“I love you,” I panted against his lips when he finally pulled back to give me a chance to breathe. “You have me. All of me. You’re inside me forever.”
“You’re a fucking liar,” he said. “But I don’t care.” He dipped his head to my neck, sucking and savage, leaving marks. He gripped my waist with such ferocity I was sure I would get bruises. He was driving me out of my mind and I wanted to let my head fall and give in to the madness, but he still didn’t believe me and I didn’t know what I could do to make him.
Then it came to me.
And it was horrible.
It would be the ultimate betrayal. It would utterly destroy my old self. The tiny thread I’d been clinging to, the thread that said I was normal—a good girl. Then again, he’d just destroyed his old self, obliterated it, and I was naked and drawing on myself with blood.
The thread was frayed to begin with.
“You—” I swallowed, trying to gather the courage and untie my tongue as his hands worked black magic. “You can’t trust Levi.” His coil loosened from my waist, his kiss died. His lips were at my neck, his breath purgatory. I expected to feel worse about betraying my only friend, but I only waited for Anteros.
“What?” Anteros lifted his head, stared into my eyes. I exhaled. Anteros. The deep bluegreen of the ocean was looking at me, no longer a furious maelstrom of black. A deep hurt still ringed the irises, his defenses and walls gone. It was like when he’d come to me drunk after the Christmas Eve party, but even more stripped. It was beyond seeing his beating heart—he ripped it out. He gave me the bloody thing and it went thump thump thump in my hand until blood seeped down my wrist.
In his eyes, I saw pain.
Uncertainty.
Fear.
Then, as if he knew what was happening, it vanished and he hardened his gaze once more. Still, it was nothing compared to the earlier madness.
“He’s working for Lucia.” The dim glow of a parking lamp made the furrow in his brow even deeper. I sucked in all of my courage and continued. “There are probably others working for her, too, but I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me anything. She killed my father right in front of me. I didn’t know Nikolai was going to be there tonight. I think Nikolai is a goddamn snake.” I tried to get all the truth out at once, and once I had, I was breathless. Silence fell, and I could see the cogs working in his head as he absorbed everything. He backed away and I was worried he was questioning me again.
“I was running away tonight,” I said, putting my palm on his chest. “I was coming to you.” Anteros stopped and eyed the hand on his chest. His glare flicked from my hand to me.
“But you knew he was working for Lucia,” he tested.
“I did,” I said honestly. I was worried telling him the truth, worried I would shatter the tenuous bond we’d reformed, but I had to be truthful. We were starting fresh, rebuilding from the ashes. There was no room for lies anymore. I waited, breath completely pulled, for him to give me any sign of forgiveness
“Please,” I whispered. “I just want the lies between us to die. I’ve told you everything, I will tell you everything, just like you’ve done with me.” Anteros’s features twisted, and again I wondered if there was something he might want to tell me, but just as quickly he went blank.
I stood up on my tiptoes, getting as close to him as I could, and said against his lips, “Let me fall with you, Lucifer.”
The reaction was immediate. Anteros pressed me against the car, so flat I could only press my head on the hood and tilt my chin. He held my breath captive, a wicked glint in his eye. There was too little space between us but too much all at once, and in that space he devoured me. My lips parted and his eyes darted to them before glancing back to lock with mine. There was a barely noticeable smile on his lips.
“Mio cuore…” He slid his open palm along my cheek, unfurling it around my neck. At first, it was just enough pressure to be firm, but then he tightened. I opened my mouth, sucking in as much air as I could. I welcomed the lack of oxygen, the pain, and the bruising on my neck, though. I wanted it all because I needed his fingerprints on my neck—an indelible sign of who I belonged to.
He pressed his lips to my ear, words licking the skin. “You’ve been a very bad girl. What are we going to do with you?”
What are we going to do with you?
We. He’d said we. It was such a simple thing, but it made all the difference. It brought a smile to my lips and goose bumps to my skin as we whipped along the highway going at least ninety miles an hour. I wasn’t focusing on the speed. I wasn’t even focusing on New York disappearing behind us into the black, black night. I was stuck on him.
