Page 55

Who the fuck am I?

“Good morning, love,” I say, releasing her hair and pulling her on top of me.

She moans, pressing her lips to mine. Then, she sits up until she’s straddling my fucking cock. I groan as she rolls her hips over my shaft, making her arousal fully known. She’s so goddamn wet right now, and the way she’s coating my length in it is going to kill me.

“Watch it, love,” I warn, grabbing her hips to hold her still.

She shoots me a devious grin before lifting her hips, reaching down to grab my cock in her hand, and lining it up to her entrance. Before I can stop her, she lowers herself fully onto me. Fuuuck.

“What was that?” she asks, smiling above me as she lifts herself up and down again, this time slower.

My cock grazes against the inner walls of her pussy with each painfully slow thrust she allows me. I’d take over, but control looks so fucking good on my little siren. I can’t stop the growl that escapes me as she quickens her pace above me, digging her nails into the skin on my chest until a thin line of blood appears beneath them.

“Goddamn, love,” I moan, losing myself in the feel of her and in the way she loses herself to the moment.

She tosses her head back to her bedroom ceiling, toying with her breast with one hand while seeking pleasure between her thighs with the other. I begin to feel that spine-tingling high building within seconds, and I know she’s not far behind.

“Callum,” she breathes out. “I’m going to come all over your cock.”

Her walls begin to tighten around me, and her filthy fucking mouth sends me plummeting over the edge right along with her. She falls over on top of me, breathless and so fucking perfect. I’ve never felt so at peace as I do right now, so completely whole with her in my arms. The feeling is as terrifying as it is all-consuming, because now I have something worth losing again.

“Come with me,” I whisper against her hair, standing and scooping her into my arms.

“Not like I have much of a choice, huh?” she asks, giggling as she kicks her feet and wraps her arms around my neck. I carry her to the bathroom and sit her on the side of her large spa-style tub, leaning past her to start the water.

“Is Callum Thorne an aftercare king?” she asks, raising her brows.

“A what?” I ask, confused.

She stares up at me, pursing her lips. “You know, aftercare,” she says, matter-of-fact, like I absolutely should know what the fuck she’s saying right now. She stands from the tub’s ledge and walks to a cabinet, opening it to grab a large purple bottle from inside.

“What’s that?” I ask, my eyes trailing down her body and back up, loving how fucking comfortable she is like this. If it were up to me, I’d have her walking around naked all the damn time.

“Aftercare products,” she says, removing the lid and pouring the deep purple liquid into the stream of water.

Glancing down, I watch as bubbles materialize from beneath the surface and spread across the water. The smell of lavender begins to fill the space around us. Extending a hand to her, she smiles and places her palm against mine. She climbs over the ledge with my assistance, and I climb in behind her.

“Come here,” I say, wrapping my arms around her waist and tugging her against me.

A low groan escapes me at the way the water’s warmth collides with the feel of her body against my own. She leans back against me, resting her head on my shoulder and wrapping her arms around mine. Her thumb strokes lazily over my own, unaware that the feeling of it sends a million little knives carving their way beneath my flesh—all the way to the place my heart should be. Her touch is now something I crave, something I don’t think I could live without.

“Mmm.” She sighs, her body relaxing wholly into mine.

This is the most at peace I’ve felt in some time. I could die here, easily. It would be a beautiful death. That singular thought sends my mind into a downward spiral of all the fucked-up ways I feel about the woman in my arms.

I want to cut myself open and shove her beneath my skin, so that she’ll never be able to leave me. I trace patterns on her inner thigh beneath the water’s edge, imagining ways to mark her there. I want to destroy her and put her back together all the same. I want to hoard her in my basement and never let her see the light of day. But mostly, I want her to see the ruin inside of me and still decide that it’s where she belongs.

I am so fucking fucked.

How could I have allowed this to transpire into something so dark and obsessive? Lydia’s soft voice cuts through the darkness like a thread of light.

“What do these mean?” she asks, running her fingers up and down the ink that marks my flesh.

I track the geometric patterns wrapping around my left forearm, the symbol of structure and control that I yearn for etched into my skin. On my right arm, there are splatters of color, broken clocks, and music notes. They tell the story of the things I’ve lost, the things that broke me, and the parts that healed me. It’s the perfect contrast that explains the constant inner turmoil of my mind.

“Oh, nothing, really,” I lie. “They’re just random patterns that I thought looked nice.”

“Mhm, sure,” she says, tracing the broken-winged, blue butterfly on the inside of my right wrist.