Page 14 of Only in the Dark
Her expressing her pleasure made my hips snap harder, driving the bed to ram against the wall, the sounds of the metal, the bed, and the mixture of our moans filling the room and driving me feral. I couldn’t even bring myself to talk anymore, to tell her how good she felt, how good she was at taking a pounding from me. I was driven by pure animalistic instincts. I hoped my moans and groans conveyed my pleasure, something I felt men should express more often during sex. Women wanted to know they made you feel good, too. I was so loud during sex that Olivia would never question it, especially not with my added dirty talk.
“You were made for me,” I growled. “So fucking tight, wet, and warm.” If we were closer, I’d bite her neck and suck my mark into her skin, letting everyone know she belonged tome.
“Come for me, baby,” I whispered, not letting up on the pressure I had on her clit, or the ferocity of my deep, hard thrusts into her body, sheathing my cock in the best feeling to ever exist.
“FUCK!” she screamed as her body convulsed in the cuffs, her warm walls clenching aggressively.
I buried myself to the hilt, wanting to feel every muscle enveloping me as her orgasm hit her like a freight train. I could tell by her response that it was a full-body affair, much like mine as my spine started to tingle, my balls drawing up. I couldn’t hold back any longer now that I felt her orgasming with me inside her. Nothing had ever felt more right. Sex had never made me feel connected to another person until now. Our first time was short yet magical, and every time with her would be just as magical…but hopefully longer. There were no guarantees when it came to being with Olivia. I spent a lifetime waiting for someone like her—someone who whispered to my shadows and breathed fire into my hollow chest.
The sounds of our heavy breathing filled the room, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull out of her even as we sat in a sweat-filled mess. I was so worked up I could drive into her again, give her a second orgasm here and now. But we had things to do before we could do that again. My refractory period didn’t exist when it came to being with Olivia, no matter how fast the orgasm hit. I’d never be fully satiated because being around her filled me with a deep craving I had never felt before her.
“You promised me to unmask yourself,” she said bitterly.
I slowly pulled out of her body, watching her wince. She’d be sore, but I’d take care of her. If we weren’t at a sex club right now, I’d bring her a warm rag and cream to make her feel better. She needed to know I cared for her, that she wasn’t just a sex object to fulfill my desire. I wasn’t sure anyone had treated her that way before.
As promised, I watched my cum drip from between our thighs and onto the poor comforter that didn’t belong to either of us. The urge to fuck it back into her was strong, but we didn’t have time, so I settled for pushing it back inside with my index and middle fingers, curling them inside her to give her another taste. I loved the way her whole body squirmed, wanting to get away from me to avoid the overwhelming pleasure. “Can’t waste a drop, baby,” I said.
“Stop. It feels too good. Please,” she pleaded. “I did what you asked. Hold up your end of the bargain and take off the mask. I deserve to know who just fucked me like that.”
“On one condition. Tell me what happened when you left Texas. Tell me what happened that night with Daniel, and then I’ll reveal myself.”
She took a deep breath, probably unaware I’d name-drop him, but then she told a story that rattled my bones.
Olivia Mercer
23 Years Old
Mother came home late from her meeting. Despite being in my early twenties, I still lived with her. She used that to her advantage, having me cook her meals every night at six. She made her own schedule, of course, but she was always home at her preferred time. Tonight, she barged through the door at seven, giggling like a teenager. She had been drinking, which was never a good sign. Mother used to hurt me only when she was teaching me a lesson. That changed when she started drinking. We had different opinions on how to run her company and often butted heads. She’d told me she used our disagreements to remind me of my place.
“Oh, look, my useless heir,” she said, rolling her eyes as she stumbled past me, shoving her shoulder against mine and sending me backwards. Once I stabled myself, I grabbed the wine from the table that I had set at her seat, feeling confident in the choice I had made earlier. It took me a long time, and a bit of therapy, to realize that Mother was harmful and toxic. She didn’t care for me like she pretended—she wanted someone to manipulate and control. I was tired of being her doormat.What she didn’t realize is that she raised me to be strong and a killer. She thought she had created a sense of loyalty in me by using fear, but she didn’t. Maybe when I was younger, but that changed with age.
“I brought you wine, Mother. The dinner is still in the oven, staying warm. Your favorite casserole. Should I grab it?” I asked, tipping my head. She looked me up and down while contemplating how much she trusted me in that moment. She had made a snide remark, and I didn’t fight her on it, which was unusual for us.
She took the cup and shooed me away. “Go. Get it ready for me,” she demanded, then took her seat at the head of the table. I took the casserole out of the oven and plated it with a knowing smile. The kitchen was separated from our dining room and living room since we didn’t have an open floor plan, so she couldn’t see me.
When I brought her plate out, she was already pouring another glass of wine. I had less time than I thought at the rate she was downing alcohol.
“I thought we could talk about that day,” I said. She tensed as I set her plate down in front of her. “You always said you’d tell me more about how you saved me. I’m grateful, and ready to learn,” I lied, stroking her ego, so she’d open up. She had to think I was on her side.
“Once you hear what I have to say, you’re going to want to react violently for the first time,” she explained. “I have an envelope in my office drawer with the truth that I’ll give to you when I think you’re ready to handle that violent urge.”
She didn’t know I had already been fighting the urges, no matter how she told me women didn’t like blood. She was wrong. Sometimes I craved watching blood drip from a guilty man’s neck after I stabbed him, but for now, I had to follow her rules.
“I’m as calm as you made me,” I lied. I took my seat and started eating my casserole. It hadn’t been poisoned, and now that she knew it, she started to eat hers. Creating a killer made it hard to trust, no matter if she raised me.
“The contract was created by a rich man who worked in finance. He had a wife and kids, but he had an affair with your mother—a maid in their penthouse. He wanted her to have an abortion, but she refused and tried to hide out, raising you in the suburbs. Before she left, she stole from him somehow. He wanted her to pay, so he hired me to kill her and take you. I believe he planned to kill you, so I kept you instead. I had enough evidence to put him away, so I threatened him with it. Mutually assured destruction,” she said, chuckling.
“Was my birth mom a good person?” I asked. It was where we had differences. I wanted to hurt bad people, while she didn’t care who she hurt. That ended up with me becoming motherless as a child, being raised by a monster.
She laughed so hard her shoulders bounced. “You’re still on about wanting to only harm people you deem good? Your mother was a saint, is that what you want to hear? She took you from danger and stole from her rapist, putting her life in danger to secure your future. But money talks, and you ended up with abetterfuture,” she spewed her bullshit rhetoric. She coughed a few times before attempting to speak again. “When you take over the business, you can run it how you want, but as long as I’m alive, money will keep talking.”
“You didn’t mention rape,” I said, my fist wrapping tightly around my fork. This man had killed my mother to hide his crime, which resulted in my birth. Was my dark side because of blood, or environment?
She coughed a few more times, blood spitting up onto the table before her, and I stood up in a hurry, running to her side.
“Mother, are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
She clutched the front of my shirt, pulling me toward her before her fingers seized and forced her to let go. “W—what’d you do?” she questioned slowly, the muscles in her throat likely shutting down. The funny thing was, I used her preferred poison instead of mine. She liked them to die quickly; I preferred the slow method to clear me of wrongdoing. It gave me time to flee.