He hadn’t said a word after that, just grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around my naked body, and shoved me into the car, not bothering to turn on the heat. The silence between us wasn’t angry, it was a promise. It was heavy and thick, like a decadent chocolate sauce. Under the blanket I clenched my thighs, knowing the wetness wasn’t from the river.
His tank still clung to his muscles and he was bleeding, red weeping down his slick skin. I was angry with myself for not noticing it before, but it didn’t seem to affect him. Nothing did. His red lips were taut in concentration and his skin rose with a chill he didn’t notice. Soaked hair fell over his chiseled face while his hands gripped the wheel. The water made his skin shine, reflecting whatever light could be found in the night—light from the dash, the occasional street lamp outside. The wet sheen on his skin made his cheekbones even harder and more determined. I rubbed my neck, mesmerized by him.
We drove for about two hours before he pulled the car to a stop. We’d driven north, to some kind of forested area. It was pitch black now and the moon backlit the many, many trees. There was no real road, just a dirt path muddied with snow. I made out the shadow of a house and beyond that a lake that was black in the night.
I didn’t bother asking where we were. Maybe I should have, but I was too wrapped up in us. I kept thinking that eventually I would figure us out, but as he slammed the door behind him, I knew that would never be true. We were like a black hole—the more you learned, the less you understood. There was just feeling and experiencing, and trying to understand or predict only led to more misunderstanding.
He stalked around the car to my side, eyes burrowing into me the entire time. His shoulders were tense, muscles riveted, throbbing against his clinging shirt. He was predator, I his prey. He tore open the door and pulled me out, lifting me into his arms as he’d done when saving me from the water. Briefly I thought of telling him I was fine, that I could walk despite the bullet wound and the cold, but the way he clung to me, the way the veins on his neck bulged, told me he didn’t care.
With near death behind me, I again remembered the loss of my letter. I couldn’t see it on Anteros, but I wondered if he’d been able to save it.
“Anteros—” I started, but he placed his lips on mine, immediately shutting me up. He was ravenous. Claiming. His tongue plundered my mouth, wet and sucking and forceful. When he was done, we were inside, and I couldn’t remember what I’d been thinking.
He set me down gently on a couch. I reached out for him; it was instinct, like breathing. I cupped his cheek, staring into his eyes. Anteros covered my hand and for a moment, it was perfect.
“You need stitches,” he said, voice low, and then he stood. He walked into another room. I sat up slightly to get a better look, noting the long corridor he’d gone down. I glanced at the bandage Anteros had put on my arm earlier. He was right—red was seeping through the little fibers.
We were in a cabin with cobblestone walls and a cobblestone fireplace, but the walls were all glass, floor-to-ceiling windows that exposed a pitch-black night. Plush furs were draped over minimalist furniture. It was the perfect mix of rustic cabin and modern decor.
It reminded me of the penthouse, of Anteros. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Home.
Anteros returned carrying a nondescript box and a glass of water.
He got to his knees and set the items on the table behind him—a glass coffee table so pristine I almost didn’t notice it. Then he threw a fresh blanket over me.
“You need to lie down,” he said and pressed his hand to my chest.
“You need a bandage first,” I said, fighting against his hand. “Stitches can wait.” Anteros hadn’t stopped bleeding since the river. Though the lower left half of his tank was nearly drenched red, he shot me a look like what I’d said was ridiculous. Still, he temporarily stopped trying to get me to lie down and reached for the box. I hoped it was for a bandage, but he turned back to me a second later with some pills.
“Take these.” He handed me white pills with the glass of water.
“You need a bandage, or antiseptic. Possibly both.”
“Frankie,” Anteros growled, warning on his tongue. I pursed my lips and moved my mouth to the side. I wanted to say more, but put my palm over his, accepting the pills anyway. His glare told me I didn’t really have a choice.
