While carrying me, he pulls down my dress’s zipper and I help him push it over my head, then the bra follows right after.
My nipples brush against his shirt and I suppress a groan of pleasure. Despite the pain throbbing between my legs, I can’t deny the attraction that beats deep inside me.
I’ve never been as turned on in my life as I am in Landon’s embrace.
I’m in a beast’s arms, wearing nothing but torn fishnet stockings and boots, but I feel strangely safe.
Wanted.
Enveloped in a lusty cloud.
Certainly needed.
Landon pushes a huge blank canvas from the corner of the room and lays me on top of it so that he’s hovering over me.
My legs are still wrapped around his thighs, refusing to let him go for some reason. I’ve been thinking so much about this, imagining and playing it in my head that the thought of it going wrong gives me anxiety.
Both his hands wrap around my throat as he thrusts deeper but at an unhurried pace. The sound of his cock smeared with my blood and arousal echoes in the air like an aphrodisiac.
“Bleed for me.” Thrust. “Break for me.” Thrust. “Make me your one and only.”
My thighs tremble and pleasure knots my belly. The pain slowly but surely explodes into a thousand pleasurable sparks.
I hold on to his muscular arms, not so I can remove them but because I need the anchor. Or maybe I want the connection, as heartless as Landon is.
Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine sex would be this tantalizing. Landon dragged out my most animalistic side and stroked it, literally and figuratively.
The harder he chokes, the stronger the flood of my arousal. The deeper his thrusts, the quicker my breath hitches.
My intelligible sounds echo in the air and he rolls his hips, pulls out, then slams back in again. My back arches as my mouth opens and closes soundlessly.
“Your body is a temple for mine, little muse. I love the feel of your pussy when you’re struggling for air. It clenches and milks my cock so tightly. You’re quickly becoming my favorite fuck hole.”
He pulls out again, only his crown staying inside, and then thrusts back in. “You’ll take every last inch, won’t you?”
I don’t know if I’m too demented to ever be cured, but my hips jerk with every thrust. With each look into his cold, empty gaze, I drown deeper.
For a fraction of a second, I think I see some semblance of emotion, but it’s fleeting and soon disappears as if it was never there.
It probably wasn’t.
I’m the one who’s chasing an impossible notion, hoping, even as I’m torn apart by this beast, that there’s a corner in his soul I can reach.
I’m being devoured by a cold, merciless monster and I don’t want it to stop.
My thighs shake and the orgasm washes over me in long bursts. His thrusts turn animalistic, painful, even, but I revel in each and every one.
Landon looks like his favorite Greek statues when he’s coming—an absolutely stunning god, but cold and cryptic.
I’m nothing but a warm hole he’s using for the physical climax.
Just like he’s nothing but a dick I’m using for my own pleasure.
It’s absolutely nothing more, I tell myself even as I feel the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes.
Landon lifts one hand from my throat and wipes the wetness, then brings it to his lips as he whispers, “You’re becoming a dangerous addiction, little muse.”
And then he comes inside me in long, hot spurts.
I can take being an addiction. After all, that’s what I think about him as well.
A lethal, irreversible addiction that might or might not push me to my downfall.
20
LANDON
Contrary to common belief, primarily told by my haters and those who had the misfortune of being collateral damage to my chaos-thirsty soul, I’m not a beast.
I know, I know. It’s hard to believe that notion, considering my anarchy plots that could and would bring Satan’s edgy worshipers to tears.
My beast is different from the general consensus most people have about me, my ex-therapists included.
It’s not me. It’s part of me.
My beast has been hooked to my bones from the moment I was conceived by my parents. Pretty sure my and Bran’s beast got split and I received the louder one. His can be easily kept in chains. Mine would kill me before I were to attempt such blasphemy.
This may shock the antisocial disorder police, but I actually don’t relish hurting people for the fuck of it—though everyone, my family and friends included, would tell you otherwise.
Truth is, the individuals I hurt just happened to be in my path.
I don’t react well to obstacles. The moment I see one, I come up with a hundred and one solutions to eliminate it, and because I need anarchy, I usually go for the most difficult resolution that will cause the most damage just so I’ll feel somewhat accomplished.
Real.
Alive.
I also take immense pleasure in bringing others to their knees in front of me. It’s an addictive power that I need to satiate as much as my need for chaos.
My beast is easygoing. All I have to do is offer him some violence, anarchy, and possible blood and he’ll be golden, lounging around like a lion in his cave.
My beast is also quite pragmatic. Deep down in his black soul, he wants to murder à la serial killer style and look into people's eyes as they turn lifeless. He wants the power of holding other people’s existence in the palm of his hand like their custom-made god.
He ranks high on emotion and catastrophe control and would be a perfect candidate for a wanted murderer—famous but would never be caught.
However, that thought never has and never will come to fruition for a very simple reason. A moment of gratification isn’t worth the damage that could be inflicted throughout my lifetime in the 0.01 percent chance I’m caught.
Imagine—me behind bars? The blasphemy.
And yet right now, my beast is far from being rational, peaceful, or relaxed. I’ve been standing here for the past…fuck knows how long. An hour? Three? Five? It’s probably close to dawn and I haven’t been able to sleep a wink.
I sculpted a stroke of genius, then shoved it at the back of the other statues with the canvas that has Mia’s blood all over it.
Virginal blood.
Summoning Satan using that is a tempting idea, but I’m opting for something a lot more devilish.
Something that defies reality and puts everything I’ve done thus far to shame.
I light a cigarette and exhale a cloud of smoke under the shadows of early morning slipping through the window whose cracks I filled with clay after Mia was shivering a few weeks ago.
Sucking on my cigarette, I stroll to where Mia lies on the sofa, her small body wrapped in my shirt.
Only my shirt.
It’s become a habit now. Even when her dress is intact, she also puts on my clothes before she falls into slumber.
The fabric rides up her pale thighs, revealing my fading marks and the fresh ones I added today. Earlier, her inner thighs were smudged with proof of her innocence, but I smeared every drop on the canvas and licked the rest clean.
I needed to devour the evidence even when she looked mortified by the attention. I licked and nibbled on her soft core, then sucked on her thighs, stomach, and mound. Everywhere I could leave a hickey of ownership.
The whole time, she watched me with a bizarre fascination bordering on both lust and confusion.
Mia might act righteous, but she’s also harboring a beast. It’s different from mine and has irregular codes of conduct, but it’s a beast all the same.
I inhale the cancer stick into my lungs and release a trail of smoke in the air as I circle the sofa on and on as if that’ll make sense of the sheer chaos brewing inside me.
Mia was only supposed to be a temporary muse, an outlet through which my creativity climaxes—literally and figuratively.
But as I look at her soft features, lips slightly parted and thick lashes fanning her cheeks, I realize how sorely mistaken I’ve been.