Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  And then even that isn’t enough. My eyes open, boldly drinking him in. His cock is thickened steel. His eyes are an inferno; I swear I can even see sparks of orange mingling with the bright blue flames now. Less than a foot apart, we watch each other. We touch ourselves. Daring. Taunting. Drips of silvery fluid weep from the tip of his cock when I finally crook a thumb and force it inside of me.

  My bloody fingers aren’t enough to smother a cry. I have to bite the inside of my cheek and choke down a gasp while my hips buck, unsatisfied by the partial fullness. With a terrible sense of desperation, I know that I’d have to use my whole hand to mimic the fullness of his cock—and even that would be a poor imitation. It’s like the bastard reads my mind. He grits out a broken sound and gives up, his hands falling open at his sides, his stance predatory. I’m still stroking sensitive bundles of flesh when he approaches and gathers up the material of my sweater in both hands. One harsh yank and the wool parts, revealing my breasts, already swelling, aching for his touch.

  Lucifer is a cruel tormentor. He stands there and merely waits for me to arch my spine, presenting myself to him. He doesn’t touch me until I do, and only then it’s to drag a thumb over one nipple, clenching his jaw at the sharpness. My fingers cease their maddening circles—it’s oddly more satisfying to watch him. To see him devour my body through his vision alone. He shows me no mercy, the same demonic creature he’d been in the ring, searching out every weakness to exploit. He finds one in the letters of Vinny’s brand, and he vandalizes the mark with a single, bloodied handprint that presses me back against the wall of the stall.

  His finger returns to my nipple, teasing it into a throbbing point before he turns to the other and gives it the same brutal, lavish attention. Then he tugs on my hips, spinning me around until I have no choice but to brace both palms against the frosted glass while he muscles in behind me.

  He doesn’t bother to be gentle with the first thrust. He slams into me, forcing my hands to inch higher and higher above my head, leaving a bloody streak that dribbles down while he pulls back and enters me again. Again. More. He doesn’t stop until he’s in to the hilt, his balls slapping the backs of my thighs with the final harsh jerk of his hips.

  Then, the devil switches tactics, and he goes slow, consuming me in tendrils of hellfire that lick at my spine. Back and forth. Harsher. Slower. Like a true sadist, he takes time to build up friction that I can taste as each carnal sensation ricochets through me, drawing out whimpers from my lips. Heat. Hot. Fire. My nails rake the glass, my breasts swaying with the steady rhythm, my body at his mercy.

  He counters every hit he took in the cage by grinding himself into me, making sure I feel every ridge, every ribbed curve of his cock. I did this for you. I shift, sore and greedy. I’ll remember every inch of him no matter what happens the moment we leave this stall. I let him fuck his victory into me. I wait until he grits out curses and increases his pace. Then I move, letting myself fall back, forcing him deeper. Harder. Faster.

  My mind drifts. I’m higher than I could ever reach with only a narcotic. I’m in the heaven that kicked him out, floating high above the hell that Vinny made of my life. Every harsh, brutal thrust takes me even higher...higher still.

  But the stall is too small. He’s too big. His body is forced to bend over mine to find the right leverage, and he slips out so suddenly I can’t silence a whine. Panting with lust, he’s clumsy when he palms his cock and tries to dive back in. The head of his cock bats between my legs, but when he starts to thrust, it’s against the wrong opening, and my body clenches against him.

  I cling to the stall, panting. Even Vinny never touched me there. It was the one part of me he never seemed interested in claiming—not even on the women he forced me to watch him violate. Lucifer’s presence inspires an entirely new fear. And I want him to vanquish it.

  “N-No,” I choke out when he starts to head lower instead. “Here.” I take one hand from the wall and reach back, dragging his hand back up...

  He stiffens. “F-Fuck...fuck no!” He jerks back, horror flashing through his eyes. He’s disgusted. He’s...terrified, but it’s a fear that I know well.

  My fingers shake when I reach for him and grasp the tip of his softening cock. He doesn’t resist when I ease him closer, stroking the head with sloppy, unsteady motions of my thumb.

