I already know that Marco’s men will be more interested in avenging their boss’ death than finding Aurora. Aurora has no real value to them now. I’ve done my digging. I know that most of her papà’s business and financial interests in Buffalo were transferred to her husband.
There’s also the fact that she doesn’t have any remaining living family who would have any vested interest in tracking her down. No, the only ones who might try to find her are the police, if Marco’s men even bother turning over his home security footage to them. But I’m not particularly worried about that. I doubt they’d be inclined to bring the cops in on their dealings. I sure as shit know that if I ever found Elio in his home with his throat cut, calling 9-1-1 would be just about the furthest fucking thing from my mind.
I would track down Deirdre for him, though. Because that’s what he would have wanted, and I wouldn’t like to see her get hurt if I could help it. But I don’t think any of Marco’s men give two shits about Aurora’s safety.
No one’s going to take her from me.
Because I’m still listening so closely to her movements, I know that she’s coming back my way before the door even opens. She’s taken her hair out of its wedding style. It falls like liquid starlight past her shoulders, waves crimped into it from the twists and pins.
“I can’t get this off.”
She says it like she’s disgusted, gesturing at the lingerie. Obviously, she got the panties off alright, since I just heard her pissing. She’s wearing the black sweatpants and holding the sweater, but her bodysuit thing is still on.
I don’t think it’s actually called a bodysuit. I don’t know shit about women’s lingerie, despite all the time I’ve spent with my cousin Valentina. If she were here, she’d be able to tell me exactly what the fuck it is that Aurora is wearing. But she’s in Dublin right now. She’s been back and forth from Ireland to Canada ever since she married Darragh Gowan.
It’s sheer white, cinched tight at Aurora’s waist, with lines of wire or something stiff going up and down, giving it structure. There’s nothing stiff like that at the top, though. Her tits are encased in nothing but the most delicate lace. Her nipples show through just enough to make my throat tighten and my dick throb.
“Can you please fucking help me?” she asks with a weary grimace. “When I said that I can’t get this off earlier, that’s what I meant. I need your help, Curse.”
With that, she turns around, putting her back to me. She lifts her hair, pulling it all in front of her right shoulder, exposing the exquisite lines of her neck, the fragile wings of her shoulder blades, the pearls and indentations of her spine.
How easy it would be. To shove the bulk of my body up against her back. Pin her to the wall ahead and yank down the stretchy waistband of those pants.
“I’ll have to touch you,” I tell her.
She stiffens.
“That’s fine.” There’s a breathless squeakiness to her voice that lets me know it isn’t actually fine. But I don’t think there’s any way to get this beautiful, lacy contraption off her body otherwise. From behind, I can see that there are two layers of fasteners. Tightly-bound white ribbon criss-crossing across her back, and beneath that, a column of tiny little metal hooks fitted into corresponding loops.
No wonder she needs help. This shit is like a straightjacket.
“Cut it off if you have to,” she says when I step up close behind her.
Telling, perhaps. That she thinks I’d be better, faster with a knife. That my fingers aren’t capable of deft, delicate work. That I would so easily cut or rip this shit right off her.
But I don’t. Starting with the bow at the bottom, I tug gently at the ribbons until they fall. I don’t miss the catch in Aurora’s breath, the goosebumps that rise on her bare arms, when those ribbons graze the bit of her lower back showing above the sweatpants. Row by row, my fingers loosen the criss-crossed ribbons, until that entire layer is loose and sagging. The little tiny hooks take more focus. I have to get closer. So close that I’m sure my breath is skating along the back of her neck. So close that she’s all I can smell. So close that if either one of us moved right now, my mouth would be on her hair, her skin.
I focus on the hooks, but even so it takes me longer than anticipated. Maybe this is why she told me I could cut it off if I wanted to. Feels like there are fucking thousands of these little hooks to undo. But eventually, it’s done, and the garment remains intact even as I tug the sides of it away from Aurora’s body.
Which was a fucking mistake. I know it about two seconds too late.
I should have let her retreat to the bathroom to take it off herself now that the fasteners are undone. But my hands just kept going, pulling the thing off of her entirely. I drop it on the floor, my eyes glued to the naked lines of her back, the elegant incline of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the subtle flare of her slender hips. She so fucking perfect, she shouldn’t even exist.
I thought the same thing the first time I saw her.
But I’m not eight anymore. And I’m not struck dumb by her angelic face right now.
I’m thirty and she’s practically naked in front of me. Her pants barely count. It wouldn’t even take me a second to snatch them off of her.
She makes a noise that’s somewhere between a moan and a sigh. One of relief, I’m fairly certain, because I can see the red lines on her skin where the garment was digging in. She feels good now that it’s off of her. That thought, and the sound she made, both go straight to my cock.
“Thanks,” she whispers, oblivious to the fact that I’m currently imagining what her naked back would look like splattered with my come. Doubt she’d be thanking me if she knew that.
She pulls the sweater over her head and shakes her hair out of it. The dim, cottony daylight from beyond the snow and the lamplight gleam on the strands. Even after sleeping almost the entire way here in the car, she still looks exhausted. She steps towards the bed, then halts.
“You should get some sleep,” she says. Woodenly, she spins around and heads for the armchair by the TV, getting into it and balancing on the balls of her feet, like she won’t let herself relax enough to sit all the way down on her ass. “I’ll be right here.”
I don’t like the idea of her that far away from me when I’m sleeping. I’m a heavy sleeper, and the last thing I need is her alone with her thoughts, panicking, and running off to call the police to turn herself – and me – in for what happened tonight.
