Page 9 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

But I know that she knows that she knows me from somewhere else. She’ll figure it out soon enough, but it’ll be too late. I step forward, minimizing the distance that separates us. My cock betrays me, hardening in my jeans in an instant. I drop my hand to try to shift it so that it’s not so obvious, but her eyes follow as I do so. I can’t help but to cock a devious grin when I see her take a shallow inhale. I’m careful to differentiate between the fantasies I’ve been having of fucking her and reality, but fuck me if I’m wrong. She wants me.

She swallows a nervous lump in her throat as I close in on her. She takes a step back, her ass flat against the bookshelf. And then I’m pinning her there, one arm stretched over her shoulder.

“I saw the way you were looking at me at the bar the other night.”

“I hardly remember you were there at all.”

She’s lying. Of course she’s fucking lying. But I’m not stupid. I’ll let her make the first move before I fuck her right here, not caring if anyone should stumble upon us. She stares into my eyes, unwavering in the abyss. Her chest heaves harder, faster. Each inhale is sharper than the last, and then she’s raising a hand to the back of my head, and then she’s pulling me into her lips, stronger than I could have ever imagined.

Now that she’s made the first move, the gloves are off.

I chew at her lip, so close to drawing blood. The hunger is palpable, be it lust or rage, it’s all the same. She tastes like coffee and cigarettes, and then I’m lapping my tongue over the ridge of her neck and then biting at the lobe of her ear. Her moans pierce my ear, painting the surface with hot breaths and shivering groans of pleasure. I’m an animal, uncaged and feral, and that’s exactly what she craves.

I grab her by the waist and spin her in a circle so that I’m pressed against her ass, my cock begging to be set free from cotton and denim. I grind against her, choking on my own breaths. I need more. I need to be inside her. I drop my hand to the front of her jeans, unbuttoning them and then sticking a hand inside to paw at her pussy. She throws her head back, falling into the space between my own head and my shoulder. She humps forward, begging for my fingers to be inside of her. She’s slick and wet and ready, so when I slip a finger inside, she lets out a stifled moan. I shush her into her ear, we can’t be too loud. There aren’t many people in the store, but it only takes one fucking Karen to ruin everything.

My body shakes, my heart racing. Pounding against the mortal cage of my chest. Am I really going to do this? Yeah, I’ve never been logical. Always thinking with my dark heart instead of my twisted head, but it’s my other head that’s taking over in the heat of the moment. I remove my hand from her jeans and then pull them down in one go so that her bare ass is before me. Wasting no time, I unbutton my own pants, and drop them just low enough so that my hard, aching cock breaks free.

She’s breathing harder, waiting for it, waiting for the moment a complete stranger fucks her in broad daylight in a public place where anybody could see. Anyone could have seen her on that beach that night too, she didn’t care. She lives for the danger, the thrill of being caught. She’s more dangerous than I realized, but I’m too far gone to care.

I spit onto my hand and then stroke my cock twice to slicken it up before lining it up at her opening. And then I enter her slowly, eliciting the sexiest fucking gasp from her. That silence will soon give way to screams though, so I put a stop to that before it can happen. I clasp my dry hand over her mouth and beg her to be quiet as I bury myself to the hilt. And then I stay there, reveling in the tightness and the way her body quakes around my cock. It’s better than I ever dreamed. There’s something beyond taboo about fucking the woman that killed my own brother. It’s enough to make me come.

But not just yet. I need to feel this for as long as possible. I slowly begin to pull back with the intent of fucking her nice and slow, but like I said, I’m not in control here. My cock is. And my cock has other plans. I drop my hand from her mouth and grab onto each side of her bare hips, and then I drive all the way in to begin a series of thrusts that threaten to undo the both of us. She fights hard to control the moans fighting to escape her throat, but sharp gasps still find a way out of her pretty little mouth each time my pelvis slaps against her pale ass. It’s only five, six, seven thrusts, and then I’m hitting the point of no return. I fuck her harder, with reckless abandon. Her knees buckle forward, the weight of my body pushing her harder against the bookshelf. Books tumble to the floor and we’re definitely on the verge of being noticed.