  “Please.” My voice rings stronger than I’ve ever heard it—at least not since I’d been a girl of eight telling a cruel bully to go fuck himself. “Please. I need...I need you...”

  It’s too sick of a request to put into words. Too selfish. I need him to claim me in a way that even Vinny wouldn’t. I need him to rip me open and leave his mark on the ruined flesh. I need.

  But it’s only when the fear clouds his eyes that I remember what he’d told me when he thought I’d be too disoriented to remember. He fucked me like an animal. Something inside me breaks. My heart? Scarred and battered, it cracks open, and something slithers out, directed at him. Understanding? A fallen angel can only relate to another cast-down creature, after all. I may not have been an angel—merely a lost soul—but the fires of hell had burned us both.

  “Please...”

  Staring down at my still stroking fingers, Lucifer’s gaze darkens, fire and brimstone spilling out. “No lube,” he grits out, but apparently, he’s already thought of another makeshift substitute. Batting my touch away, he grips himself with his bloodied palm, painting himself with the result of the promise he’d swore he’d never make. His eyes meet mine, devoid of any compassion. He won’t make this easy. This will hurt.

  But I don’t look away from him. I don’t grit my teeth and brace myself. I’m panting even before he finally eases the head of himself against me, testing the give of my body. One thrust and he can only ease the tip of himself inside, but he groans, his head shooting back against his shoulders. Pleasure thickens each beautiful sound that spills from his throat, enticing the heat building within me to burn even hotter. Two more thrusts and he’s forced an inch. Then he bucks, sinking deeper, thrusting harder. My body resists, fights...spreads...surrenders.

  “Oh God.” I rock into the invasion, blinking back the tears that blur my vision. “F-Fuck. Jesus. Fuck!” My voice breaks, echoing off the walls, and then I can only moan when he sinks in fully. My body is on fire with the aftermath of every searing thrust. It’s too tight a fit. Too much. He’s too deep. Too big. Too hard. Too perfect.

  I lose my voice when he starts to thrust in earnest. Bitter...burning...electric. The vicious friction makes it too hard to watch him. I have to brace both hands against the wall and press my cheek against the glass instead. His gaze burns the back of my neck. His blood paints my skin. His groans form a melody more haunting than Bach. I could never recreate it on my cello no matter how many combinations of strings I played. I’ll have to rely on memory...

  So, I struggle to remember everything about the way he feels inside me, consuming me from the inside out. It’s too hard. My thoughts scatter as my head lolls, drunk on him. It’s only when he thrusts deep one last time that I realize the words leaving my throat are more than just inane nonsense. It’s a name. “Dante. Dante...”

  His growl drowns me out, and then I’m flooded with his release. I feel it drip down my legs when he finally eases himself out of me, panting. He almost seems drunk as he staggers back against the wall of the stall, rattling the glass in its frame.

  Boneless, I sink to my knees, my body aching, throbbing, burning and my heart bleeding and gaping. I’m not sure which feels more assaulted. More violated. I’m even less sure which pain frightens me the most.

  I wait for him to leave me there, but when I finally hear him move, I don’t expect the grip on my forearm that yanks me upright. My strength is no match for his, and he pins me easily against the wall. Murder is written in his eyes, and I can’t fight when he lowers his head, his mouth crushing mine. He shoves his tongue inside me, forcing me to react and push him back with my own. Within seconds...I don’t kno
w what’s happening. Vinny only ever kissed me on the cheek or closed mouth. Never like this. I never wanted him to kiss me like this. Hungry, violent, brutal—even harsher than the sex. He bites my lower lip until it bleeds, then he steals the droplets away and swallows them down.

  I’m dizzy when he finally does pull away, dragging his pants up, and storms out of the shower, and then the bathroom...eventually the small apartment all together. The building trembles with the force when he slams the door shut.

  Left alone, I can only trace my lips with my fingers and wonder why the hell the assault of his mouth pierces me deeper than the sensation of his cock. A beast could fuck anyone.

  But not just anyone could get close enough to wound one...

