to meet.
“What are you doing?” he rasps.
“What are you doing?” I push back. “Fuck me and end me. Isn’t that the deal?”
His nostrils flare, and I know I hit the point. I don’t know why I’m poking him. I like the way he touched me, but this might be too confusing. He needs to fuck me and make me angry because if he’s anything but that, my heart will take the wheel, and nothing could be worse. I’ll end up doing something stupid like falling in love with him, and that’s not good for any of us.
He sees the plea in my eyes and dips his chin as if he could really hear me. His grip turns painful, and when I open my mouth to whimper, he whispers between my lips.
“On your knees, little sister.” I whine like the desperate whore I am as he lets me go.
I turn quickly, dropping and hitting my knees on the tiles with an embarrassing swiftness. He’s incredible from this position—muscular, beautiful, covered in piercings and tattoos. He smiles as I evaluate him glistening in front of me. His finger traces from my cheek to my chin as we connect. He has a way to look at me that sets me on fire. With a wet pop, Diego pushes his thumb inside my mouth. Once it’s there, he pushes and prods as if he wants to check if I can take him. Eyeing his dick from this angle, I’m actually not confident anymore.
“Do you want me to use your mouth?” he spits. “To treat you like my cum toy?”
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. His asking makes this harder and I prefer when he just tells me how it will be. It’s better for me. Knowing what my body wants and choosing to give in to it are very different things. This way, I can still pretend I’m innocent when I’m twice as wet because of what he just called me. The connection between us is too deep, too intense, and with how much he hates me, I fear my feelings will only end in my suffering. I want him to hate fuck me because my heart can’t take the alternative.
His grip is back in my hair, his jaw set hard when he says, “Open.”
That four-letter word is all the warning I get before he slams the thick head of his cock into my mouth. My only reprieve comes as he’s forced to loosen my jaw to take all of him and his piercings. I moan as he works hard to stuff himself inside my mouth. My jaw aches as I make my best effort, but I can’t fit all of him. His piercings add another level of difficulty. He’s hard and impatient, bobbing his hips and shoving deeper with each effort. Within a minute, I’m drooling, and he’s fucking my mouth with abandon.
I lift my eyes to watch. He’s a god over me. Wet brown clinging to his face, water spilling down to his tattooed stomach, defined arms tense, and a big cock that I’m forced to swallow again and again. It’s too thick, too deep, and as it hits the back of my throat repeatedly, it leaves tears in my eyes.
“You’re so dirty, little sister. You love being my fuck toy.”
The shower has nothing to do with why I’m so wet. I ball my fists to keep from touching myself as my clit pulses needily. I want to come so bad, but I want to please him more. I wonder lightly if he broke me as I suck him hard.
My jaw hurts from trying my best to fit him in. He grunts over me, his pace doubling speed, and there’s not enough air. With a last push that gags me, he comes down my throat. I take it all, letting him fuck my throat as deep and hard as he needs. His orgasm lasts longer than I expect, and I savor every drip of his cum. He takes his time enjoying the wet slurp of my tongue before softening fully and stepping away.
He watches me intensely as he turns off the shower, but I can’t decipher his meaning. Grabbing two towels, he silently hands one to me, still watching. No more words are exchanged, and I don’t know what to make out of this new dynamic of murder and tender care. He leaves the room without saying anything, but I realize with a further shock that he doesn’t lock the door.
I make my way out of the bathroom, clutching the towel to my chest, confused and broken but not afraid. There’s no Diego, but I find a white box waiting for me on the bed. I open it slowly, like there are going to be pieces of Tucker inside, but instead I find an actual gift. Underneath all the silk paper, I find the most gorgeous gown.