I sank farther back into the couch, the only sound between us the dull click of the cap being removed from the antiseptic. His hands were a mesmerizing bronze, just a shade darker than my own. They were like an ancient warrior’s shield, flawless and beautiful, yet hard and strong. I wondered how I’d never noticed it before. I waited for him to pour the liquid on the gauze, but instead he poured it on the wound in my arm. I hissed in pain but said nothing. He poured some on his hand and set the bottle down but didn’t cap it. With two fingers, he pressed next to where Pretty Boy had shot me.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, eyes on the wound. He reached behind him and grabbed something as my gaze drifted down to his still-wet thighs. Even though it wasn’t hard, his cock was thick, long, and perfectly outlined, resting on his thigh, begging to be stroked. He pulled out a needle and thread and I refocused on him, but he was already looking at me, smirk on his face.
“Get distracted by something?” he asked.
“I…have no comment,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Sewing you up,” he replied, even more amused, like my question was obvious and I was ridiculous for asking. I tensed, eyeing the needle in his hand. When he’d said I needed stitches, I’d thought we would go to a hospital or something, but now that I thought about it, I realized how stupid I was. We couldn’t go to a hospital. In fact, I wasn’t sure where we could go now.
But it didn’t matter, because we’d imploded together. Wherever we went, whatever happened next, it would finally be as one.
Anteros pressed against the flesh around the wound and the blood sputtered then flowed, like a river over rocks. With his free hand, he knotted my hair and forced me to look into his eyes.
“I won’t hurt you,” he growled, breath hot against my lips.
“I know.” And I did. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Do it.”
Anteros focused hard as he stitched me up. Back at the docks, he’d been aroused in a painfully obvious way; now he just treated me like a patient. It was annoying. Frustrating. I tried to capture his gaze and when that didn’t work I moved, released a sigh. He pushed his hand against my chest and said, “Stay still.”
I released another frustrated breath and stopped moving—for the moment.
He’d numbed my arm so I hardly felt the stitching, and that combined with the drugs had me feeling floaty. The slight pricking from the needle was actually invigorating. He was halfway done when he turned to get something from the box. I didn’t know what and I didn’t care. I was a little high and a lot horny. I sat up so the blanket fell and exposed me. When he turned back his hand froze with the needle, gaze devouring me.
When his eyes met mine they were fire burning over coals. I could smell the smoke, the charcoal. His jaw was clenched so hard I was sure he was hurting himself. I hoped he would tear the rest of the blanket away, but he just put the needle back into my arm.
I was mesmerized by every movement: the needle going through my skin, in and out, in and out, reminding me of sex, of him. Each prick further sensitized an already oversensitive body. I wasn’t sure if I was getting higher or if the feeling of euphoria was simply us.
When he was finished, he gently ran the pad of his finger along the fresh stitches. The contact hurt, but the pain meds were working so I just felt alive. Awakened. I reached for him but he moved away. I whimpered in protest.
“You need to rest.” His voice was hoarse, eyes locked with mine. He might not have been touching me anymore, but I saw through him. He was barely restraining himself. I stood up and ripped the blanket completely off.
“I need to heal,” I emphasized. With a groan low in his throat, Anteros pulled me to him, ran his nose along my neck like he’d done earlier. I felt the rumblings in his chest, the barely restrained need as he held me, grip so tight my flesh whitened and my stitches tugged.
“I can’t take you gently.” He ran his nose down my neck to the hollow of my collarbone where the bones connected, fibers of his beard teasing my flesh. I sighed, head falling back. Everything about him was coiled tight—his muscles, his rough, grating voice vibrating against my bones.
“Did I ask you to?” My voice was barely a whisper. Abruptly he stopped and pushed me, making me stumble to the couch. I braced my landing on my elbows.
“Go to sleep,” he said before turning to leave. What. The. Fuck?
“Where are you going?” I asked to his back, scrambling to get up. He didn’t stop walking, about to disappear under the stuffed deer head that delineated the start of the dark corridor he’d walked down earlier. I had to do something.
