“I told you to relax,” I bit out, reaching inside to remove the squeezed fruit. “These ones are for me, and I want to eat them whole.”
I wasn’t going to waste this one.
I stared at the way her eyes widened as I brought the grape to my mouth and popped it inside. My cock throbbed as the sweet taste of the fruit combined with the heady taste of her cunt exploded on my tongue.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” she panted. “I need you… a-and I need to go to class.”
Bending forward, I sunk my teeth into her neck, enjoying her hiss as I reached for more fruit.
“Then don’t squeeze my grapes.” Her skin puckered against my lips.
I felt the way her breathing changed, all of her focus on holding off the need for release as I pushed another grape inside her.
I continued to kiss her neck, letting it stay nestled inside her for a torturous minute.
“I’ve dreamt of you so many times, Gypsy, it feels as though I’ve known you a lifetime.”
“Q…” she pleaded.
I shushed her calmly as I let my other hand slide under her shirt and cup her breast. I wanted to pull at her piercing, knowing how much it set her off. But I wanted my grape intact. So, I settled for kneading the full flesh until my cock throbbed angrily for release.
“No matter the lies and secrets, I should make you leave,” I continued, reaching for another grape “Because when you’re here, I can’t think of anything else but you.”
It pained me to admit how wanting her didn’t just overshadow everything else—it incinerated it.
“I can’t think about what happened. I can’t think about Méchant. I can’t think about messages received or those that need to be sent. I can’t think about how dangerous being with me is for you.” Slowly, I pushed the second tiny ball inside her. “I can only think about how there was a darkness inside me—a hollow void—until you. Until your light.”
She moaned and began to rub against me, yet kept her body controlled.
“It’s yours,” she whimpered. “I’m yours.”
With a low groan, I pulled the grapes free, savoring her sweetness before my jaw closed and burst the fruit juice into my mouth.
“God, how I need you.”
I pushed her hips out slightly. Just enough room to get her skirt and my shorts out of the way before I fed the swollen head of my cock through her curls, savoring the way her body sucked my thick length in, inch by fat inch.
“I swear, the moments I’m inside you are the only times I’ve found heaven in this place,” I swore roughly, as I speared through her hot velvet pussy until I bottomed out against her womb.
Anchoring her hips, I began to pound into her soft heat, relishing the gasps and cries that echoed right next to my ear.
This time, there was neither time nor desire to stave off release.
The first time, she fucked me because I could’ve died.
The second time, I fucked her because she could’ve died.
This time, we fucked because neither of us wanted to live without the other.
I felt her legs tense and spasm against mine and my cock pummeled against her front wall, right behind her clit. She squeezed hard around me and I felt my balls tighten.
My eyes shut, knowing I was about to come.
Reaching for her clit, I rolled it hard between my fingers and roared as she exploded around me. She came hard around me, white spots bursting in my vision as I filled her with my cum.
Her whole body quivered against me, searching for normal again after how I’d made her wait only to then rip her climax hard and fast from her body.
“You’re going to be late for class,” I grunted, several minutes later when both of us were left with only labored breaths.
“Maybe I’ll skip it,” she said with a sated voice. “I don’t know if I trust you to behave alone anyway…”
I let out a rough chuckle.
“Go,” I insisted. She’d already sacrificed so much to help me—too much. “I’ll rest in bed, now that you’ve tired me out.”
Only a partial truth. If she stayed, I knew I’d could easily stay hard and lodged inside her for several exquisite hours.
“And then we’ll go to my apartment tonight?” She arched one eyebrow.
I grunted.
“Promise?”
I nodded and placed another soft kiss against her neck.
“I promise.”
I never made promises.
Promises bound you to another.
But for Esme, I would.
For Esme, I’d promise her anything because I wanted that link… because I wanted that bond to her.
Quinton
As soon as she unlocked the door, I stalked inside, ignoring the protest by my injuries as I scanned the spacious one-bedroom apartment.
A sitting area with a single light blue couch and matching chaise and small kitchenette sat to the right. On the corner of the building were three large windows. One on the far wall right before the kitchen, the other two directly in front of me. The old kind of windows. Single panes probably made with lead, unbarred and large enough to climb out of with a rust-splotched iron fire escape nestled on the other side.
To the right, the single bedroom. Walled off. Standard door entry which was cracked to reveal a queen bed layered in bleached white linens and two windows along the back wall. I pushed through the door and noted the attached bathroom and expansive rain shower. No windows.
Ten seconds later, I was back in front of the singular exit to the apartment and met Esme’s intrigued gaze.
“Clear?”
My head tipped at her question.
Her tongue moistened her lower lip coyly as she laughed and explained, “On TV, every time any kind of law enforcement agent goes into a building, they scan all the rooms and report back with ‘clear’ if it’s safe.”
My jaw ticked.
“I don’t watch TV,” I replied.
She smirked, unsurprised by my answer. “Clearly.”
I sent her a glare. That was Esme. Somehow, she walked the fine line between teasing and mocking, between sympathy and pity.
