Page 5 of Deviant Illusions

I pull my head back from his hand. Hurt fuses to my words from him killing everything I loved about him. “You sound like him.”

His fingers pinch against my cheek as he tightens his hold and drags my head forward. My body shakes as he circles my entrance with two fingers.

“Does it turn you on?” he asks.

I don’t answer. I refuse to be humiliated any more than I am already. Part of me refuses to believe this is real. I’d take the masked prick over what’s beneath it. That was easier to understand, and I had some form of contentment in the new and improved Asher. Now all I have is death and destruction.

His fingers dig into my cheeks, pressing against my teeth until my jaw loosens to alleviate the ache settling through my gums.

“Does it turn you on?” he repeats. “All these years later, when you can’t find someone stupid enough to fuck you, do you think about us? How you had me on my knees when you’d play that cursed fucking piano and I’d copy the notes against your needy clit?” He leans into me and forces my head back as he presses his lips to the pit of my neck. “Or,”—he traces a circle against my skin with his tongue—“how you’d sneak into my room to suck my dick like it was a pacifier that you couldn’t sleep without?”

Kane abruptly pushes my face back.

My scream turns into a moan as he thrusts three fingers inside me. He uses them to pull me forward as I swing precariously with the noose around my neck and the tips of my toes clinging to the table legs.

“Or did you think about the lies you told me.” He flicks my clit with his thumb as his voice raises. “And the fact I’ve lost fifteen fucking years of my life!”

2

KANE

She’s soaking my hand. There has never been anything that felt as good as Delilah. It hasn’t changed now. She’s still the only woman I have ever touched. She’s in every fantasy. My murderer is the only person who can give me release. Which is ironic when she’s the one who fucking trapped me in the first place.

I pinch her nipple between two knuckles and twist as I ask, “Was any of it real?”

Why the fuck do I care?

One of the things no one ever tells anyone about prison is that you have too much time and nothing to do. Once you face your worst fears, it all just becomes the norm. The sweats, the elevated heart rate, the tension in every muscle becomes the default. Yet none of it stops the thoughts.

That’s all I’ve had for fifteen years. Thoughts.

Thoughts of what I’d do with my freedom. Thoughts of this fucking cunt telling the truth and being vindicated. Fifteen years. Five thousand, four hundred, and ninety-seven fucking days because she had to fucking lie.

Thoughts and counting. That’s what I had for company.

She whimpers as I push my fingers up inside the treacherous fucking bitch.

“Ka—Kane, please,” she moans.

The skin around her nipple turns red as I twist again, and she sucks in a breath.

“Please what, koukla mou?” I ask, sounding bored.

Her thighs tremble and red lines mark her neck from the abrasive rope. It’s not raw and painful, yet. Delilah twists her shoulders like that will help her, when I’ve tied the lengths of her forearms together. The only way she can get away is if I decide she’s allowed to.

“Please don’t kill me,” she begs so sweetly.

She almost looks innocent as her stubborn tears cling to her lashes. Her head is barely above mine, meaning there’s too much slack in the rope around her neck. So I fix it without removing my fingers from her cunt, and press the back of my knuckles to her sternum. The fear on her face is intoxicating as she gasps, crying out, “Kane!”

Her shoulders twist, causing her to lose her balance as she bends backwards, choking herself, and she tenses to remain on the table legs.

I was many things before Delilah. Cruel was never one of them, and it still isn’t now. But it’s not cruelty when it’s deserved, so I do it again, and one foot slips off the wide perch.

“Kane!” she cries, and her tears slip free. “Please!”

I push two fingers of my free hand over her teeth and pull her back as I laugh. Her cries are mumbled and spit coats my fingers. Fuck, she’s still beautiful. Her beauty outshines every bit of dirt I’ve placed on her in an attempt to make her outsides match who she truly is. It’s all in vain, because the inside of her is so fucking repugnant that she’s used to being around filth. It’s her comfort. Whoever said you can’t polish a turd hadn’t met Delilah Leroux.

Wind brushes my leg as she kicks out to gain purchase again. Her toes skim the edge of the wood, but she doesn’t react to the pain. She likes it. I can feel just how much as she drips down my fingers. I curl my middle finger inside her as she clenches.

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