Page 74 of Vicious Behaviors
As I open my mouth to say something, anything, Marcello silences me with the pad of his finger on my lips. I can taste myself on his skin, and from the flicker in his eyes, I know he’s aware of it too. His finger drags slowly across my bottom lip, soft yet still possessive. My eyes go half-lidded from the unexpected tenderness of it all.
I half suspected that amade manlike Marcello would be a brute in his lovemaking. That he was the kind of man who took, took, took, and gave nothing back to his lover. I never expected him to be gentle. Or that he got off on giving someone else pleasure before himself.
I never expected anything like this. And I sure as hell never expected it to feel this good.
This… right.
I swallow a whimper, as Marcello’s finger is joined by the other that had just been inside me, gently prying my lips open and sliding the two digits inside my mouth. He doesn’t say a word as he shoves his fingers in and out of my mouth, while his other hand clamps gently around my throat, holding me in place. His half-mast eyes fixate on how his digits disappear into my mouth, testing me, owning me. And I let him. Because the truth is, I want this. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
Marcello’s cock presses hard against my stomach, aching to replace his fingers. My mouth waters at the thought of taking him in, of tasting him like he tasted me. Of bringing him to thebrink with nothing but my lips and tongue. The fantasy becomes so intense that I’m sure he can read my desperation to do just that.
I’m just about to drop to my knees when Marcello suddenly yanks his fingers from my mouth and pins me flush against the wall by the throat. Pressing his forehead against mine, he begs in pain, “Don’t.”
I breathe him in for a second, then open my eyes just as he opens his. What I see makes my blood run cold—a devil staring back at me. This isn’t Marcello anymore. It’s something darker. Something that doesn’t have a soul.
I don’t think the‘Don’t’Marcello uttered mere seconds ago was intended for me. He was pleading with something else. Something that wanted to take over Marcello, and he was helpless to stop it, unable to end the soulless shadow that now stares deep into my eyes, his smug smile a warning sign.
This thing in front of me has none of Marcello’s warmth. It’s hollow, empty, and by the glimmer in its eyes, it wants to be fed. Whatever this fucking thing is, it has decided that it’s his turn to play with me. And unlike Marcello, it’s not gentle. It starts to tighten its grip on my throat, reminding me that it isn’t the same man who had just made my body sing. No. This thing doesn’t want to coax pleasure out of me. It wants suffering, pain, and misery.
Too late do I realize his intent, as his hand wraps tighter around my neck, threatening to suffocate the air from my lungs. I claw at his hand, nails digging into his skin, trying to force him to let go, but his grip refuses to loosen. Panic starts to bloom when my windpipe strains.
“Marcello,” I croak. “Stop.”
However, my voice is paper-thin, barely more than a breath. My useless pleas mean nothing to him. By now, I’d fall back on my basic training to escape this situation, but my musclememory takes me a minute to react. I’m just too stunned by the sudden shift in Marcello’s demeanor, completely thrown off by how quickly he switched from desire to hate. One minute, he was eating me out as if I were his only salvation, and now he looks like he might actually kill me.
When my vision begins to blur, my instincts thankfully snap back into focus. I lift my arms and slam them down hard between his elbows, breaking away from the grip he had on my throat. The moment his fingers loosen, I shift my weight and pivot, driving my elbow hard into his ribs.
However, before I can put more distance between us, the animal inside him lunges. This time, I don’t give him the chance to put his hands on me again. I swing as hard as I can muster, my fist connecting with his jaw so brutally I’m shocked it doesn’t crack.
Fortunately, my punch is enough to make him stumble back, giving me just enough of an opening to push off the wall and put some space between us. I don’t wait for him to strike again. I pull my arm back, ready to swing my fist again, only to stop myself when I see something shift in Marcello’s eyes—like a storm cloud blowing off suddenly, the darkness in his eyes is now replaced by light, leaving clear blue skies behind.
Marcello clutches his jaw, blinking in confusion, and then looks up at me, seeing the fresh red marks on my neck. At that exact moment, his disorientation clears, confronted by his actions. It all hits him at once. The violence. The fear. What he almost did. What he almost let happen.
Marcello’s eyes widen in horror as his expression instantly drains of color. He staggers back as if the floor beneath him just shifted sideways.
Once I’m sure he’s no longer a threat, I take a cautious step forward and say, “Marcello—”
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, shame, panic, and shock making his whole body shake.
This time, I know he wasn’t talking to himself. That‘Don’t’was for me and me alone.
“Marcello,” I try again, needing to comfort him and try to understand what happened myself.
Still, Marcello doesn’t stick around for explanations or consoling. He bolts from the office as if the demon who possessed him were now chasing him.
As I stand there feeling bereft and confused, I wish I could say that this was the first time I ever experienced such a thing. Unfortunately, it’s not. I had more than a few squadmates in my unit who suffered from PTSD. Some with such crippling conditions that once triggered, they would let something unholy possess them too.
That blank stare in their eyes, the disorientation, the untapped rage, the manic episodes. It was all there in Marcello’s gaze. Whatever happened in his life left a mark so deep that he’s still living with the scars.
Still, that’s not what scares me most. What terrifies me is that his pain has somehow managed to become mine too.
Unfortunately, it’s Thursday, so I’m expected to give Haynes a full report on the week’s progress. To say he’s the last person I want to see tonight is the understatement of the century.
Still, after pulling into the nearly deserted parking lot, I get out of my sedan and slide into the passenger seat of his black Dodge Charger, ready to get this check-in over with.
“You’re late,” he growls, irritated at making him wait all of two minutes.
“I had to make sure I wasn’t followed,” I lie.
