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"When your mom died?" I ask, remembering what he's told me before.
He nods. "I told you that I used her blood to jerk off. It was my very first time, but it felt amazing. Something about seeing the unmoving body, it just made me feel unjudged and free," he explains, walking back toward his canvas and taking a seat on the stool. "The first time I killed someone, I was thirteen. Stabbing her was an accident, but I couldn't stop once I started." His eyes turn black. He's never told me the entire story before.
"I was cutting something in the kitchen, and she kept hitting me, so I tried to wave her off with the knife. She kept coming, and the next thing I knew, she was impaled on the knife. She would've lived if she'd gone to the hospital, but her blood was so beautiful, so I kept going." A smile paints his lips.
"Her wide-open eyes stared at me, her blood covered my hands, and I felt the same way I did when my mother died."
I rest a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently to assure him. "Do you miss it?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Not at all. I realize now that I was filling a void I didn't know I had."
"What's the void you were filling?"
"You. The urges stopped when I met you. You calmed my demons. I didn't hurt anyone for a long time. Not until you went to live with Aunt Willa, and she told me you never wanted to see me again. I started again because I missed you. When I came back into your life, I put all of that behind me and stopped. I haven't done that in a very long time."
"You haven't done any of that in ten years? Do you miss it or even feel bad?" I ask in genuine surprise.
"No, Lee, I haven't. I've had a lot of nights with my left hand and my spit, but never with my victim's blood. And no, I don't miss it or feel any remorse. I probably should, but I didn't care about them." His confession causes a grin to spread across my face.
I'm glad to know he's over his phase of murdering women, but part of me can't help wondering if his urges will return and if I'll be enough for him. He’s interested in something particular, and I hope I can one day fill his wants and desires.
"If I accidentally hurt you, I'd never be able to live with myself. I'd be so remorseful. I'd probably kill myself because I'd never be able to live with what I'd done. I could never hurt you." I smile at his words, feeling an odd sense of relief.
What does it say about me that I don't care that he killed innocent women as long as he'd never hurt me?What type of person does that make me?
Sometimes, I like feeling pain. I want to bleed; it turns me on to see my blood. It reminds me of the time King chained me in his playroom and carved my skin like butter; it’s the hardest I've ever came in my life.
I thought I was weird for liking it because he was hurting me, and I compared him to Sebastian.
Sebastian hurt me, but I didn't like it. Now I realize that was two different types of hurt. My guys have never hurt me to cause pain, only pleasure, and they'd never do anything to me that I don't consent to and am not entirely okay with. If I ever wanted them to stop, I know they would.
Looking behind Ace and toward the finished canvas, I smile. "Your painting is nice," I say, changing the subject.
He shrugs. "Eh, it's okay. It's missing something, though."
"What's it missing?"
"Your blood." My eyes widen in surprise, and my skin warms with lust and desire at the possibility of bleeding for him.
We all have our kinks, and blood happens to be mine.
"Do you trust me?" he asks. I nod quickly. There's no doubt about it. "Take off your shirt." He stands, knocking the stool to the floor.
My pupils dilate, and desire takes over from the promise of getting to bleed for Ace, something I've never done for him before.
I remove my thin cotton tank top with steady fingers, revealing my bare chest. I haven't worn a bra in days, so I'm bare without my shirt.
Ace's eyes widen as they roam over my exposed flesh. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and a chill shoots down my spine.
He looks at me with a hungry glimmer in his dark eyes as I desperately wait for his next move.
His eyes connect with the butterfly that, months ago, King carved into my skin under my right breast. My heart aches at the memory, wishing I could return to that moment. My panties dampen, my pussy also desperate to return to that moment.
Stepping toward me, Ace drops to his knees in front of me and presses a kiss to my stomach.
He sticks out his warm velvet tongue and runs it along my flesh, then stands as he licks up my body to my chin.
"You taste good." He grins, gripping firmly on my sleep shorts. He balls them in his fists and rips them off with an audible tear, earning a gasp from me at the sting of pain when it rips away from my skin. "Are you certain that you trust me?"
