Haunting Adeline (Cat and Mouse Duet Book 1)

by H. D. Carlton

  He works the weapon halfway in before the gun retreats to the very tip. I’m allowed a moment’s breath before he buries the entire barrel inside me. I suck in a sharp gasp and let my head fall back, no longer having the strength to watch.

  This is so, so fucked up. Beyond fucked up.

  But when the gun pulls out and sinks back in again, a noise does slip through as a wave of pleasure rocks through me.

  “Good girl,” he breathes. “Open wider, baby.” The hand still holding my thong to the side nudges against my thigh. Without thought, my thighs instinctively fall further apart.

  Another praise, but I barely hear it over the beating of my heart.

  “I can feel how tight your pussy is. The way it grips onto my gun when I slide it out—so fucking pretty.”

  I bite my lip, but it isn’t enough to hold in the next moan. Or the one after that. I can hear the suctioning and slurping noises as he fucks me with his gun, and shame fills me in response.

  The embarrassment nearly overrides the fear. But neither of them is more potent than the pleasure my body is being forced to succumb to.

  When he angles the gun in a particular way, he hits a spot inside me that sends my eyes to the back of my head and an unchecked moan to slip free.

  He growls in response, my back arching as he continues to hit that spot. My thong grows impossibly tight, biting into my flesh before it’s ripped away from my body, the sound getting lost in another cry.

  The tattered fabric is tossed aside, freeing his hand to grip my thigh in a bruising hold.

  My heart jumps when he leans down, but he only clamps his teeth on my inner thigh. I cry out from the sharp bite, but it quickly morphs into pleasure when he hits that spot again.

  His mouth sucks and his movements quicken until I feel the beginnings of an orgasm settle low in the pit of my stomach.

  “Please,” I beg, but I don’t know what for. He tears his mouth away just to clamp down again, lower this time, but still far away from my center.

  Too far away.

  “Tell me what you learned, Adeline,” he demands, looking up at me, his mouth wet from his biting. The sight makes my heart drop deep into my belly, right to where the gun is driving into me.

  “Not to bite your cheek?” I guess, my voice trembling.

  He answers by biting my thigh in a punishing grip. I cry out, the pain blinding. He loosens his jaw, allowing the pain to bleed into pleasure. A primal noise slips out as he pushes the gun deep.

  “Are you going to make me ask again?”

  I open my mouth, but no answer comes out. My silence allows for me to hear his warning loud and clear. He cocks the gun.

  “Okay, okay, fuck,” I relent on a terrified hush. “I-I learned not to let another man touch me.”

  Those words bring tears to my eyes. Because saying them out loud makes me feel well and truly trapped by this man.

  “Who’s the only one allowed to touch you, Adeline?”

  I close my eyes, hating the lie that’s about to slip from my mouth just like the tears are from my eyes.

  “You,” I whisper, the bitter taste of the words clogging my throat. A battlefield rages in my body. The side that wants him to make me come, and the other side that wants him to turn the gun on himself and fire it.

  I glance down at him and note the way he’s staring up at me. And I have the terrifying realization that he doesn’t believe my lies.

  “You have ten more seconds to come, little mouse. No more after that,” he warns before nipping at my thigh again. “Rub your clit, baby.”

  I hesitate. The last thing I want to do is allow this man the satisfaction of making me come, and even worse, helping him do it.

  He doesn’t fucking deserve it. And though my body is strung tight with desperation for it, my brain revolts against the thought.

  “Now,” he growls, his eyes blazing with something carnal and dangerous.

  Muttering a curse, I reach down and twirl my fingers over my clit, too scared of the repercussions. If it’s between orgasming and getting shot, I’m going to have to choose the option that will cause the least amount of damage.

  “Good girl,” he whispers. It takes two more thrusts of the gun before I’m tipping over the edge, my ass shooting clear off the ground as the orgasm rips through me.

