ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

12: MargaRita

ROMAN

The Souvenir of Gaia.

I took the emerald lace home a year ago. I framed it in gold and hung it behind the barn doors, where Asmodeus is carved into the wood.

Every time I sinned like Asmodeus, I sinned in that room. And every time I gave in — to lust, to hunger, to the pleasure hidden between a woman's thighs — I thought of Gaia.

Her lace thong still hangs from the bedpost, a trophy from that night. I tasted her. And kept tasting many flavors since then, but none of them came close.

And now I've found her again.

I killed her husband like Asmodeus.

She sits in front of me now like the forbidden fruit itself.

Just the thought of her is enough to make my tongue drag over my lips. She has no idea it's me. No idea her husband's killer once had her trembling under his hands a year ago.

A Kiss of Gratitude.

That's what she had called it.

Soon, she'll know who she gave that addictive nectar to.

Finding her wasn't planned. I only meant to add the flower I took from her hair to my small, almost nonexistent collection — because she reminded me of Gaia before the wedding.

Then she unraveled everything by whispering the safe word I once gave her that night I almost ruined her. Gaia.

And I couldn't kill her.

So I'm taking her home with me.

Boarding was smooth. No complications, no curious eyes. She stayed composed — quiet for once — no trouble at all.

And yet she still manages to be trouble.

Looking at her makes me restless.

I try to distract myself. Sexting helps. I'm stretched out on the bed, phone in hand.

The pictures are... decent. Big breasts wrapped in black lace. Still, they don't compare to the ones I saw yesterday — white lace, softer mounds and looking so damn real to suck and bite.

I exhale and let the phone fall onto the duvet. I can't focus.

Not just because I want to ruin the brat sitting across from me, but because her muffled sobs are getting on my nerves.

I glance over.

She's curled up on the couch, her shoulders shaking as she cries.

"What now?" I mutter under my breath. 

Her crying grating on my nerves, ruining all my good mood. I prefer my women shaking or crying for a different reason.

"Why the hell are you crying again? Stop being a weeper. Your rapist husband is dead. You're alive. What more do you want?"

Her head snaps up, her eyes red and wet. "You're such a rotten bastard!"

I lean back, unbothered. "Says the one who clapped for my rotten deeds while I tore him apart... like your favorite natural disaster."

Her lips part, but what comes out is broken and uneven. "One day I'm clapping with you, the next I'm your death... I... hate you..."

I chuckle under my breath.

I wish she'd be clapping with me the way I like... one day.

"Hate me all you want. And your threats aren't enough to make me shit my pants," I tell her dryly. "Now, shut the fuck up before I clap that bratty ass of yours..." I warn her.