Dishonored

by Bethany-Kris

  Yeah, that was quite enough of that shit.

  Caesar tightened the wire again, and instantly shut the man up. He looked to Aria with a sardonic smile. “My ears don’t care to listen to it, really.”

  Aria wasn’t paying him any mind. She was too busy staring down at her bleeding husband as she came closer. The front of his blazer and silk shirt were soaked in a morbid red from his raw throat. That wire could really do a number on someone.

  She crouched down enough to be at eye level with Raffe, and yet, still managed to somehow look graceful doing it.

  She really was something else.

  “I promised you, didn’t I?”

  Raffe glared.

  Aria smiled. “I did promise you, Raffe. I promised to kill you—after you raped me that first time on our wedding night, I told you this would happen. Don’t you remember? I had those diamonds on my neck that you gave me as a gift, and my blood on my thighs. You couldn’t even be bothered to take your pants off all the way. You didn’t even give me a chance to say yes, not when you just wanted me to say no. And you laughed at me when I told you I was going to kill you for doing that to me. You laughed.”

  She did exactly that, then; a dark, bitter laugh escaped her lips, and she looked like the devil rising with her narrowed eyes, and white teeth flashing in her cold smile. She looked like pain and hell was about to come for the man standing in front of her, and Caesar was most grateful to not be in her way in that moment.

  “You laughed at me while you still had my blood on your cock,” Aria murmured, still as cold as ever even as she outed Raffe’s torment against her. “I promised this day was going to come—I always keep my promises.”

  All throughout Aria’s tirade, Raffe had continued to struggle against Caesar’s hold despite how fucking useless it was. Cain had triple wrapped those ropes around the man’s ankles and wrists. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Glancing down at Raffe, he found the man’s face had turned a molten red with his rage and lack of oxygen. Caesar loosened his hold just enough to let the man breathe a bit better, but not enough for him to speak very damn well.

  Not that he didn’t try.

  Sadly.

  “Whore,” Raffe hissed.

  Aria cocked a brow. “I guess so, yes. I did enjoy myself throughout this whole thing—managed to find a man who could actually make me come.”

  Caesar grinned, and bent over Raffe so the man could see him pointing at himself. “That’d be me, yeah?”

  Rage stared back at Caesar.

  It barely even stung.

  He couldn’t help himself but taunt the man further. Aria had wanted to make it hurt, after all. How much worse could it get for a man than to have every ounce of his pride stripped away by the man who had fucked your wife again and again?

  “And,” Caesar said, tugging his tie away from his neck to use it as a makeshift gag for Raffe, “she comes like a dream when she wants it—begs like an angel. Have you ever tasted her after she’s been sucking on your cock, and her lips are swollen and hot? Fuck, it’s like candy.”

  Tightening that tie hard around Raffe’s head, Caesar moved in front of the man, and bent down to be at eye-level with him when Aria stepped back. “She gets tart and hot and sweet. It coats your tongue, and you just want to hear her fucking scream for you. She likes it best when you bend her over, and pin her down. But she’ll really fucking holler if you—”

  Raffe jerked forward in the chair.

  Caesar didn’t even flinch—no, he laughed. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going to go, huh?”

  He smacked the man’s leg with his closed fist.

  “You’re stuck here, fucker,” he added. “Back to that vicious wife of yours, though. Bet you’ve never got a taste of her from behind, have you? Spread open like a buffet, and shaking while she begs you to stick a finger or two up her ass. Christ, she’ll really shout for that. And damn, when you choke her …”

  Caesar trailed off with a husky noise, and a shake of his head. “That’s when she gets really wild. That’s when she’ll do just about anything for you. That’s when her skin gets soft, and hot, and her pussy gets as wet as a fucking lake. It almost feels like she’s squeezing your dick so hard, it’s going to break off. But you just keep choking and fucking her because that’s what she wants—except you don’t know that at all, do you? You don’t know the kind of woman you had in your bed. Shame, really.”

