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Without a word, he closes his mouth over my clit. His tongue is wet and soft, the sucking motion making me gasp as I drop my head back and bite my lip, drawing blood.
He licks the length of me from one hole to the other, then flicks my clit with his tongue. Just when I think I can’t take another moment, when I’m on the edge of orgasm, he’s up on his feet, pulling me to mine.
I stumble.
He wraps a powerful arm around my lower back, cradling me, holding me to him as he looks at me with his nearly black eyes. His lips glisten, and I smell myself on him. When he kisses me, I open to him, tasting myself, and as wrong as it is, I want more.
I want him to finish what he has started more than once.
I want to come. Want him to make me come. It’s not the same when it’s my fingers doing the work.
He pulls back with a grin.
I’m breathless, clinging to his shoulders to stay upright.
“I’ll finish you tonight.” He kisses me again, then steps backward. “After I’ve made you my wife.”
I only remember the phone I’m somehow still holding in my hand when his hand closes over mine, and he relieves me of it.
“No,” I start, almost like I’m coming out of a trance.
“You’ll get it back after the ceremony. It’s yours. Now let’s go. The vultures hunger for their feast.”
With his arm around my lower back, we walk out of the room and through the house, down the stairs to the main floor where a fire burns in every fireplace and music plays from invisible speakers. Candles are lit and a meal that should make my mouth water, makes my stomach turn instead.
We walk through the dining room where we ate a few days ago and into the large kitchen where several staff are hard at work.
Damian takes off his jacket, and before I can figure out what’s going on, he drapes it over my shoulders, and we’re outside.
It’s a clear night, colder than I’ve felt in a long time. I shiver even with his jacket on my shoulders and his arm around me.
I hurry to keep up in my high heels as he leads me over a path that’s only recently been cleared to a small stone building in the distance. I realize it’s the chapel as we near it. I can smell incense.
God. How long as it been since I’ve smelled incense? I haven’t been inside a church in ages. Since the funerals. After those, I’d had enough of churches to last me a lifetime.
The warm glow of lights comes through the two windows at the front and the deep red stained glass above the door. It’s the crucifixion scene.
Someone begins to play the piano inside.
Damian climbs up the stairs, taking my hand to draw me along with him as my attention is absorbed by that window. When he pushes what appears to be an ancient door open, I can make out that the pianist is playing “Ave Maria.”
All the faces inside turn to us. To me.
Damian slips his jacket off my shoulders and draws the lace over my head to cover my face, skewing my view. Shielding me from them. When he pushes a small bouquet into my hand, I have no choice but to accept but wince instantly and drop the flowers.
Blood red roses litter the floor at my feet, their thorns uncut. I look at him, and he just watches me. I want to ask him why he would do that. But I look down again and remember the dead roses that littered the marble floor of my uncle’s house.
Blood on white marble. Blood on stone. Always blood with him.
I touch my finger to his mouth and smear the drop of blood over his lips. I don’t know why I do this. Don’t know what I expect.
He licks his lips, and I think he likes the taste of it. The taste of my blood.
The music changes to a bridal march. How out of place.
I turn again to face the altar where, through the pattern of the silk, I see the waiting priest in all his robes. In the front pew sits a woman and a young boy. Michela and her son, I think. Michela dressed in black with lace over a part of her face, too. She doesn’t smile, but the little boy is up on his knees in the pew, arms on the back of it and smiling wide at me. He’s the only normal looking one in here.
Across the aisle sits Lucas, the good side of his face to me, and I can’t help but shrink away.
And at the front of the church is the old man in his chair, a heavy blanket draped over his legs. The man who was with him last time—what was his name—is standing off along the wall nearest him.
