Page 32 of Beautiful Deception

“Don’t look at me like that,” Remo warns from between my knees, the roll of bandage half gone as he cuts the end to tie a precise knot.

The aroma of herbs transcends the scent of frost on the windows and antique wall plaster imbued with ties of history and care.

My eyes wander again toward the allure Remo tends to have when he’s focused. A rebellious action of sorts, one stemming from malice and wanting to steal his attention back to me—where it belongs with his hands.

Oh, I think in grave danger. I shouldn’t. This is a dangerous path to go down, especially with Dr. Kian firmly taking a seat in my heart.

And Remo comes with depravity on his soft lips and mercy in his breath. He clenches my jaw, power in his fingertips demanding obedience, and slants his lips tighter to mine like he’s baiting the drowsy lust swirling under my skin.

My heart quivers with a soft whimper, retaliating against his lips for leaving butterflies in my stomach. It drains all the fight in my arms; one falls onto my lap while the other grips his shoulder to just touch him, to feel the coil of tight muscles jumping at my touch.

The effects I have on him, despite not doing anything, feel exhilarating.

“Sorry,” he purrs huskily to me or Dr. Kian, but his breath fanning over my quivering lips answers the doubt. “I got impatient.”

“It’s alright,” Dr. Kian says taciturnly, albeit somewhat doting. “Do whatever you want. I can fix her when she breaks.”

With slightly tousled hair, heavy with longing in his eyes, Remo ignores my hand pushing at his shoulder. The muscles flex—a taunt of its unparalleled strength and the hesitation, the desire, in my palm. If I wanted, and he knows this, I could’ve and still can tell him to stop.

One inch, then two. Remo’s close enough to count the stars flickering in his eyes, yet the melted ink swallows them just as quickly as they grow with the lamp’s dancing flame.

“Then,” Dr. Kian purrs from the left, a little detached from his usual warmth, and presses his lips to mine.

Soft and delicate, just like everything about him, but so vehemently greedy as he smiles against mine, and the airy whimper tumbles between my lips.

“I don’t like being left out.”

The air is as tense as the strain between my thighs, waves of heat climbing across the tender skin, and my breath hitches softly. A blissful twitch on my clit startles me, and pools of desire dance inside my stomach as I push back a whine fluttering on my tongue.

I squirm under their attention as Remo’s finger dips behind my neck and rubs the sore spot with enough pressure to make my knees weak. It’s as if he’s wiping something off the frail skin and replacing the tenderness with the bruising power of his grip.

A wispy brush of Dr. Kian’s hand on the small of my back intensifies the pleading fatigue that drapes a veil over my eyes. The feeling comes unexpectedly, and my hand slips from Remo’s shoulder to slump back against the waiting touch on my spine.

The herbs, I think faintly.

Dr. Kian kisses my temple as he chuckles, his hushed words drifting into my ears like a lullaby. I’m scared of falling when the black ink spreads through my dizzy mind, coloring the pale ceiling, and the ground cracks into the abyss.

Remo holds my hand, lacing our fingers together, and cuddles them until the trembling escapes from my bones.

“Everything will be alright,” Dr. Kian whispers, “the herbs soaked a little too long, that’s all. Don’t be afraid.”

It’s a guilty confession under iridescently divine skies from two sanctimonious sinners.

Chapter Nine

__________

Maya

It’s an unspoken notion, a thought out of reverence for his job, that Remo has to get physical with resisting suspects. It comes with the territory of being an FBI agent to use reasonable force in dire circumstances.

So, when the clock ticks through the last hour before the rescue team arrives, he stands with evil residing in the silhouettes of his muscles.

The limp body, which I recognize as Joe from the ashen features, is suspended in the air with his neck securely in Remo’s hand. The same way he had treated that man when I first met him at the crash site.

It’s difficult to disconnect both images from becoming one, but for some reason, the conviction in my heart to stick to its slow tempo is mesmerized by it all: the power in his hand, the rawness of his energy, and the chaotic violation of his honor.

To protect and to serve, it ends with a silver needle snapping in half and the faint glimpses of black gloves.

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