“You’re everything I was afraid to want, but couldn’t escape. We were inevitable, Tess. You’re my home.”
Being owned by Maddox Noire is liberating.
“Yours. More,” I pant as he releases my wrists and circles my clit in an enchanting cadence that matches the rhythm of his punishing thrusts and the beat of the music.
An erotic dance of dominance.
My fingers weave through his silken strands, and my eyes latch to the carnal, stormy grays that see the parts of me that others have asked me to hide. And the realization that I think I’m in love with him assaults me like a cresting wave. I can’t seem to say it, but I think he knows.
His lips descend upon mine, and he kisses me wildly. Still gripping my throat, still pumping viciously, all while lappingup my soul, claiming every dark and messy piece. And I return every ounce of passion, eager to let him have my all.
Love is an action.
My back bows, arching into him so my pebbled nipples graze his taut chest, shooting another quiver of euphoria through me. The room fades in and out, swaying so the only constant is him.
He bites my lip, never breaking the ferocious tempo of his thrusts or his foray on my clit or this kiss that reaches depths and dreams and deep-seated fears. Healing me with promises and plans. And blinding pleasure.
But then he slows, and what has always been feral between us blossoms into something soft and smooth and supremely pivotal. It’s that realm that gets mentioned in movies or books, a far-fetched fairy tale that I never believed existed.
We become one. Whole. No me without him.
“Home,” I murmur against his mouth, breathless and blissed out.
This connection transcends every guard I had around my heart, every preconceived notion I had about what could be conquered with another person. My walls crumble. And so do his.
“That’s right, baby girl,” he praises as we both teeter on the summit, trembling in one another’s embrace.
The room streaks to amber and indigo with shadows of hope. Hot jets of his cum stream inside me. And we surrender to his song. Slamming and shaking and warbling a harmony of rhapsodies.
Once our aftershocks calm, he scoops me up and rolls us so I’m lying on top of him. He removes the plug from my ass, holds me tight, and scratches up and down my spine, reminding me who I am. “You are my forever home, Tess. And I’m yours.”
Several serene minutes later, he’s still buried inside me, but when some of our release leaks out, he pushes it back in with alow growl. Yet another attempt to mark me as his, which brings me back to the catalyst for the claiming.
I lift my chin to rest on his chest. “How long is forever, Maddox?”
“Eternity, baby. This life and the next and every fucking one after that. My soul will always belong to yours.” He smiles and pecks my nose.
But the impending turmoil we’re engulfed in is written in his features.
The afterlife might come sooner than we’d like.
MADDOX
The air is infused with dusk and zeal and savory notes of Creole cooking. Today is the day. Beneath violet clouds and white string lights, a haunting rendition of “House of the Rising Sun” kicks off the opening ceremony for our Underground Independence Festival.
Each thump of the drums revs me up, reminding me of the woman who came to La Lune Noire as a singer/guitar player in the hopes that she’d break free of her blueberry-farmer upbringing in Oklahoma and find a more thrilling life. It ultimately reduced her to ashes, but I like to think those early years were filled with music and everything she’d dreamed they would be.
The similarities between my mother’s early path and Tessa’s are alarming. It knots my gut, but I’ll be damned if I allow the trajectory to be even remotely the same.
She dusts her thumb back and forth on my skin, our fingers twined together. In a black minidress that hugs her curves—with pockets, which is apparently a huge win—and laced black boots that hit low on her calf and showcase her shapely legs, she’slethal. And nervous, standing on this stage with me. Maybe she should be. I’ve freed her and caged her in one fell swoop. Still, she’s by my side. Willingly.
Something changed while she was bound to that throne yesterday. She can’t fully vocalize it, but she finally envisioned herself sharing this life with me. And when I saw that shift in her eyes, I realized all the time I’d spent avoiding intimacy was because my broken soul must’ve known she was the only one who could mend it.
I flick my butterfly knife around a few more times, soothed by theclick-clack-rattle, before the final notes of the song conclude, bleeding into background jazz music. Pocketing the balisong, I step up to the mic with my hand still clasping Tessa’s and stare out at the sea of excited employees.
They’ve been trekking through a maze for the last few hours, collecting clues, solving puzzles, awestruck by holograms that heckled them with riddles, all so they could achieve entrance. We like things to feel earned. They were pampered along the way, fed hors d’oeuvres and drinks and gifted with prizes. But the effort to get here makes simply standing where they are a celebration. Since I’ve just been informed that the last staff member on tonight’s list made it in, we’re good to go.
“What’s the number one rule of the Underground?”
