by K. L. Savage
“I fucking love you,” he snarls into my mouth.
And to be the woman that’s somehow earned this man’s love, a man that had no idea he was capable of it makes me feel like one in a million.
Who am I kidding?
Tongue and I are one in a million.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m too rough with Daphne, my bright rare comet. I tend to lose control with her sometimes. Lose my sense of mind. But then I see the dazed look in her eyes whenever we have sex, and I know I could never lose my way with her, because she’s meant to be mine. She’s meant to love whatever we do together because she was made for me.
I’m dangerously obsessed with this woman. She has no idea just how threatening that is, or maybe she does. Maybe I know nothing.
No, that’s not true.
I know she’s taught me that I’m capable of an endless number of things. Daphne has taught me that there are infinite amounts of possibilities I can do and the only person that stops me from accomplishing anything, is me.
Daphne is my reason for change. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll never be like Doc or Juliette. I don’t know if I’ll ever have a different purpose than being a stone-cold killer. Maybe the only purpose I’m meant to have in this life is Daphne. I’m okay with that. I’m a better man in some ways, but I’ll never change in others.
I’m dead set in most of my ways, but I’m more alive in more ways than one.
I turn over in bed and see her next to me. Her dark hair lies across the blue pillowcase and the blanket has fallen to her hips, leaving her torso exposed. Her hand is tucked under her cheek, her elbow bent right over her breasts, hiding them from me.
I don’t like it when her body is hidden from me.
She’s so small, so delicate, it’s hard to believe I haven’t broken her yet.
I press a kiss to her shoulder, and she rouses but doesn’t wake. I want her to rest since she hasn’t been sleeping well and our late shower scene didn’t help matters any, but I don’t regret it. I love fucking her face and seeing those big blue eyes stare at me, her mouth split wide open with my cock. It only happened a few hours ago and I’m ready to do it again.
Her lips are swollen and red and nothing looks prettier.
Which gives me an idea. I roll out of bed and grab my jeans off the floor. I slide them on and leave them unzipped and unbuttoned because I want to be comfortable. I walk around the bed, stepping over books so I don’t ruin them. I’d be so upset. These are one of our most prize possessions. I can’t read good—well, I mean. I can’t read well. But that doesn’t matter. Daphne has a huge love for them and that means I do too. In our new house, I’m building her a library. She doesn’t know it yet, but I can’t wait to show her. She’s going to be so happy, and then every day I won’t have to dance around stacks of books.
Each one has different colored post-its. She has her own system. Blue for her favorite sex scene, which we have played out a few. I never want to stop doing that. Red for a violent scene. Yellow for ones that made her smile. Orange for the ones that made her cry. And if you open up a book—any book, it doesn’t matter—there is always a sentence highlighted on every page. It’s as if she dissects the words and stores them in her brilliant mind, and I’m envious of her ability to do that.
I hope one day I can do the same. The only thing I can do right now is struggle with kid’s picture books and write my name and Daphne’s. It’s hard not to be embarrassed by it, but she reads books that are four hundred pages and then she somehow has the ability not to judge me but treat me with compassion as she teaches me how to read.
I sound like an idiot sounding out those simple words. But when I get frustrated, she’s there to soothe me. She has all the patience in the world and that’s the only reason I’m able to get through our daily sessions.
“Good Morning, Happy.” I tap the glass of his tank that he is nearly too big for, which reminds me that I need to start Happy’s Haven. He is getting too big. He gives me a wide smile, showing me all of his teeth. People think he wants to eat me, but I know better. Happy and I have a connection. I bring my nose to the cold glass and Happy turns around and presses his nose against it too. “Who’s a good boy? You are. You want a treat?” I keep my voice low, so I don’t wake Daphne. It’s important that she sleeps.
I’m going to have to look into the truth of her father. I believe in my gut that her dreams are a way for her mind to tell her what really happened, and I swear to God, I’m going to be that man’s worst nightmare.
He thinks he can inflict fear? He doesn’t know true fear. When I get my hands on him—not if but when—he’s going to pray for a quick death. And you know what I’m going to do?
Tell him I’m agnostic so his prayers don’t mean anything to me. And then I’m going to take my time slicing him. I only believe in what I can kill and Daphne.
That’s all I’ll ever need.
What’s belief if you can’t see it? What is faith if you can’t touch it? Those concepts are too complex. I’m too simple of a man to try to understand them.
Taking a deep breath, I calm myself so I don’t fly out of the clubhouse and take matters into my own hands. I unscrew the treat jar and dig my fingers inside to grab a piece of bull tongue, then toss it in the tank. Happy hisses, flinging his tail back and forth through the water, then snaps his jaws shut after he catches the treat.
“Good boy,” I say to him, wishing I had his haven ready. I’ll feed him live animals then, and he can hunt. He’ll like that. I know I like it when I hunt, so it only makes sense that he would too.
I give a tap to the tank before turning around and walking toward the closet. I swing the doors open and stare at the filing cabinet. A lot of emotions are coursing through me right now as I stare at it, but the biggest thing I feel is betrayal. I’m not over what the guys did, breaking into my privacy and opening wounds all over again. Maybe in time I will, but right now? I have the urge to kill every single one of them who saw what is in these journals. I haven’t drawn since.
