Page 109 of Dead Love
But I wasn’t sure if I believed him. I wasn’t sure what to believe. But even if Vincent had done a lot of cruel things in his life, I knew he wanted to protect me now.
“I trust you,” I said firmly.
I expected for him to smile at those words, but he only bowed his head, as if he was resigned to what he had to do now. He held out a hand, and I took it, both of us standing up. I reached for my clothes, but he shook his head.
“You won’t be needing those,” he said.
I covered myself with my arms, watching him dress. “Why do you get your clothes?”
“This isn’t for me,” he said. “It’s for you.”
Those words chilled me, but I had to trust that whatever we were doing,wasfor me. That I could believe in my own instincts about Vincent. That I could trust him, and myself. Vincent took my hand, leading me up the path to his house, then opened the door for me, leading me to the studio. He got a cup of water from the kitchen, then offered me a white pill.
I looked into his black eyes, unsure of what to say. What was it?
But I trusted him. I swallowed the pill, drinking the rest of the water with it.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
Footsteps stomped through the house, between the backyard and the bathroom and down the hallway. I wrapped my arms around myself, gazing up at the paintings of me. A thundering racket ricocheted from the bathroom, like he was dumping something out. Then the water ran. I stepped forward, trying to figure out what he was doing, but the room swayed in slow motion. What was he doing? I couldn’t tell. The hairs on my neck stood up.
Vincent appeared, framed by the doorway, like smoke drifting above a burning fire.
I lifted a hand to say something, but my lips wouldn’t move. Vincent’s face was blank. He ushered me toward the bathroom, guiding me. A curtain hung around the tub. He slid it to the side; the rings around the curtain rod jingled. He picked me up, laying me down inside. An ice bath. The icy temperature stabbed my skin. A cry ripped through me, but it never reached my throat. All that came out was a gurgled whine.
Vincent smacked a hand down on my face. “Not another sound.”
I sucked in a breath. The ice burned me, but I couldn’t do anything. He stood up, staring down at me, and the coldness crept into my chest.
He scooped me up in his arms. His body was hot, and I savored that warmth. We went through the front door, and the world passed in frames. Down the driveway. The cement path. The breeze brushed my skin, making me shiver more. The scent of flowers, stronger now, swirled in my nose. Into Quiet Meadows. The door swung shut behind us, clamoring down the empty morgue. Inside of the crematory room, he laid me down on a stainless steel gurney, which was comforting somehow, warmer than my skin.
Vincent moved my chin, propping my head so that I was facing the ceiling. I stayed there like he had positioned me. He tapped on the keyboard in front of the computer. Then the cremation machine beeped loudly. My breathing hitched, but I calmed myself. Deep breath in and out. His footsteps clunked to the side, and he opened up the chamber, the heat rushing to my body. Then he twirled the gurney around until the heat blasted the middle of my body, wrapping me in a cocoon.
A sharp blade pressed against my neck, but there was no pain, only pressure. When he pulled it back, it was clean. Then he pulled and pinched my skin, as if putting a needle into it, and he waited. Then he parted my legs, his palms grazing my thighs, kneading me. The warmth circulated between my legs, radiating there, and I fought to buck my hips, to feel more of him, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to move. I was supposed to be helpless. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself do it. After that pill—my movements, the sounds, the sensations—everything was muffled.
He flickered in and out of my vision like flames dancing above a bonfire, and when he ran his hands back between my legs, my heat surged there. I needed his touch. He pressed between my folds, one finger, then two, every nerve ending in my body electrifying. Then he pressed down, rubbing my clit, massaging me, making me dizzy. He held up his hands, his fingers wet with my desire. He unzipped his pants, using my juices to play with the tip of his cock. My whole body buzzed, pulsing for him. I wasn’t cold anymore.
This isn’t for me,he had said.It’s for you.
