by Lana Sky
“Hate isn’t much different, but it is way more addictive,” I tell her. “It’s all the shit you told yourself you don’t ever want to feel. Anger. Rage. Jealousy. Every fucking temptation rolled into one. You may convince yourself you despise that sting, but that’s a lie. You crave it. It’s power. You can’t be hurt by someone you hate, so it lets you forget. And when you finally lose control… Well, you have something to blame, don’t you? All that hate sets you free. Free to fucking feel…everything.”
She’s silent for a minute, letting each definition sink in. “And what do you hate?”
I shrug. “Is that a trick question?” I try to play the response off with a laugh, but it trickles from my throat as a sigh. The real answer lurks within my skull. That voice only nicotine or whiskey can smother these days. Yourself.
“Do you hate…you hate when I touch you?” Her free hand flattens against the table.
I let my gaze trace every single pale finger. I’ve never been much of a liar. “Yes. I hate it.”
She’s envy and rage wrapped up in one tormented package. Her touch brings about everything I don’t want to feel. Everything I crave. Everything I fucking hate.
She inhales sharply, relishing the sting of the confession. Her gaze drifts up to meet mine above the burning embers of the cig between her two fingers. She finishes it with one hard drag and puts it out amid the pile of ashes in the tray.
“Show me?”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe she stands up. Or maybe I beat her to it. Either way, I have her backed into a corner, her ass striking the edge of the counter. She grasps the ledge with both hands and hauls herself on top of it. Her gaze never breaks away from mine while her knees clamp onto my waist, pulling me in. Her breath trickles against my lower lip, harsh and unsteady.
I want to steal every hit of nicotine from her. That’s why I claim her mouth with mine. That’s it. She’s a living, breathing cigarette. She’ll burn me just as badly if I’m not careful.
It’s not a kiss. She bites me. I inhale her. Blood. Ash. Smoke. We’re addicts desperate to salvage whatever the fuck we can from each other. I already know her poison of choice. She just wants to forget.
Her fingers fan out along my back. Feeling. Flexing. I copy her, only my hands aim too low, and she groans into my ear. Angry. Pissed.
She hates me. I hate this.
I show her how much. I lose control, if only for a second. My hands are beneath the lace of her thong, grasping at her skin, tearing through the curls between her legs. I find her pussy and sink in, and she nearly comes off the damn counter. I have to use my body to pin her flat against the bottom of a cupboard. I hold her like that. I trap her like that. She’s captive, held by my fingertips. I own her. I’ll break her.
I release her.
She’s panting when I do, her yellow eyes damp and unfocused. I can almost hear the plea she’s too proud to say. Not yet. Not yet.
I have to inject her into my veins again. Just a little. One more hit.
I slide a hand between her legs again and tease her with the pad of my thumb. The sounds she makes work on my control like a hammer, and I come apart bit by bit by fucking bit.
I kiss her again. I bite her. Hard. Harder. She moans at the pain, raking her fingers through my hair, her nails digging in to pull me closer as she writhes against my dick. I can feel her through the denim. Fuck, I need… I want…
No.
I push away from her, my fingers pawing at the counter for leverage. She doesn’t attempt to pull me back. She stares up at me, her head braced against the edge of a cupboard. Everything she’s thinking spills from her eyes. She thinks it’s her. She’s not pretty enough. Sexy enough. Whatever.
That never used to bother me before. Control was all that mattered. All that does matter.
With one fucking needy, desperate look, she shatters it.
I’m on her again, my mouth open. I let her show me where to touch her, her hands clawing at my shoulders, pulling me down. My teeth graze her bare breast. Her stomach. Lower. I don’t hesitate to sink my fingers beneath the lacy fabric and drag it down. Her legs spread for me, her hands fisting in my hair.
I take her hard, like a fucking shot. All at once. No drop of whiskey has ever burned me worse. I’ve never tripped this badly on liquor. She’s in my head. She’s in my fucking skin. Her heat. Her moans. I’m too fucking weak to block her out.