  I’m screaming. I can feel the sound vibrating the muscles in my throat. And I can feel how hoarse it’s becoming. But I can’t hear it. Not when my entire being is consumed in fire and ice, and the only thing I can see is heaven.

  The gun works inside of me faster and deeper, drawing out the orgasm until I’m literally begging for it to stop.

  He rips the gun out of me, and my thighs snap shut instantly as the last of the orgasm dies.

  I’m left a shuddering mess from the aftershocks, while he stands, his body towering over me.

  I look up through half-lidded eyes, still jerking from the little shocks, when he lifts the gun and swallows the barrel. It feels like an out-of-body experience as I watch him lick the weapon clean, and then stick it in the back of his jeans.

  My body is full of rage, humiliation, and shame—I know this. But it’s like my brain can’t process those emotions, so it’s just choosing to feel nothing at all.

  Is this what trauma does? Knowing you’ve been violated but your body chooses to go numb instead?

  Like a magic trick, his hand comes back into view with a rose that must’ve been in his back pocket. The petals are crushed, likely from our struggle, but he doesn’t seem to care. He twirls the rose in his hand before tossing it on me, the flower fluttering to my stomach.

  With one last lingering look, he turns and walks out without a word.

  And finally, the dam bursts as emotions crash through my body and flood out of my eyes.

  For the next three nights, my shadow stood outside my window. Watching me, a red cherry blaring in the night as he puffed on a cigarette. What I wanted to tell him is how fucking disgusting it is that he smokes.

  But the heat between my thighs likes the way he looks. I think my asshole of a vagina might’ve even been jealous of the cigarette. Apparently, it has a thing for inanimate objects.

  And that reminder royally pissed me off. Enough to storm into the kitchen and pour myself an entire cup of wine. Wine cures everything for a little while.

  Anger.

  Trauma.

  But now, with a glass of wine absent, rage causes my hands to tremble with the reminder of how he left me on the floor, tossing a rose on me like discarded trash and then leaving. I had never felt more debased as a human until that moment. Never more humiliated.

  He hasn’t messaged me since. Hasn’t tried to come to me and wave another gun in my face. He just lingered outside the window.

  And I stared back.

  It’s become our fucked-up routine.

  He doesn’t come around during the day, and as long as I’m not letting men feel me up and stick their hand down my pants, he doesn’t text me any more threatening messages.

  I don’t tell Daya about our confrontation, and especially not about how that night ended. If my shadow doesn’t murder me first, Daya will.

  I was incredibly stupid. A fact I’ve never tried to deny. Especially now.

  There’s just no explaining the reactions he pulls from me. I’d love to pretend like confronting a scary man is so like me, but it’s the exact opposite. I work myself into a panic attack if I have to ask a complete stranger a question.

  So why is it every time he comes around, I slip into insanity?

  “Why are you wearing a turtleneck?” Daya asks with disdain, shoving a bite of her salad into her mouth. We met at Fiona’s to grab a bite to eat.

  I needed to get out of the house. Desperately. The smallest things would bring me back to that night. And every time I looked in the mirror, I was overcome with the memory of his teeth sinking into me. And the bite of metal soon after.

  I clear my throat. “I’m trying something new,” I
mutter. It was the only thing that would cover the marks staining my body. I had to order several of them in different colors through Amazon Prime, the need for them dire.

  I can never let Daya see those marks. Nor could I ever confess the new meaning my stalker gave to finger-banging.

  She shrugs her shoulders, looking down at her salad. “Only you can make a turtleneck, mom jeans, and a belt look fashionable.”

  I frown down at my outfit, disagreeing with her assessment. I hate this outfit, but maybe I only hate what it represents. Something designed solely to cover the bruises covering my body. Beneath these clothes is a map of purple hickeys.

  “What about lover boy? Anything else happen with him?”

  I hope the flush crawling up my neck stays down. If it doesn’t, maybe I can blame it on the goddamn turtleneck.

