Wicked Steps

by CORY CYR

  Kieran’s arm wrapped around my waist as he drove deeper. Nothing in my life had ever felt as good as this. This wasn’t fucking. This wasn’t sex. I gulped a quiet sob because I was in trouble. Coco had foreseen this.

  His fingers rolled one of my nipples as I arched back into him. His teeth grazed my shoulder as I reached behind me and dug my nails into his ass cheek. My pussy was throbbing, heat coiling deep inside me. He inserted one finger next to his cock, stretching me to capacity while strumming my clit. The pressure was too much. I ached for release. He removed his fingers just as I convulsed and my muscles contracted around his cock. A shriek tore from my lips as my climax ripped through me, leaving my body quivering from my toes to my neck. I trembled from the sensation of complete and utter satisfaction as his rhythm slowed, then stopped.

  He nipped the back of my neck, lingering on the spot for a moment. When he pulled out, I wanted to cry at the loss. Us. Being joined felt natural. I never realized how much I missed this kind of connection until this moment. Because last night was definitely fucking; this—right now—was something else. I didn’t want to define it. Because that would make it a reality, and for a moment, I wanted to bask in pretense.

  “Let’s take a shower. Then I’ll make us pancakes.”

  I laughed. “Pancakes. My turn to ask. You cook?”

  “I said pancakes. That’s not cooking. That’s Bisquick, water, and one egg. Food for the culinary challenged.” He returned my previous laugh with a chuckle.

  “How’d you smuggle Bisquick into France?” I asked.

  “World Wide Web. You can have it shipped for a hefty fee. I lived on biscuits and pancakes for years,” he answered as he got rid of the condom.

  I suddenly realized this was too much. We were having conversation as though we’d always been together. And while it felt normal, it was wrong. This… was wrong. What the hell was I doing? Less than twenty-four hours ago, we were at war. I couldn’t just ignore the past few weeks. There wasn’t a chance in hell I could trust him just because we had sex. Twice.

  Ugh! I wondered now if this was a strategic play on his part. What did this say about the kind of woman I was that I’d not only allowed him in, but I disclosed a part of my life I suppressed for years? That I revealed a part of my body I’d never even showed my best friend. I hated myself because when I was in his presence, I was weak.

  “I think I’ll go to my room and take a bath,” I stated as I grabbed the sheet and tucked it around me. Disappointment framed his face.

  “Want company?” he asked, almost sounding timid in his request.

  I shook my head as I picked up my dress from the floor. “I think it’s better—for both of us—if we think about last night. We might also want to contemplate what’s happening today.”

  I sucked in a breath as he swung his legs out of the bed, standing to his full height, tattooed, pierced, and close enough to reach out and touch. I sighed as he raked his hand through his hair, making it messy. How stunning he was and how perfect his body was. A painting by Jean Baptiste Isabel flashed through my mind. I’d seen it in an exhibition right out of college. I’d wondered if any man would ever live up to that rendition. The answer stood before me. I wished I had the skill to create works of art, because painting him would be my greatest masterpiece.

  “I’ll take a quick shower and meet you for breakfast in about thirty minutes. I promise, just pancakes. Nothing menacing. I’ll even take a bite of yours first,” he quipped, pulling on his pants.

  I nodded as I closed his door behind me. I dropped the sheet when I got to my room. I was more inclined to fall in my bed to sleep than take a bath. Waiting for the tub to fill required more time and effort than I had. I felt exhausted, physically and emotionally. Once it had filled to its capacity and I had more than enough bubbles, I sat.

  God, it felt good. I leaned my head against my bath pillow as I let my foot toy with the faucet. I wanted to suppress last night’s memories, but I couldn’t. I could still feel him inside me. I could smell our combined scent all around me. I could still taste him on my mouth and throat. How had Coco known? Was I so obvious in my intentions that I hadn’t even recognized what would happen?

