Page 21 of Tricked By Jack
I chuckle. “There’s no God here. Only you and me.”
She tips forward into the rhythm, legs shaking, pussy clenching like it’s begging to be wrecked. I hold her in place, fingers buried deep, mask pressed to her skin, breathing loud through the vents.
She moans again; shaky, fragile. I twitch my fingers, and her whole body jerks like I’ve flipped a switch.
Then I fuck her with precision—two fingers dragging over every nerve like I’m rewiring her from the inside. Each thrust calculated. Each curl is brutal in its intention. I find the place inside her that makes her knees give out.
Sheshakes her head, wordlessly saying no, but her hips show me what she really wants. I grind my palm against her clit. Her breath breaks into pathetic, perfect whimpers that make my cock ache.
Mhmm, Eve’s close now. I feel it in the way her cunt squeezes tighter around me. She tries to fight it. She bites her lip, drawing beautiful droplets of blood that I long to taste. But I’m not ready to remove my mask.
The orgasm takes her hard, so violently her legs give out. I follow her down to the floor, fingers still pumping in and out of her molten heat. The sounds coming from her are nonsensical, and the few words she utters make no sense. Yet it’s fucking poetic.
When she’s nothing but aftershocks and ruin, I withdraw my fingers. The slick sound makes her flinch.
“You’re worthy,” I murmur, pulling the envelope from my jacket. I extend it toward her once more.
She stares at it like I’ve lost my mind. “Are you insane?” she seethes, trying to get up. “I don’t want anything from you.”
I shift and block the stairwell when she tries to move past me. She watches me like she doesn’t know what to think or do. But then she takes the envelope with trembling fingers.
“Good girl,” I murmur, the praise dark and mocking, before finally letting her run to Caleb’s side.
Chapter 7
The Trickster
Ashiver travels down my spine as I appraise the cage in front of me. I groan when my fingertips trail over the cold metal bars. Each joint welded to my exact specifications, each measurement calculated to the millimeter.
The structure dominates the back wall in my bedroom, a stark testament to purpose over aesthetics. Beautiful in its utility, perfect in its promise of containment. I tap a bar with my knuckle, listening to the hollow ring that echoes through the room.
It’s large enough for comfort, small enough for psychological effect. I’d considered many designs before settling on this one, classic bars rather than mesh or glass. I want her to feel the cold metal beneath her fingers when she inevitably tests her boundaries.
My Bride-to-be needs to understand that no matter how clever she thinks she is, the only thing sharper than her mind is my revenge.
I grip one of the vertical bars with both hands and pull, using my full strength to test for weakness. The metal doesn’t yield, doesn’t even creak. Good. I move methodically around the structure, repeating the test at each junction point.
I whistle a melody as my eyes travel the length of thebars again, cataloging each element. The hinges, the lock, the small opening I’ve engineered for passing food or water without opening the main door.
“Almost time,” I tell the empty cage, my voice dropping to a pitch reserved for prayers or threats.
With the cage complete, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Ned’s number. My thumb hovers over the screen for a moment as I admire my handiwork one last time. The bars cast thin shadows across the carpeted floor like prison stripes, a preview of the containment to come.
Ned answers on the third ring, his voice carrying that particular blend of efficiency and boredom.
“It’s done,” I tell him without preamble.
“The love nest?” His voice carries a trace of amusement that would earn anyone else a warning. From Ned, I allow it. He’s seen me at my worst and stayed, and that buys certain privileges.
“The cage,” I correct, running my free hand along one of the bars. “Everything’s in place for when I bring her home.”
“And when will that be, exactly?” There’s a rustling on his end of the line—papers being moved, perhaps a drink being poured.
“After The Black Wedding.” I move to the window, looking out at the darkening grounds of my estate. From this vantage point, the garden looks fucking dead, which, to be fair, it is. Anything that grows out there’s nature’s doing more than mine.
I took an instant liking to this property when I saw it for the first time back in April. Since Ruby’s death, I wanted something more remote than my apartment in Manhattan. And to be closer to Eve who lives here in the Bronx.
This two-story gothic revival mansion is everything I never knew I wanted. The weathered black stones and steep pitched rooflines are perfect. As are the tall, black-trimmed windows and ivy crawling up both sides.