  “I’d much rather talk about Gigi,” I say, eyeing the mozzarella sticks sitting between Daya and me. I’ve had four already and I want the last one. Noting my stare, Daya rolls her eyes and flaps her hand, urging me to take it.

  I do so with a big smile on my face.

  “I have some news on Ronaldo.” Both brows shoot up, urging me to continue. “Last night I was picking through the diaries to see what I could find on him. Gigi would often mention him wearing nice suits and that gold ring, indicating that he was middle to upper class. And there was one entry where he seemed to have gotten jumped. Came in bruised and bloodied but wouldn’t speak about it.

  “So, I’m thinking he was involved in crime of some sort. He was very secretive about his life and told her at one point that he wouldn’t allow his dangerous lifestyle to affect her.”

  “You think he was like a mob boss?”

  I shake my head. “No, I think his boss was a mob boss. When Gigi spoke of him when he was beat up, she made it sound like he was punished for something. She quoted him saying, “it was nothing I didn’t deserve,” and that’s all he would say.

  “Gigi had noted several times in entries that she kept asking anyways, concerned for his wellbeing. The last thing he told her was that he had a very strict boss, and he couldn’t know about her.”

  Daya nods her head, a spark of excitement in her sage eyes. “I’ll look into crime families in the 40s. See if I can find anyone that might match his description.”

  I smile, feeling the same spark of hope. The high lasts for a total of five seconds before Daya's eyes widen, her gaze locked behind me.

  My heart drops and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My shadow wouldn’t show up here now, would he? In front of Daya?

  “Hello, ladies.”

  My eyes widen along with Daya's. Her gaze clashes with mine and a million things are said in the span of two seconds. Like that we need to be very fucking careful.

  He sits down next to me, his body relaxing back into the chair as he stares at me with a wide smile that stops miles from his eyes.

  I clear my throat and force a smile. “Hello, Max. Arch's friend, right?”

  “The one and only,” he responds, his stony blue gaze glued to my face. I can feel a blush creeping up my neck from the intensity of his glare.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask casually, sipping on my quickly depleting margarita. I’m going to have to flag down the waitress soon because I’m going to need another to get me through the conversation, and one more to get me through the aftermath.

  I’m going to need to call an Uber tonight, I already feel it.

  He leans forward on the table, crossing his fingers and looking at me like he’s really curious about something. His entire demeanor is hostile.

  “I’d like for you to tell me exactly what happened when Arch went missing.” His lips curl into a cruel smile as he tacks on, “From your doorstep.”

  I frown. “Didn’t you already hear about it from the police reports?”

  He narrows his eyes, that smile frozen on his ice-cold face. “I want to hear it from you, Ms. Reilly.”

  I do my best to keep my face blank, but I’m not sure how well I’m doing. Can’t say I’m practiced in the art of handling a criminal. Matter of fact, three nights ago pretty much proved that I suck at handling criminals.

  He said my last name to show me he looked into me. But that would be the one thing I’m used to by now. Being stalked.

  “We went back to my place and had some fun,” I start. A glimmer shines in Max’s eye when I say that. “We were actually in the middle of having fun when someone banged really hard on my front door—”

  “Has that happened before?”

  My nerves flare because this is a question I don’t know how to answer.

  “No,” I say finally, refraining from gulping like I really want to. I also really want to pick up my margarita again, but my hands are shaking, and I don’t think I’ll be able to hide that.

  So, I act like an imbecile and lean over to suck down more of the margarita with it on the table.

  “Hmm,” he hums.

  Max has to know I have a stalker now. It was something Sheriff Walters told me that would bite me in the ass with them, but I couldn’t not report someone stalking me. Max must’ve seen those reports. But one thing is for sure, I didn’t report his hands appearing on my doorstep.

  “You see, Addie, I just can’t quite figure out the motive, ya’ know? Like, say, why would an enemy of Arch show up at your doorstep in the middle of Arch getting his dick wet?”

  I flinch from his crass words, feeling almost ashamed that I let Arch touch me at all.