Between being mine and not.
“Okay, time to shower.” She planted her hands on her hips, having set her bag down next to the bedroom door. “Unless you want to smell like a gargoyle, too.”
I could’ve told her I had a place—a shower that I could use. Hell, I could’ve left Notre Dame earlier while she was at the school to do so.
But this was what she wanted.
And I wanted to make her happy.
It was a strange and startling realization when the only thing I’d wanted to make anyone for the past decade was either miserable or dead.
But her…
I wanted to make her smile and laugh. I wanted to make her blush and shudder. I wanted to make her cry out in pleasure because of me and sigh in safety knowing I would take care of her.
I wanted to give her every good feeling in return for the hope she gave me—the hope that I deserved all those things in return.
I tugged at my hair as I turned toward the bathroom. The thought of a hot shower never appeared quite so appealing as it did in that moment. I never took them to relax—to calm. It was simply a method to wash away the dirt and grime which clung to my skin from the filth of dealing with the Méchant organization.
“Esme—”
“I want to check your stitches,” she insisted, peeling up my shirt.
With a grunt, I lifted my hands up over my head so the tee could come completely off. My breathing faltered as her warm fingertips pulled the tape from around my wound and she carefully inspected it.
“Looking better each day,” she said satisfactorily.
Twisting the knob until the stream of water grew warm, I turned over my shoulder and eyed her heavily.
“Are you coming?” The slight blush in her cheeks told me she wanted to.
“You need to shower,” she replied instead,
her head dipping down, knowing that cleaning would be the last thing to happen if she were to join me.
I didn’t wait for her to leave the room before unbuttoning my pants and letting them fall to the floor, letting out a long hiss as I stepped under the spray and let the hot water work its magic.
The swelling in my knee had mostly gone down, although it was sore like a motherfucker after the strain I put on it in the bell tower. And my side… I gently soaped over the stitches that held tight the purple and black flesh. Another day or two and I’d be able to remove those as well.
I peered through the frosted glass, the light from the TV catching my attention.
Esme was flipping through the channels, sitting on the very edge of the bed. Even from here, I could tell she was searching for something.
My shower tonight was still brief, but only because I wanted to get back to her.
After what happened in the bell tower, she seemed closer yet farther away at the same time.
Like now, she didn’t even hear as I turned off the water and dried myself off.
She didn’t even turn when I wrapped the towel around my waist and walked toward her. My attention shifted to the TV, wondering what could have captured her to this extent.
She had the news on and they were covering the riot and explosion from the Neuf Trois the other night. My jaw tightened. The last thing I wanted was for her to relive those moments—the ones where Méchant turned her music into a monstrosity.
And the ones which revealed what kind of man I really was.
“Esme.” I drew back as she jumped up with a squeak at her name and jammed her finger into the power button on the TV to shut it off.
“Esme…” I repeated, my brow pinching as I took in her startled and anxious form. “What’s wrong?”
She looked down at her feet, black ribbons of hair falling forward off her shoulders and around her face. That was when I knew something was wrong. She’d never not met my gaze before when confronted.
Fire for fire.
Fight for fight.
“Esme,” I growled and her head whipped up.
“Sit,” she commanded, threading her fingers through her hair to pull it away from her face in annoyance before adding softly, “Please.”
I stepped in front of her and wrapped my fingers around her wrists, tugging them from her scalp and holding them hostage with one hand as I tipped her chin up with the other. “What is it? What’s going on?”
My gaze bored into hers, searching for the truth behind the wall of flames.
Moisture glazed over her eyes, collecting in the corners as I caught the faintest quiver in her lower lip. Her hurt didn’t break her strength, rather it seeped from it like water through concrete; the tiny pores that made her.
“What’s wrong?” I rasped again. “Was it something on TV? Was it something from the other night?” I scanned each and every fleck and flicker of her irises as though they encoded a message in their broken braille. “Was it someone?” I paused. “Just tell me, Esme, and I’ll fix it. Tell me and let me take care of you.”
I held her face tightly, brushing away the few tears that broke free.
Being stabbed was nothing compared to this. Being blown up was nothing compared to this.
I’d take a thousand lives to stop her pain.
I’d take a thousand deaths for her to hurt no more.
Her head began to shake vigorously, escaping my grasp as she planted her hands on my chest as though to push me away before they became fists, balled up tight against me.
“It’s not me, Q,” her voice cracked and splintered as she spoke. “It’s you…”
My heart stopped.
“The media,” she continued hollowly, dragging her stare that overflowed with pain up to mine. “The media is claiming you are responsible for the other night.”
The organ in my chest began to work again, except it felt wrong.
With every thump, it felt as though instead of pumping blood through my system, it sucked it back. Just like the words I heard her speak, my heart twisted its purpose and deprived my extremities of the very thing it was meant to provide.
“They’re saying you created the explosion… and killed the men who tried to stop you,” she ended with a strangled cry.