I’ve been too scared, which is something I don’t like to admit. I never get scared, but those journals hold nightmares that create the torture in hell. I don’t want to see what used to exist, but I want to start drawing the good things in my life now that I have them.
I have good things.
That’s so hard for me to understand.
“Good things,” I mutter to myself as I reach for the gray drawer and open it, seeing dozens of black books. Some are worn and tattered, the edges curled up and wrinkled, while some are new and barely opened. I bend down and grab a new journal, one that is still in the plastic wrapping, then grab my charcoal pencils Daphne got me.
She wants me to really focus on my art, but I don’t know how, not when chaos is constantly living in my mind.
I don’t know how to focus on something I want without ruining it. Daphne is different. I’ve ruined her in ways that can never be erased, but I don’t regret them. I want to learn how to want something like I want Daphne. I want to focus on something like I focus on her.
How?
Daphne has been the only thing in the world that’s been able to grab my focus and keep it.
I guess that’s why she’s about to be my muse.
I head around the bed, stepping over those damn books without looking because their location is seared into my memory. I know this room like the back of my hand. Even the headboard is made out of books, something she fucking loves, and I never plan on changing that. In the new house, the bed is going to bigger and higher.
Sighing when I plop in the chair in the corner, I turn on the lamp, which casts a soft yellow glow on my side of the room. It lets me see her better. I take off the plastic wrap and drop it the floor, the crinkling louder than what I wanted it to be. I hold my breath in hopes it doesn’t wake my Comet up. After a few seconds of her lying in the same position, I open the journal.
Like with any new book, the binding is smooth as it opens, and the first page has a �
�this journal belongs to’ section. I never do this, but I’m going to this time. I write my name on the designated line. The black charcoal makes one line down and I smile to myself because I know what I’m doing.
Oh, wait. I need to make it capitalized. First letters in names are always capitalized. That’s what Daphne said.
I make another line on top of the other to create a T, then finish writing the rest of my name. Hmm, maybe I should have written my real name. Oh well, maybe next time. When I get done, I hold my journal out in front of me and while my handwriting looks a lot like Maizey’s, it’s mine and it’s there, on paper.
On. Paper.
And I did it all by myself. It seems ridiculous to be so proud, since I’m a grown man learning to write, but I am so damn happy.
With new excitement, I lay the journal on my lap and flip a white page, then analyze the love of my life while she sleeps soundly.
Damn it, I can’t get over her beauty. A man like me and a woman like her don’t make sense, but I’m glad the universe made an exception, because I need her.
The navy blue blanket is still hugged around her hips. Instead of being on her side, she twisted her back to be flat on the bed and her hips are still on their side. Her arm is angled above her head, and now I can see her breasts. My cock takes notice and begins to plump in my jeans. All I want to do is ravish her right now, but I’m trying to think about her and what she needs.
And with everything going on inside her head, she needs rest.
With a disappointed growl at myself, I begin to sketch.
I ease a line down the page, curving it where her waist is, then stop, since the blanket covers the rest of her body. I can count five-hundred places on her body that need to have my mark or name on it. We still haven’t gotten married or gotten tattoos of each other’s names. I’ll need to think of a remedy to that soon.
Ignoring the throb in my cock and the desire in my veins, I drag the pencil over the page, getting lost in the lines and shading to bring her image to life. I take a peek every now and then to make sure I’m doing her justice, which I’m not, because nothing compares to the real thing.
The faint golden hue of her skin, her small perky breasts with tight dark pink nipples, her small waist, and the memories of my hands exploring every inch of her…
“Damn it, what was I doing?” I mutter to myself, forgetting the next part of the picture I was going to focus on. See? I can only focus on her.
All the time.
She consumes me.
“Oh,” I say when I realize her right breast isn’t finished. I drag my pinky finger under the curve, giving her body a natural contour, then make my way to the other.
When her body is done, I make my way to her face. I draw the slim column of her neck, the delicate soft jaw I’ve dragged my lips across, and her pouted lips I’ve kissed and fucked.
I growl again when my cock fully hardens, and I can’t lay the book flat on my lap because my erection is in the way. I can’t blame myself. Of course I’m going to get turned on when the woman I love is naked in front of me.
Lifting my leg, I cross an ankle over my knee and prop the journal against my thigh. She’s so serene and calm in this moment. I try to think back to when I ever looked like that, but I can’t think of a time or place.
The charcoal scratches along the paper as create long strokes for her hair. When I’m done sketching her, I begin to work on her surroundings, like the bed and books, the nightstand, the closet behind her, and just… draw what I see.
I’ve always been better at this then I have been at writing anyway.
I do something I’ve never done again. I write my name in the bottom right corner of the page. Not that anyone will ever see this. If they did, I’d fucking feed them to Happy. The only person who can ever see Daphne naked is me.
“Are you done?” she whispers, her voice light and full of sleep, but her eyes don’t open so I can’t see the monumental shade of blue staring at me.
