“If you can’t…”
“What was the right answer, J?”
“To trust that I would not let them rape you.”
“And what if I am in a situation one day where someone tries?”
“You knew I was fucking with your mind, though, and still, you go out on a limb with some creative, rather ingenious answer that I don’t want or need. Stop overcomplicating the already complex,” he points out, crouching low. His fingers run over the side of my cheek. “Does that bother you?”
“What?”
“That I take the independence you’ve fought for and wipe it away like a clean slate? I pick up a tablecloth with all the fine china and dishes prepared for hours and destroy them with one fell swoop. Does it bother you that I want to administer such care?”
The tears don’t stop as my fingers clutch onto his boots. My sanity snags on the word—administer—like I’m nothing more than a patient seeking treatment. “This is so fucked up. You’re twisted, and I’m mangled. What if I give you everything you want and you leave me?”
He gazes down, gripping the bridge of his nose. “How many times have I told you to trust me?”
“Countless!”
“But you still don’t…”
“I do!”
“But you don’t! Or you would trust that I won’t leave you,” he mumbles, popping his jaw. “And if I told you to leave?”
“You told me to go, and I did,” I report, grasping at anything to save whatever we have left. “You followed me!”
“Only because you were testing how far the extension of your leash would reach. Not me, I know how long my dick is,” he callously quips. “It’s you who needs to flop it out and take a measurement. Look at me! But you were never actually leaving. If you were, you wouldn’t have stopped in Columbia. You wouldn’t have called Selia. You wouldn’t have rolled down your window. You wouldn’t have gotten out of the car. You would’ve gone as fast and as far as you could and never looked back.”
“Is that what you want me to do?”
“No!” He yells, “I want you to give up, dammit.”
“I can’t give up fighting.”
“I want you to fucking admit that you need me—for more than just a pissing contest or a jolly ride on my johnson. You didn’t ever truly want to be attacked either. You wanted to know if you could get out of this, and I’m begging you to consider what you’re asking for before…”
Rocking onto my knees and standing up, I ask, “Before what, J?”
With a glare, he warns, “Don’t turn this into the student teaching the professor.”
“Before you cannot control yourself anymore? Before your discipline gets the best of you and you’re compelled, determined—forced—to violate me in a heinous way which you will never be able to forgive yourself for? Before you break my heart into a thousand pieces because I have fallen for you—the man who lured me in and arguably abducted me? Who is testing who here? Answer me!”
“Run, bitch!” he howls in the shed as the tension snaps. “Run!”
I sprint into the clearing, holding my tethered wrists to my chest, as the fire beckons my eyes. It’s bigger, brighter, better than it was before. The flaring intensity turns the wood into ash without regard.
He wants to burn me.
He wants to burn me down and plant his seed with the hope that he can rebuild me into his perfect little submissive that will surrender to his will and call out his name in the night.
Me—who fought for every little thing and found freedom in the crush of one boy only to lose him in the most horrific of ways. Jynx doesn’t want to fight with me; he wants to fight for me, even if that means his greatest rival is me.
Jynx must singe the me that existed before he came into my world and turned everything upside down. He must flush and cauterize the infected wounds, which won’t ever heal because I keep picking at the scabs with every line I fight to control.
But I won’t do that.
I won’t stop being me.
He won’t break my heart.
He won’t burn my soul.
Because I won’t give him a chance.
I’ll drown in his muddy waters. I will end it. Call the truce. Evacuate the scene. Never look back.
On the damp grass, I pivot to face him. “I ran, Sir.”
“You didn’t get far,” he mentions, walking closer. “You should run farther.”
“But I ran.”
“Stop running, Echo,” he commands, brushing his fingers down my arm. “All you’re doing is running in circles, listening to the reverberations of your own echo. Stop. Running.”
“Is that what I was supposed to do with the boys?”
“I knew you would run,” he says, staring at me. “I just wanted to know what you’d do next.”
“You’re going to hurt me.”
He solemnly vows, “I am. And I will not apologize for my actions. Or being your number one fantasy. But you should go. You should run from me if it means you will stop running from yourself. But I don’t think you are motivated enough to do that, so here we are.”
“The lessons are getting thin.”
“No,” he snickers, lowering his head and peering at me. “My willpower can only last for so long.”
“You want to save me from myself, when I became so independent, but we can’t rewind the clock. We can’t go back there. We’re stuck here and now and left to deal with the shit of the past. You think that you can break me down for another man to reap the reward and eat the fruits of your labor, but what you don’t understand is I won’t want another after you.”
I understand the true meaning of who we are to one another.
A frayed thread bound to split.
His jaw tightens. “Another man? You think there is ever going to be another man after me?”
“I fulfill your destiny; you wanted to take it further outside the bedroom window, stalking her from a distance while your hand did its business. You wanted more. You thought about it. You considered it. You dreamed about it. You fucking fantasized about it. And handcuffs stopped you.”
“They were the only thing that stopped me,” he confides.
With tears in my eyes, I lift my wrists as the silver shines under the moonlight. “Take off the handcuffs, Jeremiah Monroe. Be the criminal you always wanted to be. And give me my wings so I can finally be free.”
