Devious obsession, p.20
Devious Obsession, page 20
The wine is dry, but I ignore the bitter taste. It seems to fit how I’m feeling toward Mom right now anyway. Why didn’t she say anything? Or stick up for me? The delayed hurt that comes from her silence is worse now than hearing Stephen suggest it for the first time.
“So, a mental institution.” Steele sets down the glass. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Oh, you didn’t predict that would be his reaction?” I scowl. “Probably didn’t think he’d pull my funding for school. So even if I move into your house—which I’m not—it would only be for a month. No more CPU for me.”
He narrows his eyes. “It was more of an effort to stop him believing you if you tried to convince him of anything I was doing. He pulled the tuition money for next semester? Already?”
“Covering your own ass,” I mutter. I flag down a waiter. “Two glasses of your top-shelf whiskey, neat. Doubles.”
He eyes us, then the glasses in front of us. He nods once and disappears.
“You want to get drunk, little viper?”
I grit my teeth. “Why do you call me that?”
“That’s for me to know.” He nudges me. “We won’t let my father ship you off somewhere.”
That’s nice of him to say. Too bad, though, because I don’t believe it.
We sit in silence until the waiter comes back. I take a sip of the smokey, caramel liquid. It burns a path down my throat, but I appreciate the sting. We sit and drink, and finally, when my limbs feel a little less heavy, I sigh.
“Mom needs your father more than she needs me,” I whisper.
He glances at me sharply.
“What?” I finish my whiskey and stand. It doesn’t burn anymore. In fact, it tastes kind of good now that my taste buds are numb. “Did you think she just got married for his money? Oh… that’s right, you did think that. Because we can’t have any deeper motive than that.”
He stands, too, and takes my arm. I don’t realize how much I was wobbling until I stop. Oops.
“Are you going to explain it, then? Since you obviously know.”
“Nope. Not gonna tell you.” I snort. “We should’ve drunk at our own damn hotel.”
He sighs and follows me out. All the way onto the street. I glance over and realize he’s still carrying his bag. And my purse, too. The strap is sticking out of the bag he’s carrying, like he shoved it in there without thinking.
Nice.
Maybe.
Unless he was stealing.
Not that I have any money or anything particularly interesting at all in there. Just a few tampons, you know, just in case. A compact mirror. That dark-red lipstick I put on earlier and forgot to reapply. Which I actually wiped off between the second and third period, afraid of getting it everywhere when I met up with Steele.
Look at me, thinking ahead.
I smile to myself and walk faster. The stadium is all lit up from the outside. Workers cleaning up, maybe? Hopefully no one witnessed our Zamboni adventure. Wouldn’t that be awkward…
Then Stephen would definitely lock me up.
A giggle slips out, and it’s like a dam breaks. I can’t contain my laughter.
Steele wraps his arm around my waist, keeping me upright. The laughs burst out of me, and tears slip down my cheeks. I can’t breathe.
It’s not funny.
It’s so not funny.
“Up you go,” Steele grunts, lifting me into his arms. One under my knees, the other across my back. And he’s got his bag over his shoulder to boot.
I kiss his cheek.
He stops walking and glances at me, brow furrowed. “What was that for?”
“The lift. And… I mean, I’m glad I get to finish the semester. It gives me a chance to plot my escape.” I tuck my head in the crook of his shoulder and neck, closing my eyes.
“Escape?”
“Well, I’m not going to be locked up. This isn’t the first time I’ve hidden from someone, Steele.” I wasn’t supposed to say that. I press my lips together, but the words are out there.
My bad.
“I’m not even that drunk,” I mutter. “It was just some wine and the equivalent of two shots.”
“Maybe you’re a lightweight,” he replies.
“Maybe we should go dance.”
“I’ll do the horizontal tango with you.”
I pout. “Steele. We never get to dance. We’re in New York. It’s time to party and celebrate your win.”
He rolls his eyes. “Let me drop my bag off at the room, then we can go find the others.”
28
STEELE
There’s something more at work with Aspen and her family. Her sisters are probably innocent. Her mother? Guilty as fuck.
Of something.
Aspen’s snoring. Her head is on my lap, cheek smashed against my thigh. If she shifts again, which she keeps fucking doing, I’m going to poke her eye out with my hard-on.
We found my teammates and the rest of the CPU students who came on the fan bus at a local nightclub. It was, in a few words, fucking intense. The strobe lights were on full throttle, swinging across the gyrating bodies and painting the walls in color. The bars were packed, but Violet and Willow seemed to slip through to the front just fine.
They kept a filled glass in Aspen’s and Thalia’s hands just fine, too.
Greyson and I were supervising. Knox was dancing with Willow… and then someone else… and then Willow again. Not that she noticed. It took me a little while to spot Miles in the shadows, nursing a drink.
Thalia found Finch. Which, honestly, good for them. If they end up fucking, it’ll be just another thing to cement Aspen’s friend group to the hockey team. Finch isn’t a hit-it-and-quit-it sort of guy, and I get the sense that Thalia isn’t either. Not that Aspen isn’t already stuck with us… Being friends with Violet, especially. She’s not going anywhere.
Aspen sure as fuck isn’t going anywhere.
I grind my teeth again at the thought of my father’s idea. Having her committed to a mental institution for any length of time, on a one-time irrational act, seems extreme. Even for him. I wanted to break his trust in her, not destroy her life.
I run my fingers through her silky hair. I don’t know what she does to it, but I love the way it glides through my grip. It’s thick and dark and gives her green eyes an even more enchanting appearance. Especially when she tries to use them to guilt me into something.
Like dancing.
Dance, we did. It’ll be a long time before I forget the feel of her writhing against me in time to a deep beat. Fully clothed, oddly enough.
She murmurs something and rolls over. Her body contorts, and her shirt rides up to expose her back. Her nose presses into the crease of my thigh and hip.
Yeah, she’s definitely about to get poked in the eye.
I shift her onto her own pillow and cover her with the blanket, then resume my internet searching. Her name doesn’t bring up much—just some old recitals and concerts that were blurbed in one of Chicago’s smaller papers.
Her mom’s name doesn’t do it either.
I try just “Monroe, Chicago” and hit the search button.
Pages of results, with startling headlines.
Peter Monroe Arrested for Drug Smuggling into Canