Dried blood runs in a line from her fiery red hair down her sharp cheekbone, ending at her perfect jawline. Her lips are still painted cherry red, turned down in a frown, and her golden eyes stare at me expectantly—far sharper than I expect for someone so intoxicated.
It’s all a wall she hides behind, a way to numb whatever she’s running from. Still, she knows something's amiss, or at least wonders. I feel my own mask slipping—my opportunity to get revenge growing precariously farther away.
I’ve a million questions, all more dangerous and damning than the next. But instead of breathing life to any of them just yet, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you have any tattoos?”
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows instantly draw together, and I see fresh panic flash in her eyes for the briefest of moments. It’s a peculiar reaction, but she blinks, and it’s gone. “One.” Sheopens the truck door to leave, and I grip her arm, desperate to keep us in this moment a little longer.
I drop it almost instantly, her skin burning beneath my touch. She hisses, as if she feels it too. I know I should let her walk away, or at least act like her current mental and physical state are concerning to me. Instead, I ask what I really want to know. “You seem to think you’re a bad guy, like a villain or an outlaw or something. You seem to think everyone sees you as that. Why?”
I expect her to sneer or act hateful—at the very least, deny it. Instead, her face falls further. “One bad choice after another. Some made by me, others forced upon me.” She pauses, her face twisting into a look of disgust as she looks down at her palms. “It was better to become the villain than the victim, and now, it’s all I am.”
She jumps out, leaving me with far more questions than I had before.
FIFTEEN
VALENTINA
September 21st, 2025
Rolling over,my hand meets chiseled flesh, the heat of it almost so intense, I pull my fingers from its burn. As I open my eyes, I’m met with a pair of scorching emerald ones, a twisted, roguish smile playing across the plump lips beneath. The sight of him so relaxed and teasing arrests the oxygen in my lungs. I’m unable to do anything but stare at him.
“I think she’s broken.”
I whip my head to the right at the gruff sound of McCrae’s sleep-ridden voice, his own eyes—a contrasting crystalline blue—staring back at me with equal intensity. Instead of a small, teasing smile, he wears a smirk, something dark and devilish, and my toes curl on their own.
A rough, callused hand splays across the skin of my stomach, and I stiffen in surprise. I look down to the vein laden hand attached to Santos’ body as his fingers tease the edge of my silken panties—lazy but confident strokes, back and forth. My skin pebbles beneath the tender touch, my nipples hardening to painful little peaks.
“You’re turning her on. Again,” McCrae grumbles, his own hand reaching out to flick one of my pierced nipples as proof. I yelp at the contact, and he looks down at me as if I’m some scared little school girl. “Does the baby need me to kiss her boo boos?”
“God, yes,” I pant.Wait, is that my voice? How did I get here?
Santos chuckles, his fingers dipping slowly beneath the elastic band and running through the small triangle of hair I keep there. “Kiss it better, or I will.”
“You’re always the good cop,” McCrae grumbles before lowering to blow a cool stream of air over my aching peak. It does nothing but make my veins burn hotter, and I fist the sheets to keep from touching him.
Somehow, I just know I’m not supposed to touch him. It’s his rules, and even though it’s torture, I follow them.
Santos growls and then shoves McCrae’s head out of the way before hungrily sucking my nipple into his mouth. I scream out at the sudden intensity, and he licks and kisses the flesh between tugging at the bar with his teeth.
“Good cop and fucking greedy,” McCrae says.
I turn pleading eyes to him. “Touch me, McCrae. Please. I need you. I need both of you.” I know I’m not supposed to want him to touch me—and I’m definitely not supposed to ask. It falls outside of our normal relationship. But this feels different. The hunger in his eyes tells me he wants me.
Still, he doesn’t move. Instead, Santos’ hand dips lower, his warm hand skimming over my clit before pinching the small bundle between his thumb and pointer finger. I moan, my eyes rolling back in my head.
“More,” McCrae growls.
Santos does as he demands, his fingers plunging into my heat as if he’s been there before, spreading my already wet lips openand fucking me with his middle and ring finger. It’s an expert’s touch, one reserved for long time lovers, with a familiarity I’ve never known but revel in.
His arm pumps, slow at first, then faster and faster, his licks and bites on my breasts becoming more and more frantic. I watch him, eyes half lidded, my gaze bouncing between his glistening lips around my nipple, and his veiny arm filling the space between my spread legs.
I moan, opening wider for him, and release my grip on the sheets to anchor my fingers into the flesh of his back. He hisses but drives faster, spurred on by the pain.
“That’s it, baby. Take my fingers like the good little slut you are,” Santos mumbles around my nipple, and I arch into him, yanking his head up. I thread my fingers through his hair, searching for his lips, but he denies me, burrowing his head into my neck instead. He licks and sucks at the flesh, and I lose myself to the sensations.
The noise filling the room gets louder, wetter, sloppier. I love it, my hips nearly unhinged as I make room for Santos.
“Yes, more,” I beg. He knows exactly what I need—just like he always does. He removes his fingers, shifting his position so his cock bobs between my legs. I groan at the sight of him, hard and dripping precum as he lines himself up.