  Behind his gag, Raffe shouted and mumbled unintelligible words. Caesar had a mind to tear off the man’s gag just to hear his shame and horror—even if the fucker would only try to hide it by cursing and raging—but Aria stopped him with one simple question.

  One question that made his dick hard.

  That killed him instantly.

  That drove him crazy.

  “Want to see, Raffe?”

  Sweet.

  Hot.

  And yes, vicious.

  Caesar grinned at the widening of Raffe’s eyes, and the way the man’s struggles stilled at the seemingly innocent question. And then she asked it again.

  “Do you want to see what you’ve missed?”

  “Yes, do you want to see how I can make your wife come with just my fingers, and then how good she looks while she rides my cock?”

  Because fuck yeah, he was up for that.

  All of that.

  Raffe shook his head wildly, and behind the gag, Caesar could still hear the man refusing. No, no, no. A chant of his refusals that fell on deaf ears—refusals that mixed in with Raffe’s desperate, muffled laughter.

  Not because he was amused, no.

  But because he was stunned.

  Because he was horrified.

  And disgusted.

  Good.

  That’s what he should be.

  Standing straight, Caesar said, “I bet this wasn’t how you expected this night to go down, was it? Yeah, your wife has been surprising me since the moment I saw her sitting in that club.”

  Caesar moved to stand beside Aria at the table, but she still didn’t look away from Raffe. There was something in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe. Relief, no doubt. Maybe she felt like it was almost over, and that’s what it was.

  He didn’t know.

  Caesar flashed his hand at Raffe a second before he grazed the back of Aria’s bare upper thigh where the skirt of her dress came to rest. “I like these dresses she wears,” he told the man, “because it’s easy access.”

  And just like that, Caesar’s hand was up Aria’s skirt, and he slipped between her thighs. He stroked the curve of her ass first, and then let his knuckles graze her sex overtop the silk panties she wore. She shuddered, and her hands curved tightly around the edge of the table to keep steady, but other than that, she didn’t move.

  Already, he could feel she was hot, and damp.

  “This got you wet?” he asked.

  Aria shrugged, still staring at the stunned man a few feet away. “Doesn’t it make you a little hot?”

  “Well, to be fair, a lot of things do that for me.”

  Finally, she took her gaze away from Raffe to peer up at Caesar. Her red lips curved into a sensual, sexy smile as she said, “You do that for me.”

  She could have said that for Raffe.

  To piss him off.

  To irk him more.

  To make this worse.

  Except she hadn’t—Caesar could hear it in her voice, and see it in the way she stared at him unashamed, and trusting. She said it for him, and no one else.

  Raffe didn’t like that if the way he jerked forward in the chair was any indication. He damn near toppled it over, and his eyes blazed.

  “Careful,” Caesar said, barely passing the man a glance, “or you’ll fall over, and have a terrible seat for the show.”

  Aria’s teeth cut into her bottom lip, and she grinned when Caesar let two of his fingers slide beneath the gusset of her panties and thrust into her pussy. />
  “Tight, hot, and soaked,” he murmured. “Show him, bella donna. Show him how wet you are, and how much your pussy likes this.”

  Aria used one hand to pull up her skirt while the other kept her balanced against the table. She tipped her head back, and let out one of those sweet moans he adored so much while his fingers kept working in and out of her sex. It was the sound of her pussy sucking in his fingers that he liked the very most—wet flesh, and that scent.

  So distinctly her.

  He didn’t need to check on Raffe to know the man was watching—how could he not when his wife was just feet away being finger-fucked by another man?

  How could he do anything else but watch?

  No, Caesar’s attention was all on Aria, now. Like it usually was when he had her breathless, spun, and ready to come for him. Nothing else mattered to him in those moments; only the need to feel her.

  “Talk,” Caesar ordered, his voice dipping into a lower octave. “Tell me, love.”

