LETHAL LUST | ✎

.𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓻

                                           
𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. Men like him don't lose at anything. The events were fuzzy but I vaguely recall challenging him to a game of billiards.

    "And i-if you lose," I'd slurred. "I get the k-eys to that brand new McLaren you pulled up in."

     He shrugs. "Yeah, but what if I win?"

     I was slightly drunk when we shook on our deal but losing sobered me up. Back at his loft I sit, shivering in acute fear on his bed.

    "You should call into work," He suggests. "You won't be in any condition to return for a couple days. At the least." He adds.

    I want to ask what he means until his shirt melts to the floor like a strip tease and I can't help but stare at the portrait of exposed skin. His back and torso are covered in scratches and bruises that are in various stages of healing. Melancholic blues and machiavellian reds with a hint of flesh rotten yellow; his body was a painting of a sunset gone wrong.

    In his grave Picasso shudders.

    Dread sinks to the depths of my stomach for I'd lost a bet and now a complete stranger was owed my virginity to take in any way he saw fit.

     "And you'll be gentle, right?" My question is prompted by what looks to be - no is, a feminine intimate that dangles from the closet door handle. It's lace, but has ripped holes in all the wrong places. When he catches me staring he lets out a deep, gutteral chuckle.

    "What can I say? I break dolls for a living."

    Unwittingly I clench my legs at the thought, my sudden arousal clearing the haze of what led to this.

    I'd been downing shots when he caught my
eye again. Across the room he leaned over a pool table with gray eyes that were hard and focused on his target, focused on me, and he pocketed the eight ball without even looking.

     Elena had followed my gaze. "I heard he made a girl cum so hard she passed out." And before I knew it I made my way over and made a bet I realized I wanted to lose.

     "But you'll be gentle right?" With no answer I prompt, whispering, "Please?"

    He turns and takes long dramatic steps until his stature looms over me, wearing an expression full of nothing but salacious aggression.
    
      "Doll, the only thing you're gonna be screaming tonight is please stop."

                                                        
𝐈 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈'𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 like that night again; I'd worked too hard. But how's that saying go? The devil works harder and hard it was down my throat and in between my legs — everywhere but the crevice he was supposed to take.

     He was right about me not being able to go back to work for a while though. After an intrusive check up at the hospital to make sure I didn't have internal bleeding or an STI, I spent the following day trying to convince the nurse not to call the police at my insistence that it wasn't rape.

     When I'd phoned Elena to tell her what happened she felt the need to profusely apologise because, apparently, there were other things she'd heard about him that she neglected to tell me.

     Like how he was a man that had wealth and still smoked too many garbage cigarettes, wore the most ill fitted t-shirts and paired them with jeans that once you got to know him, you knew they were mostly stained with some poor sinners blood.

     More than he dressed like a criminal he was cold and calculating for his profession; when he wasn't making a show of how long he could twist a man's neck before it fell lopsided and when he wasn't balls deep in another man's wife, he spent his time tending to his small hedge fund start up that was a front for his drug dealing.

     Working for the DeCalvacante crime family he had half the law enforcement of New York in his back pocket but they didn't turn a blind eye because he was their handler, no, they did it because he was Gomorrah Grundy:

      A man who always gets his way because everyone is too afraid to say no. A man that has a million scared people running around doing his dirty work. A man who shows up at your apartment at 3:00 in the morning with a gun and no time for excuses. A man that everyone fears and every woman wants to fuck although as he puts it,

     "I don't fuck. I ruin."

     That's what we were, really. A ruination.

     When we met again he was as appealing as I remembered — the ultimate bad concoction and still utterly charming considering. I told myself I wasn't going to get mixed up in him but the anniversary of my past forced my hand.

     Days later he answered his door shirtless. The scratches I'd left on him we're healing slowly unless they were from someone else. I didn't care, and in seconds he had my head slammed against a wall and used my own spit as lube. Whenever I cried he'd laugh and he always made me lick him clean and tell him I loved him everytime he threw me out.

     I should stay away from him. Elena says she heard the last girl he was with hasn't been heard from in years and that if I get myself in too deep and I might not make it to the surface alive.

     That doesn't matter, I think to myself, because neither will he.

───────── | ─────────