I unfastened the straps of my mask with steady fingers. My breath trembled, just once. Then I let it fall, soft and deliberate, to the floor beside me.
No longer The Black Dahlia.
Just me.
Calla.
I moved slowly toward him, crouched beside the bench where he lay boneless and dazed.
“James,” I said quietly.
His head turned toward my voice, eyes half-lidded and glazed.
“Yes, Mistress…” he breathed.
I reached out and gently tipped his chin toward me.
“No,” I said, letting him see my face, all of me. “Not Mistress, Calla.”
His brows furrowed.
Confusion.
A flicker of disbelief, then, recognition.
A sharp inhale split the silence.
“...Calla?” he whispered.
I nodded once, holding his gaze.
And then came the stillness. That full-body, mind-fucking stillness that overtakes a man who just realized he’s been begging for punishment from the woman he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for months.
“Wha—?” His voice cracked, throat dry. “Calla… Black?”
“Yes.”
He sat up too fast, wincing as the bruises pulled across his spine. His eyes searched mine like they couldn’t be trusted.
“You’re The Black Dahlia?”
I smiled faintly. “I told you not to come here.”
“Holy shit.” He blinked, chest rising and falling like a man drowning in air. “You—what the fuck—how is this—?”
I stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulder,grounding him. “Breathe, James.”
“I just… I let you… I mean, I fucking begged you—” His voice hitched. “Calla, I ate your pussy.”
I arched a brow. “Excellently, might I add.”
That broke something, allowing the tension to crack open into laughter. He covered his face with both hands and groaned.
“I was gonna flirt with you at the next barbecue,” he mumbled. “Bring you banana pudding and see if you’d let me take you out.”
“And instead,” I said, wrapping a throw blanket around his shaking shoulders, “you let me bend you over a bench and fuck the soul out of you.”
He looked up at me again, still wide-eyed, still reeling.
