Page 83 of Monsters
“Can we talk about how there wasno oneat his funeral? That’s sad. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he didn’t deserve an audience, but fuck. That’s what I like to call a life not well lived,” Lily chortles, sipping her water.
“It is sad,” Benedict agrees. “Living a life of purpose and kindness is the key. Making connections. Maintaining friendships. Helping people. I, for one, would like a thousand people at my funeral.”
I chuckle. “I don’t care. I’ll be dead.”
Salem muses, “I’m with Evelyn.”
Lily watches us all thoughtfully. “I’d rather someone turn my ashes into art and then show me at some high-end exhibit.”
Salem groans, pulling her into him and kissing her temple. “That’s such a Lily answer.”
Benedict’s hand finds my bare thigh, and his warmth sends a shiver down my spine. His eyes darken briefly as his gaze flits over my exposed chest.
We all eat like we haven’t eaten in days—salads, frites, fresh cheese, jambon, pasta, steak, and finally, a sampling of every dessert they have—in Salem’s honor, of course. Benedict clutches his side when Lily makes him laugh too hard, and as I watch my friends—my family—laughing, enjoying each other… I realize that maybe, in the most fucked up way, things had to happen how they did. I could upend the Bodleian in search of ancient hymns or pagan beliefs about consensual sex, but it wouldn’t change the outcome. And I wasn’t so sure Iwantedto change anything about my story. The only thing I can do is move forward.
We all groan uncomfortably as we leave the cafe. Benedict and I say goodbye to Lily and Salem, who are hoping to nap before Delilah is dropped off. Benedict holds my hand in his as we stroll through Paris, taking the long way to our hotel. We talk, but we also observe the city in silence. Our hands swing at our sides, and occasionally, he brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses it.
Perfection.
Nervous butterflies make my stomach twist up as we enter our hotel and take the elevator to the fourth floor. It’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve made love, mostly because I didn’t want to hurt him. But now, as we stroll toward our room with renewed purpose, I can sense that today’s the day. I follow him through the threshold, and I barely have time to register his lips on mine before his hands come flying around my waist, tugging my coat belt and removing it so that it’s a heap on the floor.
“Dress off,” he mumbles.
“Let’s take it slow,” I chide, smiling against his lips. “You’re hurt.”
“I don’t want to wait any longer. Your skin—did you know that your skin drives me wild? It’s so soft, so creamy… not being able to touch it…” he grunts, kissing the slope of my neck. “I need you.”
I laugh. French men can be so dramatic sometimes. “Fine. But if you bust a stitch…” I warn, turning around so that he can unzip my dress.
“If I bust a stitch, I can tell the doctors that every second of the agonizing pain will have been worth it.”
Well, fuck.
You Were My Ship
Benedict Martin
Paris,Present
I want to ravage her—consume her in every possible way. It’s been too long, and we’ve had other things going on. And sure, we may have fooled around in other ways. But nothing compares to being inside of her. I waited too damn long, and I never want to stop.
I pull her zipper down, letting the light-yellow dress fall to the floor. She’s wearing white, lace underwear and no bra—something I find she enjoys doing. And I enjoy it just as much, if not more. I take a step forward and cup her breasts, pushing my heavy erection into her. The physical need is all consuming, like some sort of primal scent. She backs her ass into me, and I groan, twisting her around. I kneel, but she pulls me up.
“No,” she says sternly. “Let me.”
I don’t fight her. Not when seeing her before me, at her own insistence, does something to my heart—cleaving it open somehow. It makes me so incredibly happy to see her enjoying this when it used to be her worst nightmare. I am honored, and grateful, and so fucking ready to have her mouth on my cock. I remove my jacket and shirt, throwing them to the side like discarded trash. She fumbles with my belt, so I help her to remove it, sliding it slowly out of the loopholes. She smiles at me, and my shaft responds by twitching.
Grateful—so fuckinggrateful.
She lowers my pants, followed by my underwear, and takes me in her hand. I hiss, throwing my head back. Her hands are cool and soft as they stroke me. The other hand finds my balls, and I swear I see stars as she opens her mouth for me.
“Holy shit,” I utter, my knees going weak. I reach out to hold onto the handle of the wardrobe next to us, steadying myself. Her breasts move with every movement of her head, and I swear that sight alone could make me lose it. I gently grab her hair—not directing her, but to feel the motion somewhere else, to experience her head bobbing with my hand. I resist the urge to thrust my hips forward. Instead, my lips pull away from my teeth as I bellow again.
Everything about her—every single inch—is perfect. She may think she’s tarnished, wicked, a person honed by my father and his evil ways. But to me, she’s always been the woman who walked out of that house and never looked back.
“I want you to come with me,” I say quickly, my voice husky. I pull out from between her pretty, plump lips though it pains me to do so. “Please.”
She looks at me furtively, her lips cherry red from the friction. God, I want to take a picture so I can always remember her like this. Without another word, she saunters over to the bed, bending over for me.
