Page 49 of Devious Delusions

The line continues ringing as anger distorts time and I grab her wrist to get the cunt away from her since she’s incapable of doing it herself. She whimpers and kicks into my shin as she bends her arm back and tries to push me away.

“Get the fuck off me,” she seethes, still fighting. Always fighting.

I end the call and my fingers tighten around her wrist as the screen darkens along with my tone. “You let him fuck your throat, koukla mou. Now I have to make it mine again.”

Her fingers wrap around the respirator over my mouth and the straps running under the helmet are tugged against my hair as she shouts, “You’re not real!”

I laugh again. She’s so crazy it’s a turn on, and I push my hips forward so she can feel every part of me. Every part of what she does to me.

“I am real,” I say evenly. “Don’t you remember signing your life over to me?”

She has to remember. It can’t have escaped her in the bullshit life she’s created because then it means that the only thing that was false were Delilah’s feelings towardsme. If that’s true, then she can’t be allowed an easy punishment for toying with me, for taking my life and making it hers only to send me away and be left a ghost of my former self.

Her head flies back, knocking into my jaw as she curses. “Fuck you. You’re just some freak my mind made up.”

Her phone flashes with that cunt’s name on the screen and I smile as I ask, “If I’m not real, could I do this?”

Answering before it can go to voicemail, I fight the tension in her arm to bring it closer to her face as her husband’s deep, sleep-filled voice comes through.

“Lilo, baby, it’s late. How come you called?”

There’s so much false care in it. Sickening. Her fingers lose pressure against the mask, and she stares at the screen. Her heart thuds against my chest and I want nothing more than to push my hand between her ribs and hold it, and to finally have an equal hold on her like she does to me.

But she shakily brings her hand down from my face and her fingers tremble as she slaps against the screen to end the call. The cold beep adds a new stillness to the room, and I let go of her wrist. She’s choosing me over him. There’s no bullshit excuse of some complication like she used to have. She is finally putting me above that prick, Asher.

Her arms hang limply at her sides as I feel her against me fully. Fuck, it’s been so long, and the mask stops me from being able to rest my lips against her crown in the way I crave. It was always the best place to fall asleep and have her true smell lull me into comfort without any pollutants from her life. My hands roam her sides and my eyes close as I drop my head to the top of her hair. My lips don’t touch but the respirator isn’t attached to anything, and it allows the scent of her through as I push my hips against her ass.

That beautiful ass.

Fuck. The memory of the first time she let me fuck her ass is one that has kept me company while she fucked off with that prick. The way she screamed and begged, so fucking sweet and vicious and mine.

“I love my husband,” she whispers to herself, stoking my anger to a fever pitch.

“But you love dick more,” I fire back softly.

She turns her head in an attempt to look at me, but I line my face up with hers. The respirator brushes her shoulder and I want her to hear my voice without it.

“You always have, haven’t you?” I ask.

We both know the answer. It’s yes. She can claim to love a person, but Delilah always needs more, like a succubus. She craves the souls of those who have been sucked into her orbit and have successfully been infected with the obsession of her. She will never be fully satisfied with anyone because that hole can’t be filled. It’s not physical and it doesn’t matter how many dicks she shoves inside of herself, it will always be empty and hollow.

Yet, I crave her just as deeply. The hollowness in me calls her name and whispers its promises of leaving if I feed her to it.

She flinches as her phone begins buzzing again. I’m two seconds away from pushing it inside her so her fucking husband has a use when she declines it and continues staring straight ahead. Her lips barely move as she repeats, “I love him, and he knows me. He’s real.”

Fuck him. It’s always fuckinghimon her lips when I’m the one with her. I’m the one who gives her everything she needs. When he was busy and needed to work because money and connections were so important, it was me there. Not him.

When he made her feel like shit for the things she likes, it was me who explored them with her. It has always been me through the neglect, the arguments, the times she felt like she was drowning under the weight of his expectations—me. That’s what she’s forgetting.

Her phone continues ringing and she doesn’t decline, she allows it to ring and the vibrations are deafening in my rage.

Stroking across her stomach to her hip, I say, “I know all of your secrets, whether you remember them or not.”

I finally have her attention. Fucking finally. And her cheek skims the edge of the sooty respirator, black streaks staining her skin as she tries to look through the filthy, darkened lenses to see me. She’s not ready yet, and she doesn’t deserve to have all of me again.

I push my hand under her t-shirt to feel her soft skin through the latex gloves. My fingers flex as she tenses her muscles and squeezes her legs together. My little fucking tease thinks I don’t know her body when I studied it, worshipped it, and made her my religion. She was the sun that began my day and the stars that ended it. There’s nothing she can hide from me. Her hips twist ever so slightly, and that potent mix of fear and lust is all that fills the air as I slowly spill her secrets.

“I know how you would sneak into his brother’s bed”—I trail my fingers on her thighs and wait for them to open—“and it started with you being a bad girl.”

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