But he couldn’t help himself; he wanted me too much. His pants clattered to the floor as he fucked himself harder. Because even my lifeless body was more than he had ever wanted. He pried open my teeth, then stuck his cock in my mouth. I gagged, but he penetrated deeper, filling me up. And when another noise escaped my mouth, he pulled out, glaring down at me, his eyes seething. He left the room and quickly returned with a roll of duct tape. A thick silver strip sealed my lips, holding me tight. I was so helpless.
He shifted me around so that I laid on my side. Nothing happened for a moment. My lungs filled and expelled; my eyes were blurry. He moved me to my stomach, his hands pulling apart my ass cheeks. Then he rubbed my juices against my hole, pressing a finger inside of me. Tension filled me as he went deeper. The pleasure was so great I could cry. But I didn’t make a single sound. I couldn’t. I had always thought it would hurt back there, but it didn’t. Instead, it was a pressure-filled sensation. In and out, he fucked my ass with his finger, until everything trailed to that point and there was nothing else. And that’s when it hit me:Thiswas what it felt like. This nothingness. This little death. In his eyes, this was what helplessness was, when my mind was made of nothing besides desire and him. And yet I was alive, morepowerful,knowing that he had done this, not for anyone else, but for me.
He pulled me from the metal table, and this time, he carried me through the empty hallways, to the viewing room, where a cushion-lined casket lay open on the bier. He placed me inside of it, his treasure on a pedestal.
Climbing up, he positioned himself above me, moving my thighs, rocking my hips forward. He held his cock at my ass, but this time, when he penetrated me, it was different. His cock sank into me like a knife of heat, breaking me apart, and those muscles between my legs clenched against him, squeezing him, trying desperately to get more of him. I tried to grit my teeth, but I stayed silent, the duct tape pulling at my skin. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. My face twitched, trying to smile, and his cock impaled me, thick and heavy, and it should have hurt, should have ruined me, but it awoke my senses and those nerve endings in my ass. And I wanted more. His concentrated rhythm built into a sensation that made me fall apart, and he held onto my neck, my shoulders, pressing deep within me like he could never be deep enough. Like there would always be more to take, more to find, more to harvest from me. And I would be here like this, ready for him to take, and take, and take.
“I love you, flower,” he growled, his voice low. His words chilled my veins. And I knew that the reason he said it was because I couldn’t say it back. Because he didn’t want to know if I felt the same way. Because when I was like this, I was dead. And though he was the one moving, living, breathing, the one who was supposed to have strength, I knew that I had more power in that moment than I had in my life. He had done all of this for me. Accepted me for who I was. Saw me even when I couldn’t see myself. “I love you so fucking much,” he said.
My toes tingled and his hands pressed into my skin, and the bite of his fingernails pressing into my hips burned inside of me. He fucked my ass like he needed it, like it would make me live again, like he needed this more than either of us would ever understand. Tears traveled down the sides of my face, the pressure so intense I could hardly stand it, but he edged me closer, and though I couldn’t do anything, I still came apart and I swear that relief was everywhere. The tears swum over my cheeks and the release was sweet—years of not knowing what anything felt like, of saving myself from any slight discomfort, of not knowing that with pain, came something beautiful like this. Two souls trying to figure out what it meant to truly live, to go after what you wanted, to accept yourself for who you were. Even if that meant offering a woman drugs, icing her living body, rendering her helpless, and fucking her inside of a casket. Even if that meant trusting the man you weren’t supposed to trust, but knowing that despite everything he had done, that you would still give him everything you had.
His gaze burned with passion, and it was as if the fire from the crematory still reflected in his eyes. He stared into me, trying to speak the words he couldn’t say, like he knew I was more than he ever deserved, but that he couldn’t help but love me. And I could only let it all out. I could let it go. So I cried and cried. Because with catharsis,with acceptance,came power. And I had power over Vincent. I had power over myself.
And he had power over me. The power I had given him.
CHAPTER37
Vincent
