I opened my eyes again to find her staring right back at me.
She was so beautiful, it made my chest ache.
I ducked down to kiss her, our tongues entwining as I moved inside her, slowly at first and then building momentum. She must have been able to taste herself on my mouth, and the thought turned me on even more. My balls grew tighter, the pressure building with every stroke of my hips. Our skin slapped together, and I fucked her harder and faster, climbing toward my peak. Catalina’s arousal was growing again, too, her body coming back to life beneath me. She matched my thrusts with her own, her heels digging into my ass, her nails clawing my back. Our kisses were frantic and hungry, tongues meeting teeth, teeth meeting lips. Our skin was damp with sweat, the heat of our bodies and breath filling the room.
“I’m coming,” Catalina cried, suddenly clinging even tighter to me.
Her pussy clamped around my dick, her inner muscles pulsating. I allowed myself my own release, letting go of that pressure that had been building ever since I’d pulled her onto my lap. It was an instant hit of extreme pleasure, my eyes rolling, my toes curled. I gave myself to her, knowing I could trust her at my moment of greatest vulnerability, happy to share that energy with her.
Catalina was mine, just like I was hers, but she didn’t belong to me. We were joined together, the two of us, in every possible way. From our pasts, to this exact moment, to the future we would share together. Not because someone had forced us to be, or had paid money.
We were together because neither of us could imagine living a life without the other.
Chapter Twenty-six
The following morning, Angelo drove us both to where Yolanda’s drop-in center was located.
Not wanting to draw too much attention to either ourselves or her, we parked the car a couple of blocks away and walked the rest, hand-in-hand.
The building was a big, old red stone which looked as though it had been a hostel or something similar in the past. Now it sported the sign ‘Transient House’ above the front door, which stood open.
A familiar figure was standing just inside the doorway.
My stomach fluttered with nerves. It was crazy to be nervous about seeing Yolanda again—or Margarite, as she was now known. I’d known her my whole life, and she’d never given me any impression that she wouldn’t want to see me. But so much had happened over the past few months, and it was clear that she’d started a new life for herself. I worried that she wouldn’t be happy about her old one creeping back in.
My thoughts went to all the other women, and the lives they’d started for themselves. Grace had gone back home. She’d called her parents’ home phone number, bursting into tears the moment they’d answered. She’d been unable to speak, and we’d heard the tinny, worried voices on the other end. I’d thought we were going to have to talk for her, but then she’d managed to pull herself together enough to tell them it was her and that she was safe. I’d watched the conversation with a painful lump in my throat and tears filling my eyes. Angelo had slipped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me tight, picking up on my emotions.
Naturally, her parents had left immediately to pick her up. They were less than fifty miles away, crazy to think their daughter, who had been missing for the last two years, had been so close all this time. A cold hatred had filled me at that moment, and I was glad to have killed Torres. The son-of-a-bitch deserved everything he’d got.
I hadn’t wanted to leave Grace alone to let her parents pick her up, but Angelo had convinced me it wasn’t a good idea for people to see us with her. She’d promised to leave us out of the story she’d eventually tell the police, and would say instead that all she knew was the party had ended in an argument, and people had started shooting. She’d hidden under the table, so she wouldn’t be able to give them details on who had hurt who.
I wished we’d been able to do more for Deanna and even Kimmie. In the weeks following my escape, I’d managed to track down Deanna’s family through news articles that had been published around the time she’d vanished, and I’d left them an anonymous message to tell them how sorry I was, but that she was dead. I figured that was better than them never knowing, but I’d still wondered if I’d done the right thing. Maybe I’d have been better to let them have hope. I knew hope had kept me going during my time with Torres. Kimmie had been right when she’d said she had no one who would miss her. I hadn’t been able to find anyone. Her love for Torres might have been flawed and damaged, but it had been the only love she’d had.
Angelo and I stood hand in hand at the entrance of the drop-in center. Yolanda was busy talking to another woman, but she must have sensed us standing there as she glanced over. She looked away again immediately, but then shot back around, her mouth dropping open.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said to the woman she’d been talking to.
The woman nodded and smiled and moved away.
Yolanda stared at us in shock as she walked toward the open doorway. “Tell me I’m not seeing things?”
I risked a smile. “You’re not seeing things.”
“Well, fuck me sideways. Both of you, follow me.”
She turned, her long skirt flowing around her legs, and strode back down the hallway. I exchanged a glance with Angelo, who gave me a shrug, and then we both followed.
She led us into a tiny room that appeared to double as an office, and shut the door behind her. Only when the door was firmly shut did she turn to us, tears shining in her dark eyes.
“I never thought I’d see your faces again. I’m so happy you’re both still together. That you got to have that.”
I burst into tears and stepped into her embrace. She hugged me tight, and then reached out her arm to pull Angelo in as well, so we were standing in a strange, three-way hug that felt completely right.
Even Angelo appeared choked.
“How did you find me?” Yolanda asked, swiping away at tears.