  Fuck her.

  Rain glances off my back as I circle the garage and head straight for the perimeter. Mack’s guard dogs must still be asleep this early; there’s no one to block my path when I reach the woods surrounding the property. There’s no one there to get in my fucking way, either. No one to punch.

  When my vision bleeds red, I improvise and pick a tree, punching until the bark rips at my knuckles. Splinters of wood chip off and go flying, but I don’t let up until I’m shouting with every goddamn blow. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-Fuck!” I slam my fist against the tree one last time and hear something crack. A bone? A branch? My fucking sanity?

  Whatever it is, I don’t give a shit. The loss of it doesn’t erase the memory of her. Her skin. Her heat. Her fucking wet cunt. The tighter feel of her channel...

  It’s not enough to just punch. I tear until my fucking nails are shredded, and all I see is goddamn red. The buzzing roars through my ears, but even it isn’t loud enough to drown out her voice.

  I need you. Please. I need you.

  How fucking cute; she needed to be fucked in the ass. The little princess loved having a dirty, naughty criminal violate her in ways even her crime lord of a fiancé wouldn’t—because of course, that fucker had to be the reason why she wanted it.

  I could stomach being used if she’d sobbed like a little bitch the way I had—but not how she looked at me...hungry, full, desperate, needy. Fuck her. I could have, too. I could have draped the little bitch in my cum and sent her to Stacatto just like that...

  But the bastard hadn’t been on her mind when I sank into her to the hilt. I’d seen her eyes. Seen into her. His name hadn’t come from her lips...and I would make her pay for that.

  “Fuck her...” My voice isn’t hard enough. Angry enough. I need to feel the anger. I need to erase her taste from my mouth, and I spit her out, grinding the evidence into the earth with my bare fucking foot.

  It’s still not enough. My cock still drips with her—throbs for her—and it’s a good thing I’d left the knife behind because nothing would stop me from sawing the fucker off. Now, more than ever, I crave the violence of the cage. I should find Mack and demand a rematch. I need to crush, tear, and bite. I need to...

  Fuck her.

  Yes, a sick fucking part of me agrees. Fuck her. Taste her. Claim her. Mount her. Take her again. Make her scream...

  “Dante?”

  The voice sinks through the scarlet haze like a hook. Shit. I blink until the forest regains its natural hues of brown and green, but one splotch of color doesn’t belong. Darcy stands only a few yards away from me, pale and slender between two trees.

  In the distance, I can make out the garage. I hadn’t gone far. “Dante?” Irritated I drag my gaze back to Darcy. Her eyes widen as they trail over my chest, taking in the bruises and blood.

  “Stay away from me,” I tell her before she can even take a step closer.

  “Dante, your hands—”

  They’re shredded, but I curl them into fists, ignoring the pain. “What do you want?” Darcy flinches at my tone, and I finally notice the gray duffle she carries slung over one shoulder.

  “I...I brought her some clothes. You too.”

  Clothes. With a harsh sigh, I run a hand through my hair, feeling the raw skin protest. “Give them to me.” I stalk forward and snatch for the straps. The bag feels light when I swing it against my back and head for the garage. Darcy follows, but I don’t send her away—her silent questions pelt my skin though.

  I don’t offer any explanation by the time I wrench open the door to the garage. I need to be numb. I need to be smart. Mack’s original plan was sounding more plausible by the second: the sooner the bitch went back to Stacatto in pieces, the better. I picture it as I mount the stairs and barrel straight for the bathroom. The little bitch beat me to the punch, however. While I’d been gone, she managed to wrestle the sliding door in place. When I pull on the handle, it rattles but won’t budge. She locked it.

  The simple act drains me of rage, and I wind up laughing while Darcy watches. I hear the shower running, and I can almost taste the steam as Stacatto’s whore washes all traces of me away. Knowing that I stand there must make her scrub a little harder, curled up in the corner of the stall.

  I laugh again, and then I toss the duffle against the wall so hard that something inside it cracks.

  “There was... I packed some d-deodorant,” Darcy suspects, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t move to pick it up. She keeps her distance, and there’s less shock in her gaze than I’d originally thought. Living with Mack must have made her immune to a bastard’s temper by now.

  “I...I’m going to make you some breakfast,” she says. Before I can protest she wiggles her way past me and rummages through the cupboards in the kitchen. She must spend enough time in the place to keep it stocked with food. There are eggs in the fridge and a carton of milk. In the cupboards, she finds a box of pancake mix and sets to work with an ease that betrays a mothering instinct she’d had even five years ago.

  She may have changed the man in her bed, but underneath she was still the same Darcy. I don’t like how much comfort a twisted part of me takes from that. In the end, I approach the couch and sit down, eyeing my torn, bleeding hands. I’ve even tracked blood across the tan carpet, scarlet-tinged footprints.

  “I can bandage you up when I finish,” Darcy offers without glancing up from her work at the stove. “Mack keeps first-aid kits under the sink.”

  I don’t answer. It doesn’t seem to matter whether I bleed now or later. Arno wanted a war, and well, he was about to get one, courtesy of the bitch who scurries from the bathroom wearing the jeans I bought her and a ripped sweater, held together by two pale hands.

  Darcy swallows hard when she sees her; a shower could only erase some of the blood. Her lip still bleeds, painting her chin in fresh droplets of it, but her princess mask is firmly in place again. She doesn’t look at me once, not even when she has to face in my direction to see the duffle Darcy points out to her.

  “I...I brought you some clothes.”

  Clothes. The word takes a minute to register. Once it does, she nods and stoops for the bag before scurrying into the bedroom. The door slams shut behind her, and I hear the lock engage once again.

  “Look...” Darcy pauses, an egg in one hand and a spatula in the other. She doesn’t look up right away, but I know her eyes are the color of steel. “I may know about Mack’s...business, but there are rules. I don’t allow it. Not around me.” She’s implying something. Hinting at it. “I don’t know who that woman is, but if you’re hurting her...”

  “I’m not.”

  She glances up and holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary. Then she nods just once. “Okay then.”

  I say nothing else while she scrapes food from the pan and eventually hands me a plate of scrambled eggs and pancakes. I eat with my hands, ignoring the gritty taste of dirt and salt. When I’m done, I stand and reach past Darcy to dump my plate in the sink just as the bedroom door opens and Stacatto’s woman finally tiptoes out of it.

  Darcy must have given her the plain, white shirt with long sleeves that reach her fingertips, hiding the cut in her palm. She wears the jeans I gave her, but there are socks on her feet and a pair of baby blue sn
eakers that fit her better than the boots did. She’s pulled her hair back as well, but the style only serves to reveal the mess of her ear. I don’t miss the way Darcy’s eyes cut over to me when she notices.

  I ignore her as I push my way past the woman scrambling against the doorjamb to enter the bedroom. Inside the duffle, I find a few men’s tee shirts and jeans. I grab one of each and enter the bathroom, where I take my turn washing the bitch off my skin.

  Twenty minutes later, I return to the main room of the apartment to find her and Darcy watching each other. If they spoke at all, they apparently didn’t have much to say. Neither woman’s gaze reveals anything when they turn to watch me shove my feet into my boots and head for the door. Before descending the stairs, I glance back at Darcy, my voice cold, my temper honed and ready. “Take me to Mack.”

  The bastard is in the bar again. Like Arno, he seems to enjoy rising before the ass crack of dawn, but he apparently isn’t as fond of sampling his own merchandise. He nurses a glass of water instead and a handful of what I assume is beef jerky, the package resting on the bar in front of him. Arno sits on the stool closest to the wall. He may have come crawling to Mack, but he has enough sense to always guard his back, at least.

  Mack always did like sticking his knives there, after all.

  “Eh, Kitty!” The bastard tears off a chunk of meat with his teeth and noisily washes it down with a chug of the water. “Out of your litter box so soon? I gave you a day.” His eyes narrow in suspicion even as he flashes a grin. “I expected you to let me sweat it out down to the last fucking hour.”