“You know what I’m doing?”
She smirks. “I hear your pencil against the page. It didn’t take long to figure out.”
“Are you mad?” I ask, wondering if I should have asked. “I couldn’t help it. You’re so beautiful and peaceful, I wanted to capture it.”
This time, her eyes do open, and she shakes her head and scoots to the edge of the mattress, holding out her hand. “I could never be mad at you for finally drawing. And I’m honored that you chose me.”
“You’re the only one I want to draw,” I admit. “You told me to focus my talents, so I’m focusing them on you.”
She blushes and makes room for me by sliding across the sheets. “Can I see?”
I inhale a painful breath as I think about her request. It feels… personal, for some reason, to show her. What if she doesn’t like it? What if she decides I’m bad and wants nothing to do with me because I hold no promise for myself?
A bead of sweat breaks along my temple, and I lift my shoulder, bending my head to wipe it away.
“You don’t have to,” she says, quiet and sleepy. “I know I’ll love it because you did it.”
“I haven’t drawn in a while and when I woke up, seeing you asleep made me want to draw, and—”
“—And nothing, Tongue. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I support you always in everything you do. You might have a mean bone in your body for other things in your life, but I know when it comes to me, there isn’t a mean bone in your body. I know you didn’t draw me in an evil way or ugly way.”
“How?” I question, slipping off these damn jeans because there is no way in hell I want to leave this room yet. I lie down in the same spot I got up from about a half hour ago and keep the journal laid flat against my chest so she can’t see it.
“Because…” she trails off, trying to find the right words. “It’s how you always look at me, Tongue. I know I’m beautiful in your eyes. You let how you feel about me show when I’m near you. It’s one of the many reasons why I love you so much.” She tugs the blanket up her body, hiding all of those sleek lines. She shivers, going as far as her teeth chattering but it isn’t even that cold in the room.
My brows dip in the middle. “You’re cold?”
“A little bit,” she says through clinking teeth. “Can you get me pajamas? Well, after you show me the drawing?”
“The drawing can wait until you’re warm.” I get up again and bend over, reaching across from the bed to my dresser. I open it, reach inside to grab a pair of my sweatpants, then a second time for a shirt. “Here you go, Comet.” I flip around and help her into a sitting position. I tug my Ruthless Kings shirt over her head, and the faded red shirt swallows her body. I throw the blankets off her and tug the pants up her legs.
She lies down again, and I throw the comforter over her and tuck her in. Daphne reaches for the journal that I laid on the pillow before I got the pajamas. I notice a few things in that moment. I notice she’s pale, which seems sudden.
“Can I?”
I nod, sliding a hand up her body as I lay down next to her.
“Oh, Wayne.”
I close my eyes when she says my birth name, a name I don’t hear unless it falls from her lips. It’s the only time I like to hear it. Usually, I get flashes of my past, but when Daphne says it, a comforting balm spreads across my heart, like she’s healing me from the inside out.
“You’re so talented. Oh my god, I’ve never seen you draw a portrait before. This is…this is gallery level, Comet.”
I roll on top of her and snatch the journal out of her hand, close it, and lay it on the table. “No way in hell I’d ever put a picture of you in a gallery where everyone can see your body.”
Her hands cup my cheeks. The way she’s looking at me, it’s like all the answers in the world live inside me. “I believe you can do anything, Tongue.” She turns her head to the left and coughs. It’s dry and shallow, as if it’s just starting out.
I press my palm against her fo
rehead and frown when I feel how hot she is. “Comet, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”
“It kind of hit me suddenly. I need to get up though. The contractors are coming to the bookstore.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” I say again. “You aren’t going anywhere sick. You’re going to stay here and rest. I’ll call the contractors and cancel.”
“But I really want to go. I’m so excited about the bookstore you got me for Christmas because you’re so thoughtful, and I want to do well for you.”
I tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and kiss the apple of her cheek. “Comet, you could decide to be at home forever, locked in this room, and you’d be the most successful person I’ve ever met. I’m profoundly in love with you.”
“You’re so sweet with me.” Her voice has gone from normal to hoarse in the matter of minutes.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say, attempting one of my first jokes. I don’t know if I did it right.
A smile as bright as the sun takes over her face. “Did you just try to tell a joke?”
“Yeah, I don’t like that you feel sick. I want to make you feel better. How did I do?”
“You don’t need to make jokes to make me feel better, but it was a step in the right joke direction. See? Quick learner,” she struggles to say as her eyes start to hood.
“Go to sleep, Comet. I’m not going to go anywhere, but I am going to have Doc come in here and check on you, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers, curling into a ball. “Can I get another blanket?”
“I’ll get you a blanket and space heater.” I kiss her temple and force myself to get out of bed and get dressed. All I want to do is stay with her. A second away and she might need me. I pause mid-push off the bed and remember I have a phone. All I need to do is text Doc and ask him to come and to bring a space heater.
The blankets I have in the closet.
I don’t have to leave after all, and I’m relieved, because I don’t think I’m capable of not being around her while she’s ill. What if something happens? What if she calls out for me? I need to protect her.