  We had drawn battle lines weeks ago. He detested me. I loathed him. He was an immature prick with a nasty mouth. I drugged him last night out of retaliation for what he’d done to me. I’d handcuffed him and violated him.

  My groans of shame echoed off the walls. I had acted like Hartman. I used the anger I felt toward him and my life and taken vengeance by defiling his son. I was no different from Kieran. We allowed the pain of our pasts to control the present. I had forced myself on him. I was older and, by all accounts, his stepmother. What had I done?

  We jointly agreed to have sex. But I was sure that agreement didn’t include cuffs and drugs. I could blame him. He started it. Oh my God, that even sounded juvenile to me. But the truth was, since he first touched me, I suppose it was mutual desire. What occurred last night would have eventually happened. We were just perpetuating the inevitable. Now that we had consummated our deal, our business was finished.

  I was such an idiot. Something happened between us, and it wasn’t just about the sex. He had begged forgiveness. He said this wasn’t lust; what he felt for me was need. Sex was one thing, but trust… When he was inside me, he had the ability to make me forget everything he’d done to me prior. His hands tenderly touched and comforted me replacing all the pain I’d suffered at the hands of his father. I couldn’t be so naive as to believe any of this was real.

  He was right about one thing. His father’s blood coursed through his veins. They were of the same stock. I had to remember I trusted Hartman in the beginning. I had feelings for him and let down my guard. Maybe Kieran shared that trait with him. And maybe it was only a matter of time.

  There was no way I would allow myself to live through those kinds of indignities again. I couldn’t survive a second round, especially because this time it was more than just caring. I had let him capture a piece of my heart.

  This situation was twisted. It wouldn’t ruin him; no one knew who he was. He’d go back to Paris well compensated because he’d accomplished his goal. My life would be over. Salacity would become just another dilapidated building that used to show popular works of art. My reputation would be in shambles. I’d have to run and start over. Next year, my mid-thirties would be a thing of the past and I’d be heading toward the big 4-0. What I did last night had long-term ramifications.

  I didn’t know what to do. I felt confused as well as angry. I should have known better. Last night and this morning, that was a fling. We could both satisfy our appetites and go our separate ways. Coco and I would have a prominent gallery, and he could go back to be being Wicked, both in art and actions.

  I tossed the bar of soap at the wall. It hit with a thud as I stood up.

  I deserve both. There. I hadn’t verbalized it, but I was thinking it. I had lived through hell for five years. I was used to standing close to the flame.

  I toweled off my body and stood in front of my full-length mirror. I wished I had kept the piercing. It might have ended up being the only souvenir I had when this merry-go-round stopped.

  Twenty-Six

  Kieran

  She didn’t want me. I could read it in her demeanor. When she hadn’t wanted to share a shower with me, I knew. We’d done too much to each other in a short amount of time. True, I’d done everything possible to incur her hatred. Not exactly an achievement I wished to brag about. I was now afraid I’d sabotaged any chance for me to be with her. I couldn’t even understand what happened. All this time, I loathed her and treated her like trash. I wasn’t supposed to care about her. What happened to her shouldn’t matter. It’s what she deserved. Yet once I heard Ellery’s words and saw the physical scars of what he’d done, everything changed for me. The anger and need for retaliation I had felt before was now replaced with deep regret and outrage. The baggage we both carried was courtesy of my f
ather. Even in death, he was still fucking up my life.

  I showered and was currently raiding the pantry for syrup. I pulled out the maple and set it on the table along with butter. I flipped over four pancakes before I placed them on a plate, then balanced them in the crook of my arm as I carried a pitcher of juice.

  “Need some help?” Her voice startled me. I was glad to see she actually showed up. She looked refreshed in jeans and a sweater. Her face was natural but for a shiny mouth and her hair pulled back in bun.

  “Grab two glasses if you could,” I replied as I set down everything.

  “Looks good,” she said as she handed me my glass and sat down. I had placed our dishes side by side. I hadn’t forgotten the offer to eat from her plate.