“Peacocks only fly when in danger.”
23
Sip. Savor. Devour.
Jynx
Twenty-two.
A damn baby to my grown-ass man.
I question what the fuck I’m thinking.
What right do I have to pursue a long-term relationship with a girl I hardly know? I want to do bad things to her—harmful things. I want to hurt her—mark, stain, and bruise—body, mind, and heart.
Since the incident a week ago with the boys, she’s been staying in her room downstairs. I’m not happy about it. She belongs in my bed beside me, but we’re having a spat.
I was a dick about the boys, but I did it for a reason. She is a loose cannon. If she returns home, I know her ad will go right back up, regardless of what she claims.
Sitting up in bed, I adjust the sheet as the mere thought of her combined with the brush of the fabric draw up a salute from the nether region. I sigh and roll my eyes.
Not tonight, fucker.
It’s been the dead zone for over a week, and I don’t plan on her position altering anytime soon. Stubborn as fuck youth.
With the news on the television, I sign into the Gray Market. I’ve been on the site all week long searching for some relief for a specific problem I’m having, but none of the girls—recorded video or live—can hold a candle to what Miss Thang downstairs does. She doesn’t just spark my imagination; she dances in the blaze and begs for my participation.
My poor unattended dick is spoiled on one.
Traitor.
My cock is a defecting slut for one.
I’m watc
hing some trio of hot girls go at it, bored to tears, and thinking about how I’d find more arousal watching some cheesy romantic film. The girls are forming a triangular daisy chain when a message randomly flashes on my screen.
D4RK4NG3L: Do you know what it feels like to be me?
$T4LK3R: Last time I checked, I’ve never been a 22 yo girl.
D4RK4NG3L: My point exactly. The things you ask of me aren’t easy. I’m constantly worried that I will misstep and do the wrong damn thing.
$T4LK3R: Did you eat?
D4RK4NG3L: Naw, dude :P
I laugh and shake my head, unable to stop smiling. If her two words can elicit this much reaction, I hate to think what a lifetime with her could bring. Dare I say—elation? She’d keep me on my toes, ensuring I stayed young and hip.
Again, not a reason for a relationship, just saying there are additional benefits of dating a youthful menace such as Echo Maines. She’s a social media hound; I prefer sports with real numbers over illusionary likes.
The only thumb I want to give her is up the ass while she’s riding my cock hard.
We’re not even in the same generation—she’s Gen Z, and I’m Gen Y, aka one of those millennial types—that is how bad this is. She’s too young based on the half my age plus seven rule. The youngest I can date and be socially acceptable—25.
I was born a fucking rebel.
Renegade, baby.
$T4LK3R: Are you hungry, kitten?
D4RK4NG3L: Famished. Should I go lap up some milk on the floor?
$T4LK3R: Don’t tempt me, bitch.
$T4LK3R: Sexy lingerie. Kitchen. Sit on the counter.
D4RK4NG3L: Sounds like you’re going to eat me, Pops.
$T4LK3R: You’re wishing, Sugar Tits.
D4RK4NG3L: Is that how we’re playing this?
$T4LK3R: We can play however you want.
D4RK4NG3L: Liar. It’s your way. Your table. Your mastery.
D4RK4NG3L: I’ll spread for hours.
$T4LK3R: Top or bottom?
A long pause causes my concern until the camera turns on. She’s in a sheer pink baby doll showing off every peak and curve. I close my eyes and pound my head against the headboard. “Fuck.”
“Bottom, Sir.”
I immediately regret calling her Sugar Tits.
The imagery is too much for the lower head to handle.
Biting her lip, she narrows in on the camera—at first, focused on the dip of her cleavage—and then she adjusts the angle to her gorgeous smile. “You still wanna feed me?”
$T4LK3R: You’re evil. BRT.
Before leaving the bedroom, I turn on a luminous mix of techno with haunting overlays to broadcast throughout the house. I dim all the lights and pass by the mirror in my black lounge pants. I catch a glimpse of my messy brown curls and blue eyes.
“You’re not a terrible looking schmuck,” I mumble, stroking the week’s worth of growth on my face. “You’re not twenty anymore, though, and she needs more than you can provide.”
I walk down the two flights of stairs to find her exactly where I want—perched on the kitchen counter. My eyebrows arch up as I blissfully sigh and smile.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she whispers, playing demure to the hilt. “I was thinking about laying back and touching myself on your marble countertops.”
“You should be careful.” Opening the fridge, I suggestively remark, “You could slide off with all the moisture gathering between your thighs.”
“What are we having?”
“Crêpes.”
After about ten minutes, she sits cross-legged. “Have you ever had Bánh xèo?”
I furrow my brow and prepare the batter. “No.”
“Vietnamese Sizzling Crêpes,” she says, studying my moves. “There is a really good place that has them at home.”
“Do you need it?”
“What?”
“Home.” I turn on the gas to heat the pan. “The culture.”
“To a certain extent, I do. It’s who I am. I cannot deny my heritage.”
“Does it ever backfire?” I cautiously ask, not wanting to tread. I pour the batter, and it pops in the pan. “You don’t look much different from any other American girl.”