I drag on her. Greedy. Hungry. I take everything she has to give. I take, and I take—every last drop. Every last gasp. My pants feel like a fucking vise, but I still have enough shred of control to pull back before it’s too late.
Withdrawing from her is like surfacing from underwater. I’m gasping. She’s panting, still riding the high of whatever she feels in the aftermath of…this. Her eyes find mine, watching as I stagger back against the table and throw my hands out to brace my weight against it.
It’s hard to come down when I can taste her. It’s hard to come, period. My jeans are too tight. My fingers clench, aching to rub one off. The bathroom’s too fucking far away though. Her scent is too damn much. I almost crave the humiliation of coming in my pants. Right here. Right now.
Whether intentionally or not, she won’t let me. Her legs tremble as she brings them together. Her hands claw at the countertop as if she’s worried one ragged breath might be enough to pitch her off it. Her eyes slide down my face, right to the front of my jeans. She can see how fucking pathetic I am.
One of her hands flies to her mouth, and she chews on the broken nails. “You said your father never hurt you.” The words spill from her throat, broken and hoarse. She’s afraid I lied to her.
“He didn’t.” I clench my jaw against the inevitable question that flashes across her face.
But?
“But…I don’t want to be like him.”
She blinks, her eyes widening. “You’re afraid that you’d hurt someone.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m afraid that I’d enjoy hurting someone.”
She climbs down from the counter on trembling legs and has to clutch the end of it with one hand to keep her balance.
I expect her to run. She staggers forward—toward the kitchen table. To me. Her pale knees strike the tiled floor as she lowers herself down, just out of my reach. Her head is barely visible above the rim of the table.
“Can…can I touch you?” Her fingers flutter against the floor while she eyes the waistband of my jeans.
It’s like she’s teasing me on purpose.
“I just told you why—”
“I’m asking for permission.” She reaches out for me with one hand. Her tongue flits across her bottom lip. Pink. Wet. Glistening.
The sight makes my dick throb. I’m harder than I’ve ever fucking been, and it’s nearly impossible to think straight.
“If…if you want me to stop, I will.”
I don’t say a damn thing. My hips jerk and my thighs spread apart, just enough for her to slip in between while I snatch the gun from my pocket and shove it away. She rises slowly, using her fingers to grab my zipper. It’s like she’s peeling my fucking soul open. I try to bite back the sounds that threaten to tear from my throat. I hold them back. I hold my goddamn breath, too, as she takes her sweet time, undoing the fastenings bit by bit.
I suck in air when she finally gets them undone, and I spring forward against my boxers. She takes me in with a single sweep of those yellow eyes. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I know from her own sordid little story time that she’s been hurt. A lot. By many different men. Am I bigger than they were? Smaller? Less threatening? I don’t know how long she drinks me in.
There are tears in her eyes when she finally looks up. Tears of pain? Relief? Exhaustion? Her lips tremble as she fights to suck in air and release it all on a single question. “Can…can I touch you?”
My answer rips from my throat. “Yes.” Fuck yes.
Any control I had is gone. I’m already lifting my hips from the table when
she moves her hands to the waistband of my jeans. She slowly tugs them down, carefully, unwrapping me like a fucking present.
It’s torture. It’s drawn out. It’s for her.
Telling myself that while my teeth skewer my lower lip makes it bearable. Barely, but I’m still in control. By a thread. By a fucking hair trigger. But I don’t reach for her.
I let her ease my jeans all the way down to my ankles. I bite my lip harder when she starts on my boxers. The head of my dick is already leaking precum by the time she gets me bare. It’s pathetic. I wait for her to laugh or maybe make some joke about innocence.
She stares instead. She inhales raggedly, shifting her weight so that she’s balanced on the tops of her knees. “Can I…”
“Yes.”
I breathe out as she takes me in the palm of her hand. There’s no gentleness. No hesitation. She grips me firmly. It’s like she knows my dick inside and out—better than I do. When she starts to pump her fist…
I see light. Colors. Reds. Greens. Yellow. Fucking yellow. She knows how hard. How fast. It’s like she’s in my goddamn head, getting off on how well she matches the gut instinct I don’t even have the nerve to say out loud. I just groan, my head rocking back against my shoulders. My gaze flutters up to the ceiling at first, but then it drifts right back down. She’s staring up at me, gauging my reaction. She pumps faster. Harder. Shit.
I grit out a noise that might be a moan, and she slows just for a second. Long enough for her to readjust her grip and lower her head.
I feel her breath on my shaft. It’s like the first brush of a lit lighter against the end of a cig. You’ve got to hold it there for a second before it catches fire. Before the flames bite deep.
One touch of her tongue is all it takes for this new flame to bite deep. I’m on my heels before I know it, curses revving in my throat. Her hair parts between my fingers as I seek out the shape of her scalp. I know it’s wrong, even before I hold her steady and arch my hips to sink in even deeper. I feel the entrance of her throat. Tight. Hot. A part of me needs to sink in deeper, but the sound she makes… It’s a choked gasp, and I pull back. I’m nearly free of her mouth when her hand clutches my hip, her nails digging in. I look down and right into her eyes again.
Don’t. I’m okay.
Gritting my teeth, I go back, letting her set the pace. I don’t last long. Not even a minute later, I’m already trying to shove her off again. I’m coming. I feel the impending release in every fucking inch of my body, but she doesn’t take the hint. She stares me dead on. She sucks me in deeper. Her cheeks hollow…
And I’m on another goddamn planet. I lose my sense of gravity; that’s how violently the world shifts. I’m on fire. I’m full. I’m empty.
She takes everything I have and then some, swallowing it all down like it’s vital. Like she thrives on this. She needs me more than fucking oxygen. More than sanity.
We’re insane. I could get off again just from watching her. Knowing that, I wrench my jeans back up and turn around. I set my sights on the fridge, and I stare at it until my breathing slows and I feel in control.
Chapter 25
Chloe
Fate is a blank slate. So how fitting is it that my angel is an artist, painting beauty out of darkness and destruction? Taking an act I’ve always reviled and making it seem…vital. Even worse, forcing me to crave it.
Only he can make hate so appealing. For five minutes, I forgot about Piotr—that’s the longest I’ve ever gone. For five minutes, my used, broken body felt something other than pain or disgust.
It’s like the formless paintings streaking the canvas around us spell out the truth—Fucking him is art—even if it will never happen in the traditional sense. I’m resigned to that. I’ll take him in any way I can, like a dog content with the scraps from a banquet table.
It’s selfish.
I’m putting him in danger.
I can’t help myself.
I succumb to the high, and it feels like hours pass before I manage to stand up and hobble over to the sink. I turn the faucet on and drink directly from the spray. The water doesn’t erase his taste, however. It doesn’t even make a dent in the flavor.
I’ll choke on him all night.
Touching him is like dancing, only without the restriction of the cage. With him, my cage is everywhere. The world seems open. I’m unreachable. Just as long as he holds me. Just as long as his fingers tangle within my hair to keep me steady. Just as long as his eyes peer into mine.
Though, hell, maybe I’m not the only woman addicted to him. There was one in his sketchbook, her features carefully detailed in pencil and ink over crumbled paper. Dark hair. Flashing eyes. I’m not skilled enough to decipher whatever emotions he might have felt while drawing her.
I don’t want to. Is this jealousy? Guilt?
When I finally turn the sink off and face the rest of the narrow room, he’s barricaded himself inside the bathroom again. The water’s running, betraying what he’s doing without my needing to see it for myself—his hand on his shaft, grinding me out.
He’d rather use nicotine as his crutch than me. Apparently, angels don’t see the power in dominating another. This one is so afraid of becoming a monster that he denies himself pleasure altogether. He surrounds himself with pain instead—curing it, inflicting it—going so far as to tattoo a reminder on his chest as to just what he’s capable of.
