Chapter 31 #2
“I need to call Stone anyway. I think I want to get a tattoo of Val’s feet on my chest. The man is always away doing business. I’ll see if he’s busy next week.”
My mind literally hiccups at his name. Not that I wasn’t thinking about him before, but the flush I feel in my cheeks is probably clear on my face.
His name alone makes me itchy, and he refuses to scratch that itch.
Thinking about him and lusting after him is pointless, so I wander over to the flower arrangements near the windowsill.
One catches my eye; a massive bouquet of what I think are wildflowers.
It’s gorgeous. The design is haphazard, like the flowers were picked at random, but I can tell there is a focus.
The colors are muted, but wonderful in their simplicity.
I touch a delicate feathery bloom. The softness is unlike anything I’ve felt before.
Curling vines sprout everywhere, and I love it.
A cute baby skunk with a pink bow on the crown of its head is attached.
Behind him, Jace and Sophia are whispering, more like arguing, and I tune back in, forcing my mind away from the bouquet and who might have sent it to Sophia.
I watch them. Jace’s arms are crossed, and Sophia’s face displays her classic scowl.
“Yeah. Business.” Sophia rolls her eyes, sarcasm evident in her tone.
“Don’t start, Sparta.” His look is cryptic.
“I’m not starting anything.” She looks so annoyed at Jace, and I wonder why. It feels secretive.
“Anyway. Maybe I can get him to do a quick one?”
“Oh lord. We’ll talk about tattoos later.”
Jace kisses his daughter’s head one last time and exits the room.
“What was that about?” I question, watching as Sophia touches her daughter’s cheek softly. The baby is asleep at her breast, and Sophia gently removes her from her nipple before resting her on her chest.
Sophia stops, watching me carefully, but doesn’t answer my question. “It’s beautiful right?”
“What’s beautiful?”
“The bouquet.”
Turning back to it, I nod. “Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s from him.”
Without facing her, I ask. “Who?”
“The same man whose name made you blush like you’d been caught with your hands down your pants.” She chuckles. “Don’t think I didn’t catch it.”
Only Sophia. If only she knew how many times my hand had been down my pants when it came to said man. I face her again and cross my arms. “I wasn’t blushing.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire. He brought them right before you showed up. And I would blush too if I was as horny for him as you are. He’s an assault to the senses in all the best ways. I love Jace, but that man? Holy smokes he is hot. Panties wet for sure.”
Sighing, I rub my temples. Definitely hot. Definitely wet panties. “So that’s why it smelled like him.”
She cackles and then smirks. “You have it bad.”
“Yup.” I sigh again. “Jace caught me wearing Stone’s jacket.”
Sophia’s eyes go wide. “Oh my. Does that mean you fucked the tattooed sex god?”
“I wish, but no. He gave it to me that night you and Jace broke up or whatever the hell happened between you.”
Sophia’s eyes look haunted. “Yeah that night was one for the books.” She smiles tremulously before tilting her head. “So I gather you haven’t given it back?”
I shake my head. I don’t add that I also have his ring.
It currently rests between my breasts. I walk back to Stone’s flower arrangement and touch one of the delicate blooms. The wild beauty does remind me of him now that I think about it; untamed and unbridled.
The same way he looks at me. The way he makes me feel.
“What are you going to do about it?” Sophia murmurs behind me.
“Not a damn thing. And don’t think I didn’t notice that weird exchange between you and Jace about him.” Sophia looks at me, her gaze direct and cagey. “What do you know? About him?”
“Honestly? Not much. No amount of blowjobs will get Jace to tell me what is up with his friend, but I’m starting to get an idea.”
“Gross, Soph. I don’t want to hear about blow jobs with Jace.”
Sophia giggles. “Sorry. All I’ll say is this. When he and Stone talk late at night, it’s always hush hush. From what I’ve gathered, Stone isn’t a man to play with. I know you want to bone him, but just be careful.”
“There is no boning happening. The man treats me like a spoiled child. So no warning is necessary. But what has he done?”
“He’s been to prison.”
Shock hits me, and then I understand. I can see it now. The intense way he is, his eyes moving constantly, taking in every detail. “For what?”
“Murder.”
Opening the door to my apartment a few hours later, I lean against the wall.
My fingers are cramped from my session at the studio.
Tonight was the most productive I’ve been, and I know why.
Sophia’s little bomb from earlier stuck in my head all night and fueled my creativity.
I couldn’t stop, feverishly painting some of the darkest stuff I’ve ever done.
My curiosity about the fact that Stone had been convicted of murder drove me to the studio, and I sat down, drawing out my curiosity about what he had done.
My imagination created image after image of him killing someone.
The gore and horror of it should have made me shy away from him, but it only made me more insatiable for knowledge.
What kind of murder? Who had he killed? Why?
So I painted, sketched, and sculpted every possible idea. Sometimes Stone's face was covered. Other times, his hands in my paintings were drenched in blood. The same blood red paint that stained my hands a few weeks ago when someone had snuck into the studio.
He used knives in one drawing. Rope in another. Each creation is more sinister and savage than the last.
Even now, hours later, I can still feel the thrill of drawing him, painting him as a killer. Suddenly, an urge comes over me, and my pussy tingles. Tearing off my shoes, I head to the shower, needing to get clean, because I shouldn’t be turned on by his violence.
I’ve always been fascinated by death since my mother’s death.
Growing up, I was well aware that she had died at home from a brain aneurysm.
Her body lay in her bed for hours. I snuck books about decomposition and rigor mortis.
Fascinated by the knowledge that her body had been decomposing for hours before Maria, our housekeeper, found her.
It was one of my favorite subjects in medical school.