  Aria’s green eyes flew wide to find Caesar was slightly bent over her, and staring down at her. He found lust there—swirling in those irises, and blowing her pupils wide. He could feel her orgasm coming in the way her pussy clenched around his fingers as he massaged her G-spot, but he could see it in her eyes, too.

  Needy.

  High.

  So ready.

  “Talk,” he urged.

  “It’s so good,” she whispered.

  “Do you want more?”

  “Please.”

  It was always the sound of her begging that undid him—a simple, single word that could rip away his control. As much as he loved the look of degradation on a woman, he needed to hear this far more.

  Fast as lightning, his hand came up, and clenched around her throat. Aria sucked in one fast breath, and let out a moan that echoed when he pushed her back to the table, and pinned her there. His fingers stroked deeper, then. They pressed firmer into her G-spot with knowing precision—she was going to come hard.

  “You’ll be so fucking slick for me. Tight as hell when I fill you up, Aria. Don’t you want that?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  The noise a few feet away picked up. More refusals. More rage. More movement. Caesar only laughed because what did it matter now?

  What done was done.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he found the red-faced, humiliated man still stuck staring at the show in front of him.

  “See this?” Caesar asked, grinning. “This is what gets her off—wait until I squeeze that pretty throat a little tighter, and you’ll love the way she screams my name.” Aria trembled; her legs widened a bit more for him, and her pussy clamped down hard around his fingers. There it is. “And if you treat her just right, then you’ll learn to love to make her—” Caesar cocked a brow, and his gaze cut back to Aria as he added, “Come.”

  And she did.

  Loudly.

  Shaking.

  Beautiful.

  “Caesar.”

  Her shout reverberated in the room—a breathless, high cry that came off entirely broken, but blissed just the same. He could have stayed like that forever; enjoying the sight of her with her skirt pulled up, and her pussy on display with his wet fingers buried knuckle deep inside.

  But no.

  Now, he needed what he wanted.

  Pulling his hand from between her legs, Caesar made quick work of yanking her away from the table, and pushing it sideways. Aria moved for him, then, bending over the table so that she faced her husband while he moved in behind her, and spread her legs wide with two slaps of his hands. She was still shaking—her juices slicked down her thighs.

  He pulled those panties of hers down just enough to give him access, and then he worked his own pants down over his hips. His length throbbed in his hand, already too fucking hard, and almost painful.

  He stroked the head of his cock from the crack of her backside, down to her sex. That first thrust was hard, but he found heaven there, too. Damn—he’d been right. So fucking wet, hot, and tight around him.

  Like velvet.

  And fire.

  Perfect, really.

  “Jesus Christ,” Caesar grunted.

  Aria’s fingers gripped tight to the edge of the table when he pulled out, and thrust right back in. Hard enough to send her flying up on her toes in those goddamn heels. Fuck-me-heels. They lifted her just enough for him to bend her over and fuck her anywhere.

  He was starting to think he wanted to do that forever.

  How could he not?

  “Don’t fucking look away,” he heard Aria hiss suddenly. “I’m the whore, Raffe. Remember? Watch your whore, then.”

  Damn.

  She’d already come, and Caesar could tell this time, it wasn’t about her coming at all. She just wanted the man who hurt her to see what he didn’t have—what he had never been given from her. Even as Caesar’s pace became faster, and more brutal, she only begged for more, and urged him on.

  Christ.

  This woman …

  This woman would kill him.

  Hurt him.

  Defile him.

  And he would let her.

  Caesar felt that telltale heat in his gut, and the tightening in his balls. It shot to his spine a second before he grabbed tight to Aria’s hips and held her there, so he could come as deep as he could get inside her pussy. Though he thought she wouldn’t come again, she did in that moment. Softer than before, and with quieter, yet deeper moans—she came with a sob.

  The relief was sweet.

  But short.

  They had other business, now.

  Hadn’t they played enough?

  “End him,” she whispered, still shaking.

