Page 53 of Devious Delusions

“He is truthful. He isn’t the one hiding behind masks or breaking into a random person’s house. That’s you.”

Tilting his head side to side, he assesses me with the pastry in his hand halfway to my face, but he continues watching me. His entire body tenses before he erupts into laughter, full of joy. Someone as freakish as him shouldn’t be able to have such a nice laugh. It slowly tapers off as he shakes his head and forcefully shoves the pastry against my lips. Lemon crème is smushed into my skin and I can’t escape it as I push my head back.

“You know,” he says, “I forgot that you were funny.” He sighs and lifts the tray off his lap, drops it to the floor with a deafening crack, and darkly asks, “Does this make you more agreeable?”

He stands and pushes the pastry flat against my mouth with his fingers pressed against my cheek as he seethes, “I try to be fucking nice to you, but it’s always fuckinghim.I cleaned you up, I give you the truth, I give you what you fucking want. I always fucking have, and it is still him you’re thinking about!”

My neck is awkwardly bent as he pulls his hand back and the squashed food falls from my face, crumbs hitting my thighs and sticking to the static of the plastic wrap around my chest as he hooks his foot around the front leg of the chair. It knocks me off balance and I sharply inhale as I wait to topple backwards.

His gloved hand snatches the top of my head, and he keeps me suspended on the two back legs. Every breath causes it to rock, and I try to rationalize with the nutcase.

“The new furniture will be delivered soon. They’ll hear me scream.”

He leans forward and drops his voice. “Good.” He inhales, and the mask brushes my jaw before he adds, “Warm that throat up for me.”

Why the fuck am I not disgusted?

There’s something else wrong with me. I should be. But it’s exactly like he said—exciting. The insanity in him makes me feel sane after months of losing my mind. I want more of it to prove that he’s real and I hate him for not revealing himself in front of anyone else. I hate him for being a ghost only I can see and making everyone, including myself, question whether I’m experiencing things correctly. But when he touches me, I know that he’s real because he’s warm and feels human. He doesn’t feel fake or imagined and as fucked up as it is, I need him to continue touching me so that I can feel the comfort of being able to trust my own mind.

He moves back and keeps one hand on my hair while the other goes to his zipper and I hate that too. I hate myself most because I can’t stop my mouth from watering. Rather than admit it’s because of the fucked up situation, I collect it all and spit at him. Looking from my spit on his inner forearm to me, he pauses on his zipper. I expect a punch to the face or something equally violent, but he slaps his fingers off my forehead and says, “Bad.” Another light slap against my forehead. “Girl.” He does it again. “No. Spitting.”

Each word is timed with his fingers pinging off my forehead and I don’t know what the fuck is going on. He broke into my house while I was sleeping, drugged me, chased me, tied me to this fucking chair, but he’s slapping his fingers off my head.

The chair wobbles as I pull my head back. “Get the fuck off me.”

He tuts and threads his fingers through my hair to pull me further back and shake my head. “Okay, I’ll let you use spit on my dick.”

Positioning his legs either side of my waist, he walks forward, dipping me lower, and straddles my chest. The clown mask is even more sinister in this light, and I shout over the plastic squeaking in my attempt to get free. “Get the fuck out!”

He shakes his head and forces me to do the same. “Why would I do that when we’re finally alone? Yourhusbandwon’t be home now that he knows you’re busy and you’ve even started painting again.” He leans into me and deepens his voice to ask, “Will you paint me and all the wicked things you’re too afraid to tell him you like?”

Instead of telling him to go fuck himself like I should, I turn meek and answer honestly. “I don’t do portraits or people.”

Comfort washes over me as he softly says, “I know, Delilah.”

It’s said so gently as though he really does know me. No malice or contempt. Before I can attempt to coax information out of him, he sighs as he undoes his zipper. I refuse to make this easy on him and sink into the guilt, so I lock my jaw.

His dick is wet, and he trails his precum across my jawline. When he reaches my chin, he fills with humor and taps his dick against my lips. “Knock.” Another tap. “Knock.”

I glare up at him, refusing to open my mouth as much as I want to. If he wants me to do it, he can force me. That way I can tell myself it’s not something I’m excited about, all the blame will solely be on him, and he’ll be wrong about me.

“If I’m not real, why do you want me to be?”His taunt echoes in my untrustworthy mind.

I don’t want him to be real for any other reason than to prove I’m not crazy. It’s not because I like the thought of him watching me, or because he’s right about me needing more.

But if he’s real, and I’m not imagining him, he knows me. He knows things I have never told anyone, not even Asher.

He takes in a controlled breath and slaps his heavy dick off my lips. “Open.”

I bite down and harden my stare.

He does it again, more forcefully, and his voice is deeper. “You opened forhimwhen he did it. Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

I want to argue that he has no right to watch Asher and me together, but I like the thought of it pissing him off. I love knowing that while I’m lost in my husband, this weird twat knows he’s nothing to me.

Another sigh and he plants his feet. My scalp stings as he tightens his fingers in my hair. The latex causes some of the strands to snap, and he roughly drags me down until I’m nearly touching the floor. The force causes me to loosen my jaw, but I quickly correct it as he pulls me back up.

“Stubborn as fuck,” he curses, “for no fucking reason.”

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