“We saw your story online,” Angelo said. “You’ve done so well, helping all these women.”
She smiled at Angelo. “I used some of the money from the compound. It seemed like the right thing to do.”
He nodded. “It was. What about the other women from the compound—Marie, and Carla, and Michelle, and Bianca?”
“They all went their own way. Some went back to their families. Others started over again. We all needed a fresh start.” She gave us a smile. “What about you? What are you both up to now?”
We glanced at each other.
“We’re okay,” I said. “Just getting by.”
She looked between us. “Only getting by?”
Angelo grimaced. “It’s not been easy. We need to get different identities, but it costs money, and that’s something we don’t have. But we’re safe and we’re together, and that’s all that counts.”
“Wait here a moment.” Yolanda went to a small safe in the corner of the room and opened it. There were wads of notes at the back. “These are from Silas Cassidy’s office,” she said. “Take it.”
Angelo shook his head. “No, it’s yours now. I gave it to you.”
“I have everything I need.”
“But the women you’re helping...” I said helplessly.
“So, make some donations when you’re settled somewhere.”
I put my hand out and touched the back of Yolanda’s hand. “We didn’t come here for this. You know that, don’t you? Taking money from you was never our intention.”
She smiled. “I know that, silly girl, but this feels right. You’re as much a victim of abuse as any of the other women who visit the center. You have every right to be able to go and start a new life up for yourself.”
Angelo glanced down at the money. “It’s enough to get us new identifications, Catalina. We can start again somewhere properly. Be different people.” A smile spread across his face. “Yolanda’s right. You deserve this.”
I looked between them both, my heart lightening.
Di
d I dare to hope for such a thing?
THE SUN FELT AS THOUGH it was emerging from hibernation, the first hint of warmth to its rays now that winter was over, and we were heading back into spring.
We sat together at a small bistro table outside of a Paris café, overlooking the Seine river, watching the boats filled with tourists go by. They all snapped photographs of the stunning scenery, and Angelo and I exchanged a knowing look. We weren’t vacationers here any longer. We’d rented an apartment in the Latin Quarter, and we were here to stay.
“You know we can’t afford this,” I told him as a waiter dressed in black and white approached with a bottle and two glasses.
Angelo smiled at me, impossibly handsome in the spring sunshine, and my heart flipped. “I promised you we’d drink champagne in Paris, remember?”
“I remember,” I told him. “But we need to make our money last.”
He grinned. “A promise is a promise, Kitty.”
The waiter set the glasses down in front of us and poured the champagne. Angelo gave him a nod of thanks, and the waiter placed the bottle in a silver cooler for us, and then went back to deal with other customers.
I reached out and picked up my glass, and Angelo did the same. “To new beginnings,” he toasted.
“New beginnings,” I parroted then added, “And to us, and Yolanda, and Deanna, and all the other women who’ve helped us.”
He smiled back, and I could see my own bittersweet happiness reflected in his dark eyes—eyes I loved with all my heart.
Things had been perfect since we’d left America. I finally had my own identification and was a real person in the eyes of society, and even Angelo seemed to have gotten his anxiety under control. I hadn’t seen him tap or count once since we’d arrived.
We both sipped our champagne, and the bubbles tickled my nose. I was still only eighteen, but here in Paris, I was allowed to drink champagne, just like I was allowed to do all of the things any adult was allowed to do—drive a car, rent an apartment. Get married. It was definitely something we’d talked about, together with having children of our own. Nothing and no one would tear us apart again.
“I love you, Catalina,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “More than anything.”
I hesitated before I placed my lips against his, a smile dancing across them. I was happy now, happier than I’d ever thought it possible to be.
“More than anything,” I told him.
THE END
Liked what you read? Why not try Marissa Farrar’s dark romance ‘Monster’ trilogy. Keep reading for the prologue and first chapter of book one, Defaced.
Rich... dangerous... disfigured.
I HAD HER kidnapped to fix the one thing that has kept me hidden from society my whole life.
My face.
But, as the days go by, she’s affecting the part of me no woman has ever touched.
My heart.
I’m drawn to her. And I can tell she’s drawn to me, too, though she fights it. I see it in the longing glances and the quickening of her breath, even as I hold her down.
Lily.
They call me Monster through no fault of my own, but she’s the only one who’s ever made me feel like a man...
Prologue
The boy cowered in his room as the footsteps in the hallway outside grew louder ... closer. His heart beat hard, thumping against his ribcage, and his mouth ran dry. Swallowing against the tightness in his throat, his eyes locked on the closed door.
Part of him willed the door to open, while the other part prayed it would remain shut. Though he was without a clock in his room, he knew what time it was. Every day was the same—meals brought to his room by the people who worked for his father, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All interspersed by his lessons.
His father’s lessons came with both reward and punishment in equal measures.
The door cracked open and he huddled farther in on himself, his arms wrapped around his skinny knees. It didn’t matter how small he made himself, he would never be able to resist the force of his father.