“America is a melting pot, so what does she look like?”
Her epic retaliation renders me speechless for a good minute. “You’re too smart for your own good, Echo.”
“In answer to your question, there aren’t a whole lot of Koreans in Birmingham, but we had family that we routinely visited in San Francisco. When I moved, I easily assimilated after the first week. People are people. It doesn’t matter. They either like you, or they don’t, but part of that is on me. When I chose to live at the apartment complex I am in—which is probably half Asian, I accepted I would have to prove myself, not as a quarter Korean but as a human being.”
Flipping the crêpe, I admit, “You scare me.”
“… Why?”
“Because you don’t back down.”
“I don’t have it in me to be weak,” she honestly whispers. “Weak is for the meek; possess no peak.”
“Where did you get that?”
“My freshman year, I took a creative writing class. I was sixteen, taking college classes, and feeling completely overwhelmed by everything. I decided then to fight for myself, Brandon, and anyone else I deemed worthy. I wanted to prove I could be more than a biker’s daughter, but I was failing half of my classes.”
“I like it,” I say, plating her crêpes. “A lot.”
“My Korean grandmother set a high standard when I was a child. She knew that my family was dysfunctional, and she pushed for me to get out of the mentality that my mother’s neuroses stuck us in. I didn’t want to let her down. I didn’t want to have reached the summit only to stumble, so I decided then that there would never be a pinnacle. I would set the bar, only to keep raising it—higher and higher—until I was done.”
“You compete with yourself.”
“I do,” she happily admits, smiling as I put strawberries inside the crêpe and roll it up. “That’s why I put up the ad—to meet the challenge.”
“And now, you’ve been abducted by a strange man, and you’re eating his fine cuisine.”
“Yes.”
“Is the would-be rapist everything you hoped he would be?”
She takes a bite and stares at me. “No,” she answers, rubbing her lips together. “He’s far more diabolic than I ever dreamed.”
“Open your mouth,” I command an hour later as she lays on the sleek counter blindfolded. I place the tiny piece of frozen fruit in her mouth as the piano solo carries on wistfully. “What is it?”
“Pineapple,” she mumbles, attempting to chew. “It’s so cold.” I press my lips to hers, slurping the juicy nugget from her mouth. “Thank you.”
“You must adjust your mind,” I ease, letting the chill burn my tongue as the sugary acid slides down my throat. “The rest will follow.”
I sip her.
“Don’t move. Don’t grab. Don’t break my flow.”
She mutters, “You’re performing.”
“I am. I always am—every scene, every time, without fail. You will remember the best, and I aim to please.” Lifting the edge of the pink baby doll, I stare at the woman. I long for her to meet my savage. My fingers swoop over her hips and slip her panties off. With much consideration, I place a frozen blueberry on her navel. She gasps, and I grin. “Stay still.”
I set out ten more, in a row, evenly spaced toward her heart as her feet wiggle. “Sorry.”
“Be still.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“Welcome to what you do to me,” I reply, taking a medium frozen strawberry. I gently place the hollowed-out core on her nipple. “Relax. Trust me. The worst that happens is I have a fruit salad on the floor.”
“Jynx,” she says, trying not to giggle. “What are you doing?”
“Something different.”
S
he bites her lip. “But this is…”
“Don’t drop my little blue balls now.” My words cause her laughter, and one blueberry rolls off her belly and plops onto the floor. I replace it with another and cap her other nipple with a strawberry. “This is another form of practice, no different from the rest.” Her lips quiver as her fingers rhythmically extend. “You played the piano.”
“Until college, and I got too busy,” she says with heaving breaths as the attraction heightens. We seize the lust, riding the high until we plunge into the seas with a splash. We will drown together. “How did you know?”
“A guess,” I reply, loosening my pants. “I never played any instruments.”
“I wasn’t very good.”
“But will you be good for me?”
“I will,” she promises, calming her thoughts. I believe in her efforts. I quickly push two decently sized frozen cantaloupe balls inside of her pussy. “Fuck! Fuck!”
“Do you trust me, Echo?”
Her nose crinkles as she broadly smiles. “Yes!”
With a grin, I ask, “Are you good?”
“Besides that, I’m being made into a frozen fruit salad?”
I laugh. “Open wide.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t ask questions,” I reprimand with absolute control. “Just do it.”
Her pastel pink lips part, and I put the small kiwi between them before stepping to the end of the counter and looping my arms under her thighs. I slowly slide her to the edge, as the blueberries roll onto the floor, and run my tongue up her slit. She moans behind the makeshift gag and my cock throbs. I buck uncontrollably, wanting to be inside of her swollen folds. I delicately suck at her tender clit, sweet and succulent.
Fresh fruit—so fucking new.
Her fingers ruffle in my curls and brush over my shoulders as I take her to the edge and stop. I extract the pieces of cantaloupe, lukewarm by her body, and shamelessly enjoy them. I flick the tip of my tongue against her ripened bud, needing so much more than what I can give. She wants to take all of me. But she cannot handle me.
Beautiful Things Evil People Do Page 20