“Hello, wicked one. We missed you,” Paxton practically growls, removing his hand from my cheek before lowering it. He slithers his fingers down, working his way to the French braids that drape over my chest. I purposely gathered my hair into their favorite style before heading to meet them.
Weaving my onyx hair in between his strong fingers, he lets out an approving groan. “You know these are our kryptonite,Morta.” His husky voice vibrates through my body.
My gaze lowers to their demanding touch, when I notice the grime that paints their skin.
“The two of you seriously aren’t touching me right now with those dirty-ass hands,” I yelp with a giggle.
Cillian ignores my comment about the soiled state of their palms, moving his grip to my waist as he lifts me upward. Pinching the sliver of skin that pokes out from my shorts, Cillian cups my ass. He tilts his chin toward my lips, which are now angled toward his mouth, with his elevated hold on me. Landing his lips on mine, he kisses me. Our kiss starts subtle and sweet, morphing into rough and intoxicating.
Extending his tongue, he plays with the barbell so the cool metal of his piercing brushes against my lips. I open my mouth, sticking my tongue out for him to take as he pleases. And just like I knew he would, he slowly takes the wet flesh of my tongue and begins sucking it. The way he tugs at my tongue, taking it deeper into his mouth, is enough to make me come undone right here.
With our mouths still entwined, he lowers his teeth past where my lips are moist from the remnants of our kiss. He bites down on my bottom lip, pulling it outward, kneading it between his teeth, before releasing it, making me squeal with wild desire.
Tilting his forehead so that it now presses against mine, while still in his possessive hold, he parts his lips. “She’s our kryptonite, Pax.” He lowers me, shifting his hand to the long-intertwined hair that grazes over my supple breasts. “These are just a bonus,” he says with a playful yank.
He lets go of my hair, stepping back near where Paxton stands. My stomach flips in excitement seeing them together, with me, and free from the confines of their club vests. Even though the decorated leather complemented their tall, muscular, and inked frames, it was the equivalent to wearing invisible shackles. Now, without the presence of the cursed leather, we are free.
Looking past the seductive inked wall they create when standing next to each other, my gaze is drawn behind them to the deteriorating beauty of what once stood as a functioning carnival.
They inch closer, closing the space between us, bringing their hands back to where they belong—on me. Pax cups my chin in his hand. “Like what you see?” he asks, nudging his head back to the white elephant standing behind us.
“So, life on the run from my father wasn’t scary enough, you had to bring us to one of the most haunted spots in the tri-state area?” I tease.
I’m no stranger to visiting abandoned sites, but this is unlike anything I have ever seen in person. The Night’s Plutonian, once known for providing cheap thrills, now remains utterly devoid of life, aside from the reputation that proceeds it.
Places like this, decayed and abandoned, put into perspective what it is to live. We may walk different paths, and we may weather different storms, but nothing and no one is exempt from having an end. Eventually, what blooms will wither, and what flows will diminish. It’s morbid, sure, but when you have lived a life abandoned—either in the physical sense, like Paxton and Cillian, or emotionally, as I have—you tend to find beauty amongst decay. Peace in ruin, hope in nothingness. Places like this one humble my soul and let my imagination run wild about what once was and what could be, even in its despair.
“Since when have you ever shied away from a scare?” Paxton asks, bringing his hand to mine. He grabs hold of one hand while Cillian secures my other palm into his. “We have a special evening planned just for you. Let’s head in so we can wash these filthy hands of ours…”
“So, we can do even filthier things to you,” Cillian chimes in.
* * *
We walkthrough the disheveled thicket of unkempt greenery that drowns out the once-paved path. With each step we take, it feels like we are being swallowed alive by the overgrowth that dominates the landscape.
It’s difficult to determine where exactly my feet land because the ground feels so uneven. I squeeze both Cillian and Paxton’s hands as I walk in the middle of them, keeping my gaze where I am shifted downward so that I don’t fall.
“Right over here,” Pax exclaims.
I look up to where he points his free, muraled arm. Releasing my hand from his, he moves his swagger-drenched stride closer to the tunnel entrance.
My mouth parts in awe not only from its impressive size but at the detailed artwork surrounding it, which somehow looks unscathed from the decay that has taken over.
The sight is as breathtaking as it is haunting, which only intrigues me more.
On either side of the dark arched opening are two substantial pieces of wood cut to look like large ocean waves. However, the way the paint is still present in vibrant shades of blue, black, and red, makes it look more like a menacing tsunami-sized wave than a calming ocean.
Centered above the archway is a bronze sculpture of a crested helmet adorned with a red feathered accent. Below the feather are two painted rams whose horns are facing each other. Their heads are tilted, looking as though they are ready for battle.
Just below the dueling rams is an elongated sign with red painted, Old English lettering that reads “Welcome to The Night’s Plutonian Shore.”
I continue to take in the art that has survived all these years, when Paxton clears his throat, stealing my attention. “What do you say, Lo? Want to get lost for a bit?” he asks with a grin that is as delicious as he is. Fuck, as they both are.
The word “lost” reverberates in my head. A concept that most avoid at all costs, but the idea of being adrift in a sea of darkness—or anywhere, for that matter—with them, sounds like bliss.
I stare at the tunnel that awaits us before I answer. My spine tingles the longer I look at the ominous darkness that lies ahead. There is something within the still bleakness that calls to me. Just like the voice that seems to have inserted itself within me, it’s something I can’t explain, but I sense it pulling me toward it.
Something tells me that once I step foot into the Night’s Plutonian that exists beyond this portal, I’m not going to exit the same way I entered.