“Oh I get it,” I called out. “You’re injured. You’re going to go sleep because you’re too weak and tired and bleeding…” I listed everything I thought might piss him off. Come to think of it, the pain meds might have been working a little too well. The muscles on his neck corded, and I hoped he would turn around.
His hand shot out and gripped the edge of the entryway, but he didn’t turn back. A little part of my brain told me to shut up and stop pushing. It told me I was injured, told me the only reason I felt so good was because I was getting high—but I didn’t stop.
“Coward,” I said. He spun around and closed the distance between us in three purposeful steps.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said, pushing me back into the couch. His bluegreen gaze was sharp, penetrating. I fell into the color the same way I’d fallen into this world. Fast. Heady. Without any warning or thought to consequence.
“Did it work?” I whispered. There was just a sliver of space between us, lips close but not close enough to taste, his heady, spicy musk invading my senses and getting me drunk. My lips parted to speak—or maybe just to let out the steam inside my lungs—when he plunged a finger inside me. His charged stare was on me the entire time, keeping that sliver between us. I could only get my fix through watching him, but his gaze, almost as much as the magic his fingers worked, was sending me over the edge.
As I was about to come, he pulled them out. I groaned at the loss, but seconds later my groans were silenced.
Salty, delicious on my tongue.
Anteros fucked his fingers into my mouth, into my throat, simultaneously making me taste myself and gagging my protests. I tried to lick them, but I gagged harder.
Slowly he slid his fingers from my mouth, but he kept his thumb lightly on my tongue. I sucked it fervently, greedily, like he would take it away any minute. His eyelids hooded.
“Bad girl.” He tapped his thumb against my tongue as he took it from my mouth. I went after it, but he stopped me.
A charged silence hung in the air as I waited for him to make his next move. My wide eyes looked up at his narrow ones, fingers licked clean, tauntingly close to my mouth. Suddenly he snaked a hand behind my neck, grasping the hair so tightly my eyes watered.
“Get on your knees.” He dropped his hold and I quickly slid off the buttery leather couch. There wasn’t much space between the coffee table and the couch, but I wait
ed, hands on my thighs.
He was so beautiful, his wet shirt clinging to the cut muscles of his Adonis Belt, which pointed down to a rock-hard cock, slacks painting the outline as a steel bar against his leg. Everything ached within me, and I raked my nails against my thighs in an attempt to distract myself.
“You want this?” he asked, palming himself. “Yeah, I can see you want it. You’re so fucking transparent.” I moved toward him, feeling on fire with my need, itchy, practically coming undone. “You want this?” he asked again, and I nodded my head frantically. “Earn it.”
“Please,” I begged, reaching for him. “Please, I want you inside me.”
“I didn’t ask you to beg.” He gripped the back of my neck again, bending over so his words were a harsh snarl in my ear. “I said earn it.” He let me go with a thrust and I fell, bracing my landing with my palms. I studied the floor; I wasn’t sure how to earn it. Then it came to me. It was so fucking obvious. I stood up, reached for the seam of his pants, and undid him.
He was hot in my palm, iron hard, silky smooth. I rubbed my cheek against him.
I’d missed him so much.
“Greedy cock whore,” he rumbled, but I barely heard the words, I was so distracted by him.
I moaned as I wrapped my lips around him. This didn’t really feel like earning it. He tasted so delicious. Everything about him in my mouth got me going. It lit a fire in my body. If this was earning it, I would gladly earn it every goddamn day.
“You like this?” he asked. “Are you hungry for my cock?” When I didn’t immediately respond, he gripped my hair in a painful clamp. “Look at me.” I did, eyes watering with the pain of his grasp and trying to fit him into my mouth.
“There you are.” His voice got softer. “Take it like a good girl. Choke on me.” I slowly swallowed him until his head breached the back of my throat. Then I relaxed, opening up for more.
Beauty, a Hate Story the End Page 19