  He didn’t ask if she was sure.

  Not if she wanted to do it.

  None of it.

  Caesar pulled away from Aria, and tucked himself back into his pants. He moved behind a struggling Raffe as Aria rounded the table. Her skirt was still pulled high, and she kicked those panties away.

  Her hand snaked between her thighs where Caesar’s come was starting to leak from her cunt. She swiped her fingertips through her pussy as Caesar grabbed hold of the razor wire again, and pulled tight.

  Aria kneeled down, and with his come on her fingertips and her gaze cold, she looked like retribution in the flesh.

  Raffle turned red.

  His air was gone.

  “I’ll see you in hell, Raffe,” she said.

  Hell was the only thing that was promised for people like them.

  “Your father has been notified,” Cain said from the doorway.

  Caesar passed his friend a look, and then nodded. “Thanks, man.”

  “We’ll have to move again. Get her back to the mansion like your father wants.”

  Aria looked to Caesar, but he didn’t have anything to say. At least, not yet. This hadn’t been a part of the plan that he let her in on. Frankly, this wasn’t his plan to begin with. This was something Angelo demanded.

  “Close the door on your way out,” Caesar ordered.

  “All right.”

  Then, Cain was gone.

  Caesar moved to the wet bar the second they were alone, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He sipped on it while Aria watched him from the foot of the bed in that way of hers. She was still simmering—still thinking too much.

  About him.

  About his secrets.

  About everything.

  He could tell just by the way she looked at him. He knew that meant she cared—and fuck him, because he’d never had somebody actually give a shit before. They were either too stuck in their own problems to notice he was drowning, or it was inconvenient for them to acknowledge there was a reason why he was the way he was.

  That someone did this to him.

  “Say it again,” he said suddenly. “That I can tell you, or talk to you about anything. Tell me you won’t use this for
something, and—”

  “You can. And I won’t.”

  Yeah.

  He knew that.

  Somehow.

  “It started when I was seven,” he said quietly, staring down into the amber liquid. “And it continued until just shortly before my sixteenth birthday.”

  Aria cleared her throat, but he refused to look at her. “That long?”

  “Probably would have been longer, but uh, I had a bit more freedom by then and learned how to avoid her as much as I could.”

  “Oh.”

  He was grateful she didn’t apologize again.

  Why should she?

  “My father married my mother because she wanted to; he loved her,” Caesar said, smiling a bit, “and then she died, so he had to marry again. For his status, and because he had a four year old that apparently needed a mother. He was too busy to notice anything—too busy with his own issues and problems. Still grieving a wife, and trying to do as little as possible with the problematic cunt he married because someone told him he had to. I think that’s why she first started to mess with me; it was a way to get closer to him. Angelo paid more attention to me than he did her.”

  “Jealousy,” Aria filled in.

  Caesar shrugged. “Call it that if you want, I guess. Martina came to him already fucked up. Already had a drinking problem; she even drank when she was pregnant, but she thought nobody noticed. It started with little things. She’d come into the bathroom when I was taking a shower, or walking in on me when I was getting dressed. But she was supposed to be taking care of me, so even though I felt awkward, I didn’t know the difference when she started doing other things. And then she’d start coming into my room at night when she was drunk, and …”

  His jaw clenched tight; like his hand around the glass he was holding. “When I was younger, well, it just made me ashamed. What was I supposed to tell people—that my step-mother was telling me this was how you felt good? That she made me touch her? And then when I was older …” He let out a bitter laugh, and shook his head. “Someone rubs on you, and you get fucking hard. You can’t control it, even if you don’t fucking want it. She used that shit a lot, too.

  “All of it,” he added, “was just another way for her to hurt my father, I think. Because the more I distanced myself, and worse I became with my behavior or toward him … the happier she seemed to be. She used sex to hurt him, and in turn, I just wanted to hurt everybody else. I wanted them to feel even a little bit of what I felt like because they didn’t know or help me.”