Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXXVI. Make Love To Me A Thousand Times

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    "Magical realism."

    Like a thief in the night, Scott remembered when he had her, Psyche, as Robin disclosed their plan. Wisps of white flowed around them like wedding lace as he took her body, waxy and pale, and made love to her. All that quiet want, forget-me-not longing, wrapped up in an insistent need to satisfy his insecurity. Psyche kissed him to feel his warmth, to take in the sweetness, the saccharine-ness of her m*ans against his, and Scott let her. Needed to let her.

     Every hungry press of his lips to hers, every abusive, forceful bite, brought him away from the images of Emilia, of Robin, of the women who controlled him and gave anything back. The dirtiness pulled at his body, ate at him year-on-year, and for once, he gave in to the desire to protect, to give, to be absolutely suffocated by her.

    "It holds a – how do you say? – seduction in this continent. All across the domain of the Cenci. Magical realism are books about Colombian dreams sleeping with Mexican realities....a need to cut out the monsters. To cheat death. This is what Oro told Ruth. At least, what my spies told me."

    He panted when she tugged on his bottom lip, angry, agitated José Cuervo and her lips bured against his mouth. A divine, toxic burn that feels delicious and sensual all the same. The greed, the heat, the need...it was desperate, dirty, and as Scott pulled her naked body on-top of me, everything felt hot and wet and good. They jerked into dirty grind on the bed, a snakeʼs dance, and their hips moved and rolled against the otherʼs. Thrusting against Scottʼs leg, hips sensitively rocking into one anotherʼs, kisses filthy and sloppy and wet as Psyche rubbed against him. Slowly, the friction wanton, warm.

    "We invest in the future. We sell their souls to the devil. We pimp ourselves out for profit. Magical realism is a form of evolution, and Oroʼs right. It is an abiding devotion to whatever God that sits in the blue eyed orbit of the Giants up above. But the narcos come like insects, all the same, leeching off what that future can offer, filling their pockets, saying that they are what will keep Domingoʼs treasure profitable. What will keep the monsters at bay. Pero Somos bandidos, amor, y bandidos siempre recuperando lo que es nuestro."

    Flipping him over, Psyche straddled his hips and damn near ripped the belt from his waist. Slapping it on the floor, she bent down to kiss him like heʼs the shot that would get her lucky. The cat without its cream. She pulled him for another filthy grind, wanting more, always wanting more, never enough. Gasping, she was painfully, sinfully, punishingly good, at this, and as Scott gave himself to throes of pleasure. Robin stared, wearing nothing but a robe of pretty pink silk. He needed the trembles Psyche gave her, the tremors, and those motions alone were dizzying. Consuming.

    But when Robin stared on, watching Psycheʼs lust overthrow her. She was wordless, silent as a ghost, eyes wide with want. Everything was so dark, everything about this – but Scott loved it. Needed it. Psycheʼs mouth watered in anticipation and Scottʼs mouth watered at the sight of Robin staring at him, also wanting, also needing. All that taut, tight muscle at his mercy. She leaned into the room like a devil in the shadows, succumbing to the degradation, giving into the filth with the same thing they shared: ferocity.

    An embedded determination to get what they wanted, no matter the cost.

    "Escobar and his men had the fire for a while. Torching the West; destroying the hungry need for magical realism, going toe-to-toe with the Order. But they failed, and as they failed, the Order took the mangled bodies and corrupt bones that built up the Order. Latin America cannot be held. See, Escobar was king here, meu amor. Made us...feared, not loved. Now Oro aims to take his place, with Griselda. And Latin America will never be sated from its hunger, and from the bloodthirsty monsters that keep the darkness at bay."

    Scott now had Psyche on her knees, back arched, and he made Robin watch. He was quick, urgent, and he knew Robin wanted his filth. He watched Robin trace patterns against her body, wishing he could have her, too. Smothering Psyche in a filthy, alcoholic kiss – the José Cuervo still lingering on his lips – Scott watched Robin in the distance, needing this as desperately as he did.

    "To find El Dorado, we canʼt wait for her to be taken. We have to be the ones to take her, ourselves."

    "And how do we do that?"

    As Scottʼs hand cracked against Psycheʼs thigh, he filled her until she collapsed onto her forearms. Watching her spread her legs, silent as Psyche and Scott cried out in unison, their cries became a curse, a dirty, oh-so-good curse that he muttered under his breath, and every needy simper he emanated was replaced with another oh-so-good curse. Scottʼs grip on Psyche grew more possessive and feral by the minute. Scott, teasing both of them, moved in achingly slow, rolling his hips against Psycheʼs with a stillness.

    Please, amor, Robin mouthed. Please.

    When he snarled, he made Psycheʼs body shake. He picked up the pace with every clench, with every slap, with every dirty grind, it grew amazing. Mind-blowing. Muttering and groaning a string of praises and filthy talk in Psycheʼs ear, he watched as Robin gasped.

    Lo necesito.

    Gripping him by his hair, yanking at the roots, Scott sucked in his breath, needing to watch Robin come undone against the wall: nails clawing at her mouth, fingers dancing intricately against her body. As his grinding thrusts grow more quick, more painstakingly faster, jaw shaking before Psyche let out another cry, Robin and Scott collapsed. Absolutely spent. Everything was blindingly beautiful, everything came together, and when they exploded, Scott remembered every inch of Robinʼs before the night was over.

    "One last stand, in the place the Cave of Origins was last revealed according to the intelligence you gave me. Where it all began: El Coliseo."

    Psyche left the next day, fleeing into the night, and in Scottʼs mind, all he could think of was her. Robin DeMarcus would be his undoing, and like a thief in the night, one day he would take her, too.

    "We fight fire with fire, as you said. Kill the kings, so it hangs in the balance."

    "So what hangs in the balance?"

    "El Dorado. A free Latin America."

    "And then?"

    "We burn this damned land to the ground and build it anew."