Page 20 of Fall
It used to be control. Orders. Demands. These days, it’s watching this beautiful woman sleep, knowing I’ve taken everything from her only to be rewarded with her consistent consent. Her existence rests in my hands and a tiny piece of her feisty heart beats for me. I’ve seen it in her eyes. Felt it inside her body. Breathed it into my lungs. That realization makes me nauseous. It’s not something I wanted from her, and I’ll begrudgingly give it up if it guarantees her safety.
I continue to stare as if she’s a mythical creature, a wood nymph, or worse––mine. Of course, she’s none of those things. Beija flor is an innocent soul who deserves a peaceful life with a family. With people who can love her. Not imprisoned by a hollow villain like me.
The aching throb in my dick won’t settle. It doesn’t help when my gaze trails over the sheet swathing soft snowy flesh that constantly taunts me of euphoria. If I crawled over the mattress and woke her with my mouth, she’d beg me to fill her all over again. And I’d be powerless to resist.
Energy hurtles to my balls. Fucking hasn’t satisfied my curiosity or my growing appetite for her. I’m left with a searing necessity to fuck her until we’re both incapable of more. An out-of-control craving that only she incites.
Knowledge is power, and I know everything about her. Not just education and pedigree—her immortal flavor, too.
Chills rattle my bones. My belly coils when an overbearing arousal forces me to fist my empty hand instead of her disheveled hair.
After everything we’ve been through, I’m certain I can trust her to leave here and never look back. And that’s all that matters.
And my worst nightmare?
Well, that will be watching her board an aircraft and knowing her life will go on without me. Then I’ll stash my sister's murderer in an old poachers hut in the forest's belly. The thoughts of both events equally squeeze every drop of amity from my organs. And I’m mentally unprepared for either.
Tonight, I’m sitting on the periphery of darkness, peering into a world of light and wishing I could step inside. But that’s impossible for a broken man like me.
I take another swig of liquor and hold the bottle up to the lamplight. It’s less than half full now. My knees almost buckle from exhaustion, pulling me down beside her on the mattress. The reckless plan of numbing my anxiety has made me extraordinarily horny in return. Perhaps it’s the fact she’s blissfully unaware of how I’ve watched her sleep every night since she collapsed at my feet. How I’ve longed for ownership of something so pure even though I don’t deserve her virtue.
Earlier we laid in bed together until her pretty lashes lowered, and her body succumbed to rest. With her cheek nestled on my bicep and wild curls tickling my ribs, I relished the sense of intimacy. Meaningful human touch. Female interaction.
An hour or two passed with me being content and her finally free of the debt she owes. It felt too real. Too joyful for acceptance.
My stomach sank into the mattress, craving a shot of reality to settle me again. Never surrender. Don’t let the universe know she’s special to me.
Rather than cherish the moment, I gently pushed her away and returned to my role as midnight predator. The guy who watches, but doesn’t touch. The freak who jerks off while she flits in her luxurious cage, blissfully unaware of the intrusion.
But having her in my bed—it’s testing me. Straining my self-imposed limitations. Hijacking my life.
With a bottle of booze and the peacefulness of nightfall on my side, seconds slowed as if time was my friend. I left her alone while I retrieved my gun after kicking it out of her reach. When I came back up, as expected, she was still here. It felt right to find her curled up with a healing scar lining her cheek. The scar I’ve treated and kept a close eye on since she arrived.
I've watched her sleep on my bed for hours. Her imminent departure hangs over me like a swaying noose. I dread the all too familiar emptiness––the bitter loneliness that will creep back into my world when she leaves her rightful spot in my home. The desire for isolation used to bemymaster. It became the stick I beat myself with to keep motivated. Now I’m kneeling before the hangman, preparing to meet the darkness and wishing I could alter the course of destiny.
A light sigh escapes her, and I can’t help but find it utterly sexy. I reach out and pinch the cotton sheet hiding her feminine curves. One tug and it reveals my version of paradise. My beija flor’s exposed breasts, milky skin, fleshy naval and the apex of her womanly thighs. It’s all right there. Teasing me without a glass screen to block my greedy urges.
I messily douse my fingers in cachaça, then circle the halo of pale brown skin around her nipple. The purposeful touch stiffens my dick to solid when she responds. I’ve breached the boundary of observation. Or whatever my sick mind concludes this obsessive behavior to be.
Pale eyelids fuss. Lashes flutter. A pretty smile spreads across her cheeks. Dainty fingers reach for my hand. “Come lie down beside me, Dante.”
Our fingers graze. “I’d rather not sleep.” Closing my eyes shortens the last few hours before sunlight. The last few moments I have with her. The last few peaceful minutes before my guys bundle Miguel into a chopper and bring him here.
“Are you afraid I’ll watch you rest, like you’re watching me?” She shifts so a trickle of liquor glides over the contour of her breast. Heat waves roll in my core. “You look very serious.” She catches the bead of cachaça with her finger and slots it between her lips. My dick twangs when her mouth wraps around the digit and she sucks with seductive purpose. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“You,” I answer simply. “It’s refreshing to think of something other than…” Instead of slaughter. Rotten retribution. Violence.
“Tell me.” She props herself up on her elbows.
“Other than revenge.”
A light crease dents her brow. “Whyareyou out here in the wilderness and cut off from the world?”
I’m not in the mood to reminisce, so I sit silently, then raise the bottleneck to her stomach. Liquid streams into her tiny belly button and wells up in a puddle. She gasps, but stays perfectly still. Arcing over her, I lap up the sweet fruity sugarcane juice that’s made even better with a hint of beija flor.
I want more.
Her fingers dive into my hair. I drag my mouth lower on a mission to devour. I don’t need to order her legs apart. They willingly splay wide in an offering. Aware her swollen flesh must be sore from earlier; I take this opportunity to worship her instead. Hungry licks and sweeps are teamed with my hum of enjoyment.