The door swung open. The man himself stood in the open doorway, silhouetted against the brighter light from the hall. The boy’s bedroom, though beautifully furnished with everything he could need, had no windows—no way for him to get out, or for someone else to get in. Occasionally, if he’d grasped a particular mathematical equation quickly or some other concept in the studies his father worked him so hard at, he’d be allowed outside to run around the grounds of their huge home, but never for long, and never unsupervised.
“Hello, little monster,” his father said. “Are you ready for your lessons?”
He lowered his head in shame. “Yes, Father.”
He knew what monsters were from the books he read—terrifying creatures that preyed upon the weak and vulnerable. Yet, somehow, he felt he was the weak one, though his father would never let him voice his concerns. But his father must be right. He knew he was monstrous to behold—why else would no other person look directly at him? He simply needed his insides to catch up with what was so clearly on the outside.
His father, as always, wore a sharp grey suit. His features were hard, but handsome, with a smoothly shaven jaw. The boy had never seen his father with as much as a five o’clock shadow. His dark hair was now almost fully salt and peppered with white, but beautifully cut and smoothed back from his wide forehead with product. The boy didn’t know how old his father was. He could have been forty or sixty. He didn’t even know his own age, though he knew he was no longer a small boy, but not yet a teenager. He’d never been told of a birthday, a way to mark his passing years. Only his reading, to which his father allowed him almost uncontrolled access, allowed him to make these assumptions.
His father’s eyes never stopped on the boy’s face. Instead, he looked everywhere apart from directly at his son. The boy knew he was different. Though his father rarely allowed him from his room, and would not allow mirrors inside the luxurious prison, he still had his sense of touch. Lifting his hand to his face, he felt the slightly raised, softer flesh which ran down one side of his face. The line where the two different skins met ran almost perfectly down the center of his forehead, along the inside of the left side of his nose, curving down his cheek to skirt his mouth and finally end at his jaw line.
Yet, despite his revulsion, his father seemed intent on his education, tutoring him in science, math, English, history. He even taught the boy about finances, the complications of managing a business—profit, tax, and loss.
He saw other adults, people who worked for his father. They brought him his meals, or supervised him during the times he was allowed to roam outside, or through the seemingly endless hallways and rooms of the house. Even now, he didn’t think he had seen the whole property. But those he encountered made him want to hide back in his bedroom. He saw how they looked at him, their eyes skirting over one side of his face, their cheeks heating, or else draining of color, before they glanced away. He sensed their revulsion, dismay, awkwardness. What was so wrong with him, only a child, to be able to cause such powerful emotions in adults? On the odd occasion, one of his father’s employees lost that sense of revulsion, and began to grow close to him—perhaps not looking him in the eye, no one did that, but patting his leg, and offering him some affection, some comfort. When that happened, somehow, his father always knew, and the boy never saw that person again.
His father finished the lesson. “You did well today. It pleases me to see you learning so well.” His father reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair, and his heart sang with pleasure. Human contact was something he got so rarely, it made him want to crawl into the man’s lap and rub his head against his chest.
Knowing such displays would be punished, instead, he ducked his head. “Thank you, Father.” He hoped the effort he’d given would be rewarded. “Does that mean you’ll let me walk outside again?”
His father’s shoulders stiffened. “Is that all you work hard for? A little sunlight and fresh air?�
�
His stomach coiled in on itself, retracting. He’d made a mistake. He shouldn’t have spoken. “No ... I just ...”
The blow came from out of nowhere, knocking him from his chair and spilling him to the floor. His ear rang, his vision on one side blurred and dancing with stars.
His father’s huge form stood over him. “The sunlight and fresh air are not made for someone like you. They will never be your friends. Daylight will only make people more frightened of you—you are meant to be one with the dark.” He reached down and grasped the boy’s jaw in his viselike grip. “What are you?” he demanded.
“A monster,” the boy whispered.
His father’s fingers dug harder, pain clutching the boy’s entire face. “Say it louder. What are you?”
“A monster!” he said, again, but this time his voice was a wail.
“Again!” his father demanded, giving his face a shake.
“A monster! A monster! A monster!”
His father finally released him. “Good. And don’t ever forget it. The moment you think you are normal, that people will treat you the same as the rest, that is the moment they will see your weakness and they will kill you.”
His father turned and left the room. The boy rocked in the corner, clutching his smarting cheek and ringing ear. His father’s words rang in his head...
Monster...
One
THE GIRL STARED at herself in the mirror, her eyes wide and watery. She lifted her hand to place against her chin, but Lily Drayton’s voice stopped her movement.
“Uh-uh. No touching. You need to keep the area clean.”
The girl gave a tentative smile, her eyes meeting with Lily’s in the mirror.
The girl’s mother stepped forward and touched Lily on the elbow.
“Thank you so much,” she said softly. “This is making such a difference to Heather. I can see the change in her already. Her confidence over these last few months has soared.”
For Him: The Complete Series Page 48