Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(43)

Memory and screens do not do her justice.

Annoyance heats the base of my spine, clearing the fog of lust as it coasts through my brain. I dip out the door before she can turn around, knowing the next part of her routine gives me a couple of minutes to disappear into the shadows again, my malicious presence unbeknownst to her.

The bedside lamp doesn’t illuminate the entire room, so I slink into a darkened corner by the dresser, willing my dick to go down.

Pressing myself into the wall, I try to think of anything else. My parents, the lake outside, my fifth grade social studies project on the Declaration of Independence.

All I see is her fucking face.

A subdued noise of frustration puffs from my nostrils, and I move my hands to my jeans. It’s a shit idea, possibly the worst I’ve ever had, but right now my only thought is relief.

Relief of the guilt her beauty fills me with when she should be the one repenting.

Of not being able to create, because she’s still got her claws latched into my brain, my lungs, and my soul.

Three years I’ve spent living and breathing her. Imagining the moment I’d be able to reclaim my focus.

Denying myself because of the way she dominates my thoughts.

But no more.

With shaky fingers, I drag my zipper down and wrench my cock from my boxers. It’s hot to the touch, and I swipe my thumb along the tip, spreading the bead of precum bubbling there.

Releasing a harsh breath, I close my eyes and inhale, stroking up my shaft once.

Twice.

My movements are stilted, uneven as I lean to listen for her departure from the bathroom. The sink turns on, and a strangled moan escapes me as I begin pumping harder.

Palming the top of her dresser, I blow out a breath, sweat forming at my hairline. As a drop glides down the bridge of my nose, I’m reminded of her in the bathtub, body shimmering with the evidence of her exertion, and my balls draw up tight.

I envision her face, mouth parted in shock and eyes wide, if she were to come out before I’m finished.

The idea of her catching me like this, draining myself dry to the image of her doing the same, spurs me on. I’m panting, hips bucking against the air, my climax so close I can taste it in my throat, when I realize I don’t have anywhere for it to go.

Swallowing hard, I slow my strokes without ceasing completely, glancing at the wooden surface in front of me. I could use a pair of panties stuffed in my pocket, but then I’d have to leave it for her to find in order to send a message, and I don’t want to do that.

But I’m not leaving without letting her know that I’m here.

A bottle sitting in my line of sight captures my attention, and I lean in, squinting hard to see the label.

Something sinister weasels through my gut, weaving its way between my ribs until it’s practically one with my being. Satisfaction, sick and deranged, courses through my bloodstream, and I reach forward to unscrew the lid.

Gripping the bottle in my free hand, I position it beneath the slit in my crown, resuming the languid strokes from before.

My toes curl inside my boots, my spine liquefying, as thick ropes of cum spurt from me like a hot spring. It dribbles into the lotion, musk mixing with the smell of Christmas, and I come close to blacking out from the pleasure it gives me.

Inside the bathroom, the sink shuts off, and I fumble to put myself back together. Screwing the lid on tight, I give it a little shake, my pulse skyrocketing.

Perverse contentment rains over me, and I set the bottle back where it belongs, slipping from her bedroom before she can come out.

When I’m back at my temporary residence, I set up my usual watching post at the window, propping my feet on the sill with my bass in my lap.

And as her silhouette gets dressed and ready for bed, smoothing what I imagine is my vile concoction on her body, I write an opening verse for the first time in three years.





21





“I’m just saying, I don’t know where they could’ve possibly gone.”

Crouching on my hands and knees, I sweep underneath my dresser, searching for what I already know isn’t there.

Kal’s voice is strained, and I don’t have to turn around to know there’s a harsh look of resentment on his face. I don’t think the man has another expression. “How the hell does an entire underwear drawer go missing?”

Groaning, I yank my arm out and sit back on my knees, casting another futile glance around the room. Nothing’s out of place, save for the shoe boxes I’ve dug out of the closet in my haste to find my panties.

When I woke up this morning and went to put on a new pair, I’d opened the drawer and discovered the whole thing was empty.

My first reaction was a deep sense of confusion, followed closely by a tinge of fear. Either that someone had broken in and robbed me of my underwear, or that Caleb had somehow slipped upstairs unnoticed and raided the contents.

Sitting here, blushing hard in front of a man who definitely has more important things to deal with in life, I still don’t know which is worse.

“There’s no evidence of a break-in,” Kal continues. “Is it possible you’ve just misplaced them?”

I twist around, watching his thumb smooth over the black wedding band on his left hand. With his other, he scrolls through his phone, sharp brows drawn in, a determined frown pulling all of his features down.