“I found my shredded panties, you perv.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, it is. You keeping them as some sort of sick souvenir?”
“Nah,” I drawl, “it’s nothing like that. I just like to have them close by, so I can drag them over my face and sniff them when I…”
“Jesus. What’s wrong with you?” He looks at me with a prudish look of horror makes me truly happy. To take that away from me, he says, “You owe me a pair of panties, Asshole.”
Careful what you wish for, bad boy.
Chapter 27
Demon
Ilockmydoorand plug my phone in to charge. I consider a whisky, but I know I’ll be seeing Saint later, and I think it might be best to keep my wits about me. I walk through the apartment. It’s clean. Clinical. There’s not a thing out of place. Everything is quiet. Silent. Usually I love it, but sometimes I hate it. Tonight is one of those nights I hate it. I feel restless and out of place. It’s early. Not even properly dark yet. I have to wait for hours before I can go over to Saint’s if I want to maintain the charade that I’m not gagging for him. And believe me, I do want to maintain that charade.
I head to my room. I think a power nap is in order. My room is like the rest of my place. A little too much space around the furniture for it to feel cozy or lived in. Everything is exactly where it belongs as always, which is why the box on my bed is so notably out of place. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t go with the decor. It’s pale pink with a chalky, matte finish and has an elaborate black organza bow tied around it. There’s no card. Not that I need one. There’s only one person I know with the ability to break and enter into my home undetected.
I undo the bow and run my palms over the smooth surface of the box. I’m excited. My heart’s beating faster. I can’t imagine what a guy like him would give as a gift. A severed ear? A hunting knife? Neither would surprise me.
I open the lid on the box and set it down carefully. Whatever’s inside is hidden in swathes of delicate tissue paper. I peel it off and my lungs fill with a sudden, big breath. It’s lingerie, but it’s no ordinary lingerie. It’s a thong and suspenders. Both black. Both made of the sheerest silk I’ve ever held in my hands. Both have been hand-embroidered. The design is intricate and dark - roses, barbed thistles, and human skulls.
They’re beautiful and they’re strange.
They’re the most strangely beautiful things I’ve ever been given.
I shower quickly, taking care to dry myself fully before trying them on. They are perfection. They fit as though they were made to measure. No pleating. No digging into my skin. I look at myself in my long mirror. I look good, obviously. But something isn’t quite right. I try on a pair of black hold-up stockings. It’s not the look I’m after. I pull them off and try on a pair of fishnets instead. It’s better, but still not exactly what I want. I try on a few pairs of shoes and finally land on my favorite pair of combat boots.
What? Like you don’t try on your sex clothes beforehand.
It’s perfect. It’severything. It’s giving Gonna Give a Bad Bitch a Heart Attack.
I love it.
I throw on a burnt-out tank and a pair of ripped boyfriend jeans that expose a hint of my fishnets and I’m out of the door before I even consider the fact that it’s not seven PM yet.
On the way to his house, I give myself a stern talking to. It’s been two weeks since I topped him. I loved topping him, and of course I was nothing if not an extremely competent lover. It’s not a big deal, it’s just that I didn’t feel fully in control of my body, and I want to make sure that this time, I do. Last time, I meant to take my time. I meant to tease him and torture him and make him beg the way he makes me beg. I didn’t mean to fuck him like that. I didn’t mean for it to be as hard and ruthless as it was. It’s just that seeing him like that, bent over and open; it went to my head. When I touched him, his back tensed. The ink under his skin started to flutter. Black wings and feathers started to flap. I swear to God, the bird came alive when I thrust. I didn’t plan on being rough. It wasn’t my intention. All I wanted was to make art. All I wanted, was to set the raven on his back free.
It’s not that I’m sorry exactly, because I know he loved fuck out of what I did. I could hear it in the sounds he made. I could see it on his face afterwards. His lips were thick and puffy, but his eyes were clear as a bell. Maybe ‘sorry adjacent’ is the best way to put it.
Since then, I’ve been as good as gold. Well, I’ve been as good as I know how to be. I’ve gone over to his place every night and I’ve let him fuck me six ways from Sunday. I’ve let him do whatever he wants, and I haven’t even been stingy with kisses. I’ve let him have me any way he can think of, and I’ve hardly criticized him at all about it, constructively or otherwise. Not even when what he did made me feel like my sanity was under terminal threat.
*
I unlock his door and swing it open. He’s lying on his sofa. When he sees me, he jumps up and takes a quick step towards me, then he reminds himself to play it cool and stands still for a moment. That pleases me. I’ve caught him off guard by being so early. His eyes track down my body. I see him clock the fishnets peeking out of the rips in my jeans.
“Did you get my gift?”
“Yeah, I did. Wanna see?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, “I do.”
“Then take off your clothes.”
“That your mood, huh?” he says as he reaches back and pulls his T-shirt off over his head.
I don’t answer, I can’t. I don’t want to miss a second of the show. I know without touching him, that his skin is burning hot. The hair on his chest is thick, coarse, wirier than the hair on his head, making it all the more satisfying to rake my fingers through it. He stands still for a while, letting me look at his chest and his arms. There’s something terribly, terribly attractive about how confident he is about his body. Anyone else would have some sort of reaction to being watched getting undressed. Something subtle like a pinkening of cheeks or ears, or a slightly sheepish grin.