It’s too late to change course though. My breathing reaches a fever pitch, and I’m stuttering bursts of hot, warm breath against the back of her neck. My fingers dig into her flesh and I swear to God, it’s hard enough to draw blood, and then I’m coming inside of her, burying my cock so fucking deep. And then I stay there, my body hunched over hers. Neither of us say a word. It’s better that way, to pretend as if the world isn’t about to come crashing down onto the both of us. She didn’t climax, but that’s okay. This isn’t for her. It’s for me.

It’s the first step towards revenge.

And before you embark on that journey, Confucius warns that you should dig two graves.

I whisper in her ear, “Did that feel as good to you as when you killed my brother?”

ChapterSix

ADDISON

They say you have to meet the devil to know his name. Well I’ve met him but he’s just as anonymous as before. The only difference is that I now know the complete stranger is claiming to be Carter Calloway’s brother. As far as I know, Carter only has a sister. I still don’t know the devil’s name, even as he breathes hot fire against the back of my neck. When it comes to fight or flight, I’ve always been a runner.

But I can’t run.

He’s got me pinned against the bookshelves. There’s a narrow opening over the books that I can see through. The cashier at the far side of the store is playing on her phone behind the counter. I could scream for help, but what for? I’m not a damsel in distress. I’m a damsel that’s gotten herself into yet another mess.

I reach down and grab my panties, pulling them over my bare ass. I’ve never been one to believe in God, but I pray silently that he doesn’t notice the scars on my inner thighs. Some people cut for attention, as maybe a cry for help. Perhaps some just like knowing that they’re not invisible. If the eyes of strangers are fixated on them, then it must mean that they can be seen. Like they’re not walking the world alone. I didn’t mark my body to be seen as if I should be a canvas of painful art for the world’s sympathies. Pain blankets other pain and sometimes cutting is the only prescription to make the voices shut the hell up.

My quack of a head doctor once told me that cutting was my way of hurting myself before the world had the opportunity to do the same. As if it could only ever be one or the other. I’ve come to learn that pain and trauma are built on the back of a lifetime, and not something forced upon us overnight.

I swallow nervously, the weight of his body shifting backwards. The sound of his zipper being ripped upward comes first and the clanging of his belt as he wrestles it back into place. He takes another step backwards, and that’s when I’m finally able to bolt.

I cut to the right, but he’s too fast, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me backward. Face to face. Eye to eye. There’s no clear-cut victim here. A key philosophical principle is that the villain is always the hero in someone’s eyes. It’s all about perspective.

He looks different now. Different than he appeared at the bar and different from when I was ignorant to the truth of who he supposedly is. He’s got the type of eyes that’s capable of drawing you in. Dark and moody, powerful and hungry. He’s tall and tan, with strong arms and an even stronger jawline. He looks nothing like Carter or Emily Calloway.

Silence has always been my escape from the brutality of this world, but the silence that’s permeating the sparse distance between the two of us is enough to wreck me. My insides are tangled. There’s no telling what he’s capable of or what he could do, assuming he’s even telling the truth. I remember when my father died, I wanted to set the world on fire without regard for the collateral damage it’d cause. There was nobody to blame for his death, either. This man is staring straight into my eyes, straight into the soul of the woman that cut his brother’s life short. The truth is objective, but emotions have a terrifying way of muddying the truth, especially when the truth has never been explicitly stated. Men have a knack for acting on impulse, disregarding rhyme or reason. It’s why a jealous man will walk into a bar and make a beeline to kick the ass of the strange man standing beside his woman. Fists come first, and then questions after.

He fumbles with something in his back pocket. Could be a blade. Could be his wallet.

I think back to the time Carole Calloway cornered me at the courthouse. The matriarch of the family is the epitome of a walking contradiction. She can appear fragile, but cold and conniving, both at the same time. I’d never make the fatal mistake of underestimating her. She approached me as if I hadn’t just killed her son, wearing a smile woven with half a century’s practice of fakery. She offered me twenty-thousand dollars to leave town and never look back. It wasn’t an offer though. It was a threat.

And so I ran, just as I was planning to do anyways, with blood money in my pocket that amounted to the value Carole Calloway placed on burying the truth. I’ve reneged on my end of the bargain by returning home. I knew I’d eventually pay for that mistake. This is karma coming home to roost.

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