And though I heard what she said, the first and only thought that came to my mind was that I realized what I saw in her eyes.
A heart breaking.
Her heart which was breaking for me—for what they’d turned me into.
The Half Man.
The Villain.
The Gargoyle.
The Monster of Notre Dame.
And in that moment, when the sense of defeat and anger should’ve drowned me, I felt nothing except what love was.
Love was the tree that roots deep into our being—into our soul—fastening on little words and small gestures, frail hopes and stolen dreams. And it grows. No matter how hard it is smothered nor how arid its environment, love would continue to bloom green… even over a heart left to ruins.
Even after all this time.
“Q.”
My attention returned to Esme, staring at me with bleak eyes.
“Don’t cry.” I kissed her gently. “Don’t cry for me.”
“But they’re wrong,” she insisted fiercely.
If there was one thing I knew about Esme St. Claire, it was that her heart couldn’t stand to see herself or others judged for sins they hadn’t committed.
“They’re wrong. You didn’t start anything. You saved all those people,” she went on, her fists pressing against my chest. “And now, they’re blaming you—punishing you for it.” Her head shook. “We have to do something. I’ll go to the police. I was on that stage—I was right there. I’ll tell them what I saw—”
“Esme,” I growled and tugged her against me, startling her into silence. “You can’t.” I paused. “You won’t.”
“But they think—”
“Ma Gypsy, I lived for years in a church. I have half a face. My life is nothing more than watching, waiting, and exacting my revenge. For years, I’ve been nothing but the forgotten man. What do I care what they think of me?”
“Because it’s a lie!” she cried, her fist slamming against my chest. “It’s a lie, Quinton, and I can’t watch them do that to you. I can’t stand by and let them destroy you. I won’t.” Her tone forceful, but only to cover up her fear.
“Esme, you can’t protect me from this.” I tried to soothe her. I tried to keep my voice low and rub gentle circles on her back, but none of it worked.
There was something too raw this exposed that couldn’t be calmed.
“I have to,” she babbled. “I have to, Q. I have to do something. I can’t—” she choked off with a cry. “I can’t lose another person I love to this kind of hate!”
My body jerked back as though I’d been stabbed, only this time straight in the heart.
My Gypsy loved me.
Me.
Her movements ceased. A stillness passing over her and me.
I stared down at her. The way her black hair fell in thick waves over her shoulders. Her shirt was loose, sitting low on her arms and falling to mid-thigh. Though the fabric was plain, she’d layered it with chain after chain, bracelet upon bracelet; her golden armor out in full force.
I stared at the woman who wasn’t afraid. The one who wasn’t afraid of the deformed man watching her. The one who gave as good as she got. The one who wasn’t afraid to defy the ideas about what being a professor meant—the clothes she should wear, the things she should do. The one who wore a hijab in screaming solidarity with those this city tried to oppress. The one who joined up with a group of street performers and played for tourists, orphans, and for the Neuf Trois—for those who most people would seek to avoid.
That was Esme.
She sought out those the world would rather shun.
She befriended gargoyles who sought to warn her away.
There was never any tr
ace of fear in her until now.
“Q…” Slowly, her eyes found mine and she repeated, still in emotional awe, “I love you, ma Gargouille.”
“You can’t love a monster,” I said softly.
She’d been running all her life—running from love that brought the possibility of both stability and loss. She should keep running.
Her eyes burned up at me. “I can if he’s mine.”
I silenced her with my mouth this time, slanting determined lips over hers.
I wanted to taste it. I wanted to taste her love on my lips just as surely as I heard it in my ears and felt it in my bones. I wanted to experience this moment with every sense, knowing the terms of my life dictated it would have to end.
The kiss, which was meant to be slow and savoring, grew in the only way that need can: unchecked and without mercy. Until I tore my mouth from hers, both of us breathing heavily.
“What do you think of me, Esme?” I murmured against her, the taste of her love too sweet to let me stray far. Too sweet and too dangerous. “Because yours are the only thoughts I care about.”
Her head drifted side to side as her eyes shut and her lips tightened. Her tongue slipped out to moisten them and I couldn’t stop myself from chasing it with a kiss before continuing to wait for her answer.
I did. But it didn’t affect the way those words still felt like a balm over my heart.
“I think you are a man who has continued to sacrifice”—she drew a shuddering breath—“even after losing everything.”
Letting my hands drift down to her waist, I drew her with me until my knees hit the back of the bed, taking her down as I sat until she was kneeling on my lap. The towel at my waist already loosened from where it was tied, and having her perched right on top of me meant it wouldn’t be long before my cock shoved the rest of the material to the side.
Wisps of black waves clung to her cheeks where they were damp, but I didn’t pull them away. My hands sank into the warm satin at her waist and couldn’t bear to leave.
“Why does this bother you?” I asked with a low voice. “Why do you care how they paint me? The media can go to hell.”
A short, harsh laugh escaped her. “No, they can’t,” she mused with a bitter turn of her lips. “Even the devil has standards.”
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 31