Текст книги "Depraved devotion"

Автор книги: Morgan Bridges

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 37

GHOST

Earlier that night…

Two weeks.

Fourteen fucking days since I last saw her, since I touched her, since I made her come apart in that interview room while the world outside burned with violence.

My Geneva.

I stare at the cracked screen of my smuggled phone, the faint glow illuminating the only thing keeping me tethered to this woman.

Her face.

Her voice.

Her body.

Every part of her teases me. Tempts me. Maddens me.

She hasn’t texted. Hasn’t called. Not even to insult me. My hand shakes as rage and longing entwine into something I can’t contain.

If I wasn’t insane before, I certainly am now with wanting her.

I’m not the only one with issues. Geneva is getting therapy because of me, which I find amusing. I know why. It’s because I got inside her head, and she’s trying to claw me out. Exorcise me like the ghost I am.

My fingers hover over the screen, over the message I’ve typed and deleted a hundred times. I could send it now. Just one text to remind her how it felt.

How we felt.

But I don’t send it. Because if I do, she’ll know the power she has over me. It’s complete and total domination.

Although I might’ve already exposed my vulnerability to her. By admitting that losing her scares me. By saying I don’t know what I’d do without her. It was a moment of weakness, brought on by her surrender to me.

I lean back against the wall, the cold concrete doing nothing to calm the heat burning through me. My fingers twitch with the urge to break something. Or to caress her.

I remember the way she looked that day in the interview room. I replay it in my mind every waking moment. Her lips swollen, her breath shaky, and her eyes wide with something I’ve never seen before. It wasn’t fear. It was desire.

And it was real.

“Two weeks,” I mutter to myself. The words echo in the small cell, bouncing off the walls like a taunt. Fourteen days without her, and I feel like I’m dying. She’s in every thought, every breath, every fucking moment of my existence.

I unlock my phone again, searching the cameras in her apartment. My chest tightens when I find her, and for a split second, I want to smash the phone against the wall. Instead, I zoom in on her face, looking for something beneath the surface. A crack in the façade.

A trace of me.

She’s hiding it well. But I can still make out the tension in her shoulders, see the shadows beneath her eyes. She’s unraveling just like I am. That’s why she’s running.

But she won’t get far.

I won’t let her.

An hour later, I’m standing in front of her apartment with a baseball cap on, a knife in my pocket, and lockpicks in hand.

My pulse is thrumming with excitement, adrenaline flooding my veins. The anticipation is almost too much to bear. It takes every ounce of self-control not to break down the door and fuck her into submission.

No, this has to be done right.

This has to be done perfectly.

When the lock clicks, I slip inside, the darkness swallowing me whole. The apartment is quiet, the air heavy and still. I move silently, the familiarity of the space heightening my senses.

I’ve spent so much time here. In her life. In her head.

I creep down the hallway to pause outside her bedroom. The door is cracked open, the light spilling through. Geneva is sitting on her bed with a glass of wine in her hand, staring at a computer screen like she wants to murder it. I almost laugh. She’s so adorable when she’s pissed.

When Geneva shifts on the bed, I duck into the hallway bathroom and wait for her to pass me. She does, making her way to the kitchen, presumably to refill her wine glass. Leaving the bedroom empty.

I slip inside, my heart pounding as I step into her personal domain. It’s been a while. A quick scan reveals the usual items. A rumpled bed, a pile of books, a laptop, and that stuffed elephant which means a lot to her.

I walk to her nightstand, reaching out to stroke the soft fur. There’s something about the way she clutches it when she sleeps, like a child holding on to a security blanket. It’s oddly endearing, especially coming from a strong woman like her.

Her soft footsteps reach me, and I quickly duck into the closet, leaving the door cracked so I can watch her.

She’s back a moment later, her glass full and her gaze fixed on the computer screen. She doesn’t notice me. Yet.

Her sultry voice hits the air, and my dick gets hard. It’s Pavlov’s Theory; Geneva has trained my cock.

“Psychopathy is a condition defined by control,” she says.

I smile, watching her from the shadows as her voice carries through the room. The way she speaks—articulate, controlled, so damn authoritative—it makes my pulse race. The wine in her glass trembles in her hand, a faint, telling sign that she’s not as composed as she wants to be.

“Psychopaths thrive in environments where they can exploit weakness. They adapt, manipulate, and control with alarming precision,” she says, reading aloud.