  “Max,” Daya snaps. His cold eyes turn to her, but she doesn’t cower. “I’ve told ya’ll a million fucking times. Addie had nothing to do with it.”

  His gaze thins again, and he leans further into the table, pinning Daya with a steely glare.

  “That’s the problem, Daya. I don’t fucking believe you.”

  She snarls, her hands clenching into fists.

  “If you want answers, Max, you’re looking in the wrong place,” I cut in before this conversation blows up and Max murders us right here and now.

  “I don’t think I am,” he responds, facing me again. “Because Arch’s hands ended up on your doorstep the next morning. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s personal. So why would Arch’s hands be personal to you?”

  He smiles in victory when my eyes round with surprise. “How did you know that?”

  “Something didn’t sit right with Arch going missing at your house of all places. The morning after, we sent a man to scope out your property. Just in time to see Daya here picking up a bloody box and driving off with it. They tailed her and after she buried it, they simply unburied it. Imagine our surprise when I saw my best friend’s hands in that box. And imagine my surprise when my men told me it was gifted to you.”

  I don’t look to Daya. I don’t want Max to see just how alarmed I truly am.

  My eyes thin. “Maybe it was put on my doorstep because whoever it was assumed I was connected to Arch’s dealings.”

  He laughs then. “You think our rival assumed you were Arch’s bitch? And that you were involved with our work?”

  “Maybe,” I snap. “Would they know if I wasn’t?”

  He doesn’t answer. He just stares, sussing me out. And I stare back, letting him see the anger in my face. The frustration.

  “Why did you have Daya bury them, Addie? Why not tell the police?”

  I weigh my options and decide that telling the partial truth is my best bet. “Because there was a note in it threatening my life, along with any police officers involved if I called them. I was made aware of Arch’s… work by then and thought it best to listen and not get further involved. In something I have nothing to do with, by the way.”

  Again, he just stares. My heart is beating out of my chest, and by the look in Max’s eyes, I’m still not sure he believes me innocent.

  Part of me just wants to confess to him that I’m being stalked. What difference would it make at this point, anyway? Now that Max discovered Arch’s han
ds, there’s no reason to keep it a secret.

  But there is.

  If Max discovers I have a stalker—one who is clearly violent and dangerous—he might use me as leverage to draw him out to get his revenge.

  I’d become collateral. And I’m not sure I’d make it out alive.

  At least this way, there’s a chance that Max will leave me alone if he thinks I’m just some random girl who got caught in the crosshairs of gang activity.

  Max hums again and stands, straightening his suit jacket and rebuttoning it. The suit drips class and money, and something tells me Max has taken over the Talaverra’s dealings.

  There’s a new crime lord in town, and he’s pissed. At me, no less.

  “Enjoy the rest of your dinner, ladies.”

  He walks away, taking all of his bad juju with him. The air instantly feels lighter now that he’s gone, but he managed to still leave an ashy taste in my mouth.

  “They’re going to be a problem,” Daya says quietly.

  I nod and flag down the waitress. “Add it to the fucking list.”

  Chapter 17

  The Shadow

  F uck. She’s so pretty when she thinks no one is watching.

  My little mouse trudges into her bedroom, her tattered slippers dragging against the smooth stone floors. She’s tired. Dark circles are beginning to form underneath her eyes.

  I want to smooth them away, just to bring them back again. But I want her to be tired from staying up all night, taking my cock into her body until she’s depleted of all her strength. Even then, I’ll still fuck her.

  I deprived myself last time. Refused to touch her with my own hands when she hadn’t earned that from me yet. But watching that gun slide in and out of her pussy was just as torturous for me.

  I barely made it to my car before I was coming in my hand, the sweet melody of her smoky cries echoing in my head.

  That woman’s voice alone can bring any man to their knees.

  And now, she’s wearing nothing but a long white t-shirt, the soft cotton ending mid-thigh. Her rosy nipples poke through the thin material, and my mouth waters with the need to take one into my mouth and suck on it until she’s wriggling beneath me.