I secretly fantasized about becoming a mortician for a hot minute before my father quashed any notion of that by telling me that I was going to become a surgeon.
And honestly, I didn’t mind that part. I wanted to investigate the human body, but on my terms. Not for clout.
The sound of the bike has me heading to the window and looking down.
I observe him as he dismounts his bike, letting it lean against the kickstand.
The street light shines on him, dressed in all black.
A dark T-shirt molds to his chest and arms, exposing his tattoo-covered arms. Ropes of muscles move as he lifts his arms and pulls off his helmet, and I suck in a breath when I see that he has a bandana covering the lower half of his face.
It’s the bottom of a skull. His dark, salt and pepper hair is sweaty, and I want to touch it, run my hands through the sweat-soaked strands, hold his face while I kiss him.
I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more. Unbidden, his name escapes my lips, and he whips his head up, staring at me.
I don’t move from the window. I know he can see me, and I want him to see me.
I want that intense, probing gaze. He doesn’t move, and my pussy throbs, wishing he would come upstairs and watch me with those stormy eyes.
I lick my lips, and I swear I hear him curse behind his face covering.
He looks away and walks inside. It sounds like the door slams. I walk back to the door where I hear his heavy footsteps.
His door is on the other side, down the hall.
They stop, and I hold myself back from opening it and finding him, asking him one more time to fuck me, but then they keep moving and release my pent-up breath in disappointment.
Asshole. I know he wants me. I can feel it, and he won’t budge.
Pivoting, I put my hands on my hips, trying to get my outrageous arousal for him under control.
When it doesn’t work, I strip, needing to do something, anything.
I head to my bedroom and stand in front of the wall mirror I added a few days ago.
I scrutinize my body, thinking about what he would think.
Would he like my small, upturned breasts?
Would he like the fact that my pubic hair was shaved low, or would he prefer me bare?
I touch my breasts, closing my eyes, imagining it’s him doing the touching, the pulling.
My nipples feel tingly, and I move my hands down, over my belly, and then lower, watching myself in the mirror, imagining a tattooed hand caressing me, playing with me.
My fingers easily slip through my pussy lips, finding the slick wetness.
I open my legs wider, thinking about Stone’s rough voice commanding me to fuck myself.
My face is flushed, and my legs tremble when I firmly manipulate my clit, pressing hard, wanting the pain and the deep pressure. “Fuck, Stone. Make me come.”
Suddenly, he appears behind me. His intense, tattooed body crowds mine.
My devious mind creates a scenario where he wraps his arm around my middle.
His thick, blunt-tipped fingers cover my own, and he pushes both our digits inside me.
I stand on tiptoes and cry out at the intrusion.
My body feels feverish, out of control. His other hand comes around me from the other side, lifting my breasts up before he leans down and bites my neck, both our eyes locked in the reflection.
My head lolls to the side as I let him feast. Sharp canines pierce my skin, and blood drips down, covering my chest, my nipples, his veined, tattooed arm.
“Look at you. My pretty little victim. A willing participant in her own demise. I’m going to hurt you, Countess and you’re going to beg for the pain.”
He rubs the blood over my body, coating me in the warm liquid.
More drips down to my pussy, rivulets of it.
And he doesn’t stop fucking me. If anything, it makes me even more slippery, and soon he adds more fingers until he’s four fingers deep with his thumb circling my clit.
He pinches my nipples, and my orgasm starts, and I moan, rubbing against him, chasing the euphoria I know only he can deliver.
His arm tightens around my waist, and his fingers move faster, harder inside.
I scream his name, watching myself buck against his wrists.
Once the high comes down, I stare at us.
My chest is heaving, and my body feels relaxed, yet I’m still hungry.
I find myself begging for him to put his dick inside me, my body, my pussy saturated with my blood.
“Fucking messy girl. Look at you, dripping your cum and blood. You want my cock?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then beg. Beg for me to ruin you. Beg for your own destruction. Get on your knees.”
In my mind, I kneel, bright red blood coating my knees. It’s a grisly scene, but erotic at the same time.
I look up at him as he takes out his cock and feeds it between my lips.
It’s big and thick, almost too much to handle, but lost in my reverie, the fantasy me knows I can do it.
He rubs the tip along my lower lip, watching me with those dark, intense eyes.
Greedily, I open my mouth, a willing servant to his demands.
I suck his cock, tasting his essence. I wrap my hand around the base, using my spit and blood to smooth over the veins and soft skin.
Lifting my mouth off, I lick up the shaft, tasting the metallic flavor of my blood mixed with him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, visualizing him thrusting in my mouth, my mouth slobbering all over. I want that. I crave that. Spontaneously, I cry out again, coming while my mind is stuck on the fantasy of him spurting down my throat.
When my second climax fades, I’m kneeling on the floor, my mouth full of saliva, four of my fingers buried deep inside me. I collapse on my hands, out of breath and completely wrecked from my imagination. The feel of him felt so real.
Standing, I stumble to shower and stand under the lukewarm water that seems to be a permanent state of affairs.
I need to get my plumbing fixed. Despite the tepid temperature, my body still feels hot, from the intense moment of fantasy Stone biting me, making me bleed.
Did I really just masturbate to the reverie of drinking my own blood while his cock was in my mouth?
Leaning against the cool tile wall, I cover my mouth with my hand, horrified and titillated at what happened.
I should feel shame or concern, but the pleasure that still thrums through me makes it hard to regret it.
I wonder what he’s doing next door. The bad girl inside me hopes he heard me fucking myself through the dry wall, the insulation, and the plaster. I savagely hope he has remorse for rejecting me.
He may be avoiding me, but I’m not going to hide away anymore.