I don’t need another brand to remind me. Piotr’s stench is in my skin. I will never erase his touch. I can forget for a minute, maybe longer. But he always comes back to me.
Moya lyubov.
I shiver as my mind scuttles away from the thought. I need to move. Think. Thankfully, the house remains silent as I haul myself upright and pad into the bedroom. I take a T-shirt and sweatpants from his closet and pull them on without allowing myself to feel any guilt. When I realize I left my shoes behind at the hotel, I have no choice but to take a pair of his as well, along with another sweatshirt. That particular item I don’t need, however. I want it. My nose lowers into the sleeve, inhaling the stench embedded within the cotton.
One hit is enough to soothe whatever nerves the thought of leaving stirs up as I head for the front door. Fear, my old friend, has returned in full force. Escape. Run. My plan is sloppy, compiled on the fly—I’ll catch a train and ride it as far as I can. Piotr can have his seven days—and many more after that. I won’t go back to him.
I won’t.
I can’t...
“You think it’s really going to be this easy?”
I glance over my shoulder and find him leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. Water drips from his hair into the cotton of the gray T-shirt he paired with jeans. His arms are crossed over his chest, those blue eyes honing in on mine without mercy.
“You think you can just come to me and walk away once you’ve gotten your fix?” He shakes his head and heads into the kitchen. “Uh-uh. I gave you a story. Now, it’s your turn.”
I’m forced to speak to his retreating back. “And if I don’t want to talk?”
He shrugs and lifts something from the kitchen table. I know what it is even before I see it clearly—his gun.
“Just tell me what you were doing with this.” He points the barrel at the ceiling, his back still turned to me. There isn’t an ounce of tension in his posture.
I could make a break for the door and run before he could stop me.
A part of him might want me to.
But I don’t, prolonging our mutual high like the selfish girl I am.
“I was going to kill someone with it.” I wring my fingers together as I pad closer to the circle of light he’s dominating.
The damp fabric of his shirt clings to his shoulder blades. If I squint, the ripples look a lot like wings.
“Kill?” His tone reminds me of his own “story.” The phrasing he used. The rationale for why he has murderer tattooed across his chest and nothing else.
“No,” I hear myself admit while I a
dvance on him three more steps. “I wanted to murder someone with it.”
“Here.” He faces me and holds the gun out.
I take it, pointing the barrel at the floor.
“I assume you’re not planning on sticking around.” He doesn’t sound disappointed, merely resigned to the fact that I might leave. I need to leave…
But, like a good addict, I seek his eyes, holding his gaze. One more prick of the needle. One last snort of my drug of choice.
“What you said about love… You made it sound worse than hate.” It’s an odd topic for conversation, but it almost seems fitting given our current trajectory for the morning—jumping from fucking to violence to murder to love and hate.
“Did I?” His lips slant in a thoughtful frown. “Well, I guess they’re close enough. But, with hate, at least you’re in control. You can fight it. You can resist it. You can forgive, or you can walk away. You can choose not to hate whenever you fucking want.”
Love has the opposite limitations. I know them well, in fact. You can only resist its allure for so long before it sucks you back in. Moya lyubov. Love is poison. There is no choice in how it destroys you.
“Have you ever been in love?” I know even before I see the slight shake of his head that he hasn’t, and I’m sure it’s by choice.
He may care for his brother and his friend Arno, but he’s never been a slave to obsession. He’s never been addicted to the burning sting.
“Don’t want to be,” he says. “Like I said, it’s easier to hate. You can turn your back on it. It doesn’t own you.”
“And what if…what if you hate yourself?” I ask him, my tongue flicking out to dampen my dry lips. His potential answer intrigues me more than I care to admit. Do I want him to agree? You should hate yourself. “For the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve done?”
He observes me for a long time. When he takes a step forward, I’m not sure how to react. I just stand here, allowing him to tower over me, his breath on my face, his heat on my skin. I’m unprepared when his hand flies out, and two of his fingers start an electrifying path down the length of my arm, skirting the stitches holding me together.