Talk dirty to me.

Geneva pauses, her lips pressing into a thin line. The silence stretches, and then she exhales, taking a generous sip before setting the wine glass down on the nightstand.

She runs her fingers along the edge of her laptop absentmindedly, and I notice the subtle shift in her body. The way her shoulders relax. The way she presses her thighs together.

She’s not thinking about the keynote anymore.

My smirk fades, replaced by something darker. I lean forward, the crack in the closet door just wide enough for me to catch the flush creeping up her neck.

Oh, Doc. What are you thinking about?

She tilts her head back, closing her eyes for a moment. I don’t miss the way her breathing changes. It’s slower, heavier. She grips the comforter and her lips part on a groan. Of sexual frustration.

Heat coils low in my stomach, and my cock hardens painfully. I know what’s going through her mind. It’s written all over her.

She’s thinking about me.

At least, she better fucking be.

Geneva shifts, sliding her hand down to her pussy, and I bite back a groan. A shudder of pleasure ripples through her, and I catch a soft sound, a barely audible sigh that makes my blood roar in my ears.

That’s right, Geneva. Keep going. Don’t you fucking stop.

This moment is too good to interrupt. Watching her like this, watching her submit to the desire she’s feeling, is almost as intoxicating as touching her.

“Yes,” she moans loudly. “God, yes.”

She arches her back, falling deeper into ecstasy. My need to come is almost unbearable. So, I punch myself in the dick. It helps somewhat.

“Ghost.”

My whole body locks up as the sound of my name pours from her lips, raw and unrestrained. It’s like gasoline on an already raging fire, and I have to grip the edges of the closet door to stop myself from bursting out and finishing what she’s started.

Geneva doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to me. How every low moan has me teetering on the edge of control. My breathing is ragged, my fists aching from how tightly I’m clenching the doorframe. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, anything to anchor myself. To stop me from losing my fucking mind and becoming an absolute savage.

Geneva collapses against the bed, her chest heaving as the aftermath washes over her. She looks wrecked, and it’s beautiful. Her hair splayed out on the pillow, skin flushed, and her legs still trembling. But it’s her face that does me in. The soft, dreamy expression, the smile tugging at her lips.

It’s too much to handle.

But then her expression morphs into something angry, her lips twisting with bitterness. For a split second I forget about how painfully hard my dick is, while trying to figure out what caused the sudden change.

“Fuck you, Ghost, for making me want you,” she says.

I blink. Does she know I’m here? Impossible.

“Fuck you for making me feel this way,” she says. “For making me question everything I’ve ever known about myself, about control, about boundaries. And most of all, fuck you for leaving me to deal with this… this obsession with you.”

Degradation kink unlocked.

Her insults, sharp as they are, can’t smother the satisfaction curling in my chest. She’s thinking about me. Obsessing over me. And no matter how much she fights it, she wants me.

I just want her more.

Her anger fuels something dark and primal in me. She’s raging against me, yes, but it’s because she hates what she’s feeling. The connection, the pull, the fucking obsession she just admitted out loud.

I sag against the closet wall, tension rolling through me like a bolt of lightning. Her frustration is intoxicating, her vulnerability even more so. It’s a potent combination that leaves me balanced on the edge of control.

She’s not just angry at me; she’s angry at herself for wanting me. For needing me. And I won’t let my girl go unsatisfied.

That’s just rude.

CHAPTER 38

GENEVA

Present

“Hello, Doc.”

I gasp, clutching the blanket to my chest, and find Ghost exiting my closet to stand at the foot of my bed, his form silhouetted by the moonlight streaming through the window.

“How the hell did you get in here?” I snap.

My overly defensive tone reveals the fear and disbelief colliding inside me. Ghost isn’t supposed to be here. Not in the room where I sleep. Not standing next to the bed where I indulge in my darkest fantasies of him.

He smirks, the expression both infuriating and enticing. “Does it really matter?”

“You’re right,” I say, forcing a confidence I don’t feel. “It doesn’t. Get the fuck out before I call the police.”

He takes a step forward, his movements smooth, graceful, and predatory. I shrink back instinctively. I’m not scared of him, but of what he could do to me emotionally.

Ghost doesn’t stop walking until he’s next to my side of the bed, towering over me, his hair draped over his brow. “Tsk. Tsk. Now, is that any way to talk to a friend?”

“We’re not friends.”

“If me touching your pussy isn’t friendly, then I’d love to know what is.”

I glare up at him. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

His gaze is intense, the raw hunger in his eyes unmistakable. “You.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he whispers, the sound both confident and sensual.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek, and my breathing quickens. I shake my head, rendered mute at his touch. He leans forward, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

“You want me, Geneva,” he murmurs. “Admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Only if you’re a good girl.”

He trails his fingers down my jaw, featherlight and deceptive. My skin heats beneath his touch, a slow burn that spreads through me like wildfire. I force myself to stay still, to hold my ground, even as my pulse pounds in my throat.

I just need a second. A small window.

My fingers twitch at my side, inching toward my phone resting on the nightstand. I keep my eyes trained on his, not wanting to give away my intentions, while hoping he’s too distracted by the game we’re playing.

But the moment I lunge for my cell phone, he snatches my wrist. I barely have time to react before he yanks me up, forcing me onto my knees, our chests colliding.

“Too slow, Doc.”

I use my free hand and shove at his chest, but it’s useless. He’s unmovable. I hate how easily he overpowers me, how effortlessly he drags me under his control.

How much I want to stay there.

Ghost flexes his fingers around my wrist, his grip now painful. His nose brushes the curve of my jaw as he inhales slowly. “Did you really think I wouldn’t catch you?”

I scowl. “I thought you’d be too busy stroking your own ego.”

“Smart mouth. The same one that screamed my name a few minutes ago.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “That didn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything.”

I shrug with a nonchalance I don’t feel. “If you say so.”

His eyes narrow at my blatant dismissal, all traces of amusement fading. His grip on my wrist tightens before he lets go, only to reach into his back pocket. The glint of his knife catches the light, the sharp blade gleaming between us, making my breath hitch.

“Ghost…” I warn.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he brings the blade to my throat, the flat side pressing against my pulse. A silent reminder of who he really is.

I go still, barely daring to breathe.

Ghost leans in, lips just brushing my ear. “Do not lie to me, Geneva.” The way he says my name is sensual, with just a hint of something unhinged.

Using the knife, he traces a path along my throat, then lower, between my collarbones. The whisper of pressure from the blade has my heart pounding so hard I feel it in every inch of my body.

Then, without warning, he slices.

The cold kiss of steel against fabric. My shirt parts down the middle in a clean, effortless cut. The cool air hits my bare skin, and I suck in a sharp breath, but I don’t move.

Ghost watches me, his expression unreadable as he peels back the fabric, exposing my breasts. My skin is hypersensitive to every movement, every shift of the blade as Ghost drags it down, past my ribs, to my navel. He doesn’t cut. Doesn’t break the skin. But the sheer precision of his control is just as lethal as the edge itself.

“Wow, Doc. You didn’t even flinch.”

I lift my chin. “Are you going to rape me?”

The thought makes my skin prickle and my breathing ragged. He notices. His smirk appears, but his hold on the knife remains steady.

“You can’t rape the willing.”

I glare at him. “I’m not giving my consent.”

“Good. It’ll be more fun that way.”

Ghost rests the knife against my leg, the cool steel a stark contrast to the heat spreading through my skin. Slowly, he drags it upward, the blade’s presence both dangerous and intoxicating. My heart feels like it’s going to explode, but I keep my face impassive, unwilling to give him the reaction he’s looking for.

“Open,” he says, his voice commanding. When I don’t move, he taps my inner thigh with the blade. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Still on my knees, I grip his biceps for support and spread my legs.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice thick with satisfaction.

I glare at him. “Go to hell.”

“Already there. Because every second I’m not inside you is fucking torture.”

His other hand is rough and warm as he slides it up my ribs, molding to the curves of my breasts. He flicks his thumbs over my nipples, teasing, testing, waiting for me to react. I bite the inside of my cheek, determined not to make a sound.

He chuckles darkly, dipping his head. “Stubborn.”

I inhale sharply as his tongue flicks over my nipple, his teeth grazing just enough to hurt. To punish. Ghost watches me with that lazy, knowing smile, as he pulls my nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. But he’s not in a rush. He’s savoring this.

Savoring me.

I hold his gaze, refusing to break first. Even when he snakes his fingers inside my underwear. He grips the material at the crotch, barely touching me, but somehow making me wet. Then, with a sharp tug, he rips the fabric away like it’s nothing.

I gasp at the burn against my skin and the sudden exposure. Before I can recover, Ghost spreads me. He hums in approval, dragging his fingers along my damp pussy before pressing slow, torturous circles against my clit.

He continues stroking me, the pressure increasing along with his pace. Pleasure builds within me, the intensity almost too much to bear. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to thrust against his hand, desperate for release.

“You don’t deserve this,” he whispers against my lips. “You ignored me for weeks, after I saved your life and made you come.”

He pulls his fingers away.

I blink at him, lost in a haze of lust. “What…”

Ghost chuckles, roughly gripping my chin, and then using his thumb to smear the effects of my arousal over my lips. He presses his mouth against mine, the kiss hard and bruising. Demanding yet desperate.

I remain still, unresponsive. Even when he flicks his tongue between my lips, coaxing me to taste myself. He wraps his other hand around the back of my neck, pinning me in place as he brings the knife’s handle to my clit.

I wrench back, breaking the kiss. “Don’t,” I gasp, panic flooding me.

“I’m not. You are.” Ghost presses the handle against me. “Use it.”

The feeling is cold and alien, but as I slowly move against it, the foreign texture rubs against my clit in a way that’s erotic. I do it again, faster and harder to add more pressure, and the friction sends sparks of pleasure through me. Ghost groans when I start panting.

“That’s right,” he growls, his voice rough. “Rub that pussy all over it. Show me how you’re going to do the same to my cock.”

I continue gyrating against the handle, the pleasure compounding at Ghost’s ragged breathing. I’m so close. So fucking close.

“Come. Now,” Ghost snaps.

I obey, my body shaking uncontrollably. He’s quick to wrap his arm around my waist, preventing me from impaling myself on the handle as my orgasm wrecks me. Over and over.

When the world settles back into focus, I find him watching me with something dangerous in his eyes.

Possession.

Devotion.

Something too deep to name.

I swallow hard, my pulse still erratic. “Happy now?” I manage, breathless.

Ghost grins. “Not even close.”

CHAPTER 39

GENEVA

Ghost lifts the knife to his mouth, dragging his tongue slowly along the handle, his eyes locked onto mine the entire time. The act is meant to unravel me. And it does.

He tilts his head, gesturing lazily with the blade toward my hands. “Unbuckle my pants.”

I pause, unsure if I’m still resisting him. Or seducing him.

His smirk deepens as he takes in my hesitation. My stubbornness returns full force to prove that I’m not intimidated by him. I reach for the zipper, my knuckles brushing against the hard lines of his stomach. At the clench of his jaw and the way his muscles twitch, I know I’m affecting him just as much as he affects me.

The moment his pants are undone, I yank his shirt off, along with my own. His sculpted torso comes into view, marked by scars that hint of past fights and possible abuse. But it’s the tribal tattoos that really draw me in, igniting another surge of lust as I trace their bold, intricate patterns with my eyes. They wind aggressively around his arms, up his neck, and spread over much of his upper chest, the dark ink clinging to his skin in a way that’s beyond sexy.

Ghost sits on the edge of the bed, legs spread, the blade resting casually in his palm. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with intent. “Ride me,” he orders, his voice deep and rough.

When I don’t move, he leans back, spreading his legs wider. His large cock rests against his abdomen while pre-cum leaks onto his skin. He twirls the knife lazily between his fingers, tapping the flat of the blade against the outside of his thigh. The gesture is casual, but the command in his eyes is anything but.

I take a fortifying breath. Then, slowly, I crawl onto his lap to straddle him.

After putting down the knife, he reaches out to grab my hips, the heat of his body seeping into my skin. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize I’ve willingly put myself in his hands. Again.

Maybe that’s his point.

With one hand, he kneads the flesh of my thighs as he looks at me, drinking me in. He grabs the knife and drags the tip up my spine, the cool metal leaving goosebumps in its wake. I arch instinctively, pressing myself closer to him.

I hover over his cock, my breathing uneven, my hands braced against his chest. The heat of him is tangible, radiating through every point where our bodies connect. His smile is lazy, but his eyes are watchful, tracking every flicker of emotion on my face.

“Use me,” he says. “Take me. Every. Single. Fucking. Inch.”

I swallow the nerves gathering in my throat as my fingers tremble against his skin. I can feel his cock pressing against me, thick and hard. Although he easily could, he doesn’t force me.

No, Ghost is making me choose him.