  I scooted next to her.

  “As hungry as I am—and trust me; I’m starved—it’s extremely hard to concentrate on pancakes when the chef has no clothes on.”

  I dropped my fork and lifted my brows with a grin. “I have on pants.”

  She took a sip of juice and dotted her lips with a napkin. Just doing that put my dick on high alert.

  “It’s hard to focus when all I can see are tattoos, a muscular chest, a washboard abdomen… and what are those? Oh yeah, nipple bars.”

  “So in other words, I make you wet?” I smiled as I patted my rock-hard abs. “Speaking of nipple bars, what happened to the gold ring I gave you?” I looked at my plate, pretending it was a nonchalant inquiry.

  “I had it removed,” she replied, animosity in her tone.

  Well, no shit. I’d noticed my jewelry wasn’t there the night before but was too afraid to ask for fear my own piercings would be torn from my body. I didn’t probe her to elaborate. It was an immature stunt I shouldn’t have pulled in the first place, at least without her permission.

  “You think I’m aroused because I believe appropriate attire during breakfast should be worn?” She laughed loudly. “To be honest, everything about you makes it hard to pay attention. As beautiful as you are, give a girl a break and put on a shirt. And as long as I’m being brutally honest, you weren’t lying. You are the lord of pancakes. These are really incredible, even though I’m so hungry I would have eaten the box.”

  “No more lies between us, Ellery. That promise began before my declaration of chef de cuisine pancake maker. What I said to you this morning was true. I want you to forgive me because I need you.”

  I knew by her expression her brain was conflicted. And as long as she had doubts, I saw it as an opportunity to change her mind. I’d always gotten what I wanted. I had to fight for very little; it had always been handed to me. I was born with the proverbial silver spoon. Even when my mother and I were exiled to Paris without a true source of income, I was the golden teenager there. My looks carried me. Then came my artistry. The lesson no one had bothered to teach me was sometimes you have to sacrifice one thing in order to get another. That anything worth having is worth fighting for. My mother had gotten sick and died before she could pass on that pivotal message.

  For the first time in twenty-four years, I was going to have to fight. And not out of malice or revenge, but because this woman was the only thing I truly wanted. The only other human being I’d ever cared about was my mother. Our age difference would have been irrelevant to her because she’d always known the ways of her self-absorbed son. She would have been able to see the clarity in my eyes. She would have noticed how my step was lighter because I no longer felt burdened by my past. That somehow Ellery had alleviated so much of the pain that had been slowly consuming me for years. Had my mother lived, I could have shared this significant milestone in my life.

  I pushed away my plate and got up. I quickly went to my room and pulled a shirt over my head, then walked back into the dining room.

  “Better?” I asked, modeling the shirt.

  She examined me carefully. It almost made me uncomfortable the way she was looking. Once I was satisfied she had her fill, I sat down to finish my breakfast.

  “I spoke to Preston while you were upstairs taking a bath. He’s having the updated paperwork sent over by courier later today.”

  Ellery appeared generally shocked. I assumed she thought my pledge was bullshit. Once we both signed it, I prayed my version of a peace offering would be enough for her to believe I was vowing the truth.

  “I wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.”

  “Okay, admit it. You thought I’d reneged on what I said last night.” I drank the last of my juice as I swallowed my pancake.

  “I didn’t really know. People say a lot of things when they’re in the throes of passion.”

  “We were in the throes, really and truly. I guess I am a master, then, because I was able to conduct business with just one hand. I’m magnificent,” I quipped.

  “Whatever—you know what I mean,” she said as she smacked me with her hand.

  With a quick reflex, I grabbed it and held it. It was warm and soft. I pulled her close to me and brushed her lips against mine. I teased until she opened slightly and I was able to delve inside. Our tongues entwined as I continued to explore every inch. I wanted it to be slow and lazy. The taste of her on my mouth made my cock perk up and take interest. Our breathing became labored as I broke away.

  “It’s quite a challenge to just kiss, because when I do, every nerve in my body wants to fuck you. Yeah, basically, I’m in the throes of passion whenever I’m around you.” I snickered as I collected our plates.

  She laughed loudly, then sucker punched me in the stomach. “Jesus, I’m sorry I even said that. You’ll never hear that from me again.”

  She followed me in the kitchen, carrying the silverware and glasses. Once the dishwasher was loaded, we retired to the den. She had mentioned watching a movie in the home theatre. I suggested going out. She squashed that idea immediately. I doubted we’d ever have a public appearance together. I knew what she was thinking. She was terrified what the press would think if they found out about us. It wouldn’t matter if it were Kieran Wick or the artist Wicked; both would have social tongues wagging. I understood her reasons, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I’d spent many years hiding behind a confidential persona because I wanted to, but this felt different. I didn’t want to be a secret she swept under a rug.

  I could tell she was tired. I didn’t want her staying awake because she thought I needed company. “You look worn out. I won’t be offended if you want to go take a nap. I’ll hang out down here and wait for our delivery.”

  She began to pad toward the stairs. “If you’re sure. I thought a bath and food would wake me up me, but I’m more exhausted now than before.” She yawned.

  “I’ll see you later.” I prodded her up the stairs.

  Once I heard her door close, I rushed to my makeshift studio. I wanted to work on her full-body portrait. I had many more features to add now. I decided oils weren’t right for it. What I really wanted to do was a pencil and chalk drawing. I hadn’t done one in seven years. But Ellery inspired me. I was obligated to draw her. The shape of her face and body were exquisite.

  I stared at the outline I’d sketched earlier. It was all wrong. I’d used a photograph of her and my father. The lips were incorrect, along with the eyes. Capturing true, defined beauty was difficult because it took an actual vision. My erotic art was in my head; it didn’t take the work required to paint realism.

  I gathered my pad and some other supplies. I wanted to wait until she fell asleep. I wanted her relaxed and unaware. This would be the most important piece I’d ever painted because it might end up being the only memento I’d have after she left me.

  Twenty-Seven

  Ellery

  I woke up to a constant scratching. I’d been hearing it for the last twenty minutes. I kept my eyes closed, hoping whatever it was would go away.

  My body became aware he was close as his scent filled the room. I blinked several times before focusing on him. He had stretched out on my day lounge, still in sweats. He’d removed his sh
irt again and tossed it on the floor, along with assorted art supplies. He was wearing thick-framed glasses as he worked, making him look like some Ivy League professor. Sex education no doubt. His fingertips were blackened from what I assumed was charcoal. Whatever the drawing was, it captured his attention intensely. The sound I heard was him furiously sketching.

  His prominent green eyes caught mine and flashed me a wink. “Did I wake you?” he asked, still rubbing and drawing.

  I yawned and stretched out my toes on my bed. “I thought I had mice. That constant scratching.” I laughed.

  “Nope, just me, Wicked the artist, working on my next chef d’oeuvre.”

  “So I am your subject for this masterpiece?”

  He put down his pencil and removed his glasses. “You speak French? I never knew that.”

  I sat up and placed two pillows behind me for support. “We never talked, Kieran. We just battled.” I stopped and let my eyes appraise him. I wished I had talent, because drawing something as gorgeous as him would be my greatest achievement. “I’m not fluent. I took French and German in college, hoping it would help me get by if I ever had the chance to go abroad and visit all the art museums. But that never happened. It was just another pipedream of mine.”

  “You should come to Paris. The city would love you. The galleries are the best in the world.”

  I stayed mute because I had no idea how to respond to that remark. Was he alluding to me going home with him, or had it just been a blanket statement?

  “What have you been drawing?”

  “You. Your face intrigued me the first night. And now I’m thinking I want to paint your entire body. Although, I’m not sure I’ll be able to portray your spirit one hundred percent.”