These thoughts, these fantasies—they’re not real. But they could be. When she hisses and writhes and bucks, needing more of my touch, it’s so easy to just let go, to surrender to the violence that simmers just beneath the surface, clawing at the edges of my sanity, begging to be unleashed.
My mind screams at me to pull back, to save us both from what comes next. But my need for her sweeps away any semblance of control. Instead of dragging myself out of here before it’s too late, I slide another finger inside her.
She moans and lifts her hips. I curse at God and her. “I hate you.”
“You hate me?” she rasps.
“Yes,” I slide my fingers out to the tips and then slide them back in, “for making me feel this way.” For making me believe in heaven again when I’ve long accepted my place in hell.
“What way?”
Weak. Desperate. Obsessed. In pieces. Tormented because I don’t want to hurt you. I mean, I do, but… I won’t let myself hurt you.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Touching me like that, does it make you feel powerful?”
“Powerful?” I press the gun between her breasts, and a gasp stutters on her lips. “I’m holding the gun, you’re spread wide, and yet all I’m doing is getting you to orgasm.” Can’t she see who has all the power here? “I came here to punish you for what you did, and look at me… My life would have been a lot easier if I’d just killed you years ago and ended all of this pain.”
Her eyes sink toward the gun. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Then please don’t twist our first date into something we both know it’s not. I didn’t force you to take my touch. You want me as much as I want you, Reagan. If you still don’t believe it, here.” I rub her wetness over her mouth. “Lick the mess you’re making all over my hand then tell me it isn’t yours.”
Her breasts rise and fall rapidly. “I don’t want to.”
I trail the gun down to her pussy and enjoy the way she shivers. I lay it flat on her mound before I slap her pussy with it. She gasps wildly, and I slide the muzzle against her clit. “You were saying?”
Terror washes over her face, but her eyes twinkle before they give me that look I know by heart. That roll and flutter that signal she’s in her horny-little-bitch mode.
“Do as I say, Reagan.”
Twitching, she opens her mouth and lets my fingers in. Her tongue twirls around her taste and licks it off me. I swallow my groans, drinking in the view. One day, it’ll be my cock she wraps her lips around to taste herself.
“You’re such a good girl when you do as you’re told.” I drag my fingers back to her pussy when she’s done and remove the gun. “Did you have enough proof or do I have to make you lick the gun, too? Spoiler alert, it’s even slicker than my fingers.”
“Fine. I won’t deny it. I won’t lie and say my body has betrayed me because it’s bullshit. I’ve fantasized about you, and the fear that comes with you. I crave your touch. It feels intoxicating, exciting, even familiar, as if it makes sense, as if you’ve touched me a hundred times before. Now, it’s your turn. Tell me how you feel.”
Her gaze searches my face for something—maybe reassurance, maybe the truth. I don’t know how to give my truth to her without drawing blood. What I feel isn’t simple. It’s everything at once, a torrent of emotions and twisted desires crashing together in chaos.
Touching her is like holding fire in my hands. It burns and yet illuminates what will be her worst nightmare. There are parts of me that want to possess her completely, to claim her in ways that terrify me. Parts that no longer know where the line is—if it even exists.
“Now you don’t speak.” Disappointment laces her whisper.
She doesn’t understand. How could she? I’ve spent years keeping the monster hidden, locked away where it can’t touch her. But now, standing here, so close to her, I realize it’s always known I can’t hold it forever, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment I’d finally crack. I can’t stay away. No matter how hard I try, I keep coming back to her, like a moth circling the flame.
I want to lose myself in her until there’s nothing left but the two of us, intertwined in a way that could either save me or destroy us both.
“Then let me see your face and glimpse you feel,” she demands. “I don’t care if you’re Beast or Phantom or a hideous mythical creature. I just want to seeyou. It’s the least I deserve, to see what I’m up against.”
“You deserve the world, and I’d bring it down for you. I wish I could touch you in the light the way you let me in the dark, but I can’t. I can’t let you see me. Not now.”
“Why?”
Silence stretches between us again, thick and suffocating.
Hurtful confusion darkens her eyes. “I’ll answer for you. It’s because you’re not a stranger emerging from the shadows. Because I’ve seen your face before countless times, but you think I didn’t really see you. So you wear this mask, hoping this time I will.”
I’ve put on this mask, thinking it’s impenetrable. Suddenly, it feels paper-thin. How could she see through it so easily? She’s right, of course. I’ve hidden behind this facade, terrified of being rejected once she sees the real me. But now, faced with her understanding, I’m even more afraid.
What if I let her in and she still walks away? What if the broken, yearning creature beneath the mask is too much for anyone to love?