I exhale, then move, sinking onto him. He curses under his breath, his fingers biting into my flesh as I take him in. It happens inch by inch, me stretching around him with a whimper despite how wet I am. My nails claw his chest, drawing blood, my thighs shaking as I adjust.

“Fuck.” He tilts his head back slightly, his jaw tight. “You’re going to kill me.”

A shudder runs through me, my body humming at the praise. I brace myself again, lifting my hips just enough before sliding back down farther than before. I still have a couple of inches left to take. Ghost watches me through hooded eyes, seeing me struggle. It hurts, and he knows it, but it’s the pain that has me feeling alive.

“Make it fit, or I will,” he says.

After a couple more tries, I get the last bit of him in. I feel stretched beyond anything I can handle. My breathing is labored, and I’m sweating. He runs his hand up and down my side, the touch soothing.

“You’re such a good girl.”

I’m so full, it’s hard to breathe, but I manage. Then Ghost reaches down to touch the area where our bodies are joined, and my breath leaves my lungs completely. He gently traces my pussy with his fingers, his eyes never leaving that place of intimate connection, his expression one of awe and intense desire.

“Perfect… just perfect,” he whispers.

The reverence in his gaze deepens, the corners of his lips lifting in a satisfied smile. He leans closer, his breath warm against my skin.

“Look at you, taking all of me.” Ghost swivels his hips just a little, but it forces a moan from me. “Now, ride me.”

I don’t move, overwhelmed with the knowledge of what’s coming next. Ghost doesn’t give me a choice. He drops the knife and grips my hips, guiding me. I rise, then sink back down. I repeat the motion, slowly, finding a rhythm that has us both groaning.

“Fuck,” Ghost rasps. “So fucking tight. Don’t stop.”

I keep moving, grinding my hips, chasing release. My muscles tremble from the strain, but I don’t falter, wanting to stay in control.

Eventually, Ghost takes over as his desperation outdoes mine. He thrusts his hips up, burying himself deeper inside me. I gasp, the pleasure and pain blurring together, making it impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

“It’s too much. I can’t…” I whimper.

“You can take it. You already are. Look at you,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Taking me so well. God, I love the way you fuck me.”

He groans, his hands gripping me tighter as he takes complete control, lifting me, meeting each roll of my hips with a dominating thrust. The pleasure builds, sharp and relentless, coiling low in my stomach. He continues slamming into me, fucking me hard and deep, his grip bruising.

“Eyes on me,” he snaps. “Look at me when you come.”

I flick my gaze to his. The raw emotion I find in his eyes sends me over the edge. I scream as the orgasm tears through me, my body spasming around his cock. Milking him, forcing him to come.

“Geneva,” he groans.

His hips jerk as he comes, his cock twitching inside me. Ghost continues fucking me, riding out the last waves of his ecstasy. By the time he stops, I’m shaking, barely able to hold myself up. I collapse against him, and he wraps his arms around me, stroking my hair.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

He holds me close, our bodies slick with sweat, our hearts thrashing in our chests. I press my face against his skin, inhaling his scent. He runs his hands along my back, up and down, tracing the curve of my spine.

Ghost doesn’t speak. He just holds me, weaving his fingers through my hair, his breath warm against my temple. His touch is comforting, but I feel too raw. Too exposed.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fortify myself, but the vulnerability keeps creeping in, sinking into my bones. It’s just sex. It’s a biological need, a primal urge that both of us are fulfilling. Nothing more.

So, how can something purely physical leave such deep imprints on my soul?

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs into my hair.

I remain silent, not trusting my voice. I’m not sure what I’d even say. Then Ghost lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes, normally so unreadable, so filled with sharp edges and danger, hold something else. Something that makes my chest ache.

He drags his thumb along my jaw. “Talk to me.”

I shake my head.

Ghost studies me for a long moment, his gaze searching. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You think I don’t feel it too?”

I stiffen. He grabs the back of my neck, keeping me still. His lips brush against my temple, lingering.

“It’s not just sex, Geneva.”

I should say something. I should push him away before this goes any deeper, before it becomes something I can’t survive.

But I don’t.

Because he’s still touching me. Still holding me like he doesn’t want to let go.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper.

Ghost hums, his grip tightening. “You think I do? That it’s ever been this way for me?”

A psychopath and a psychologist…

Neither of us know what to do. Or how to stop it.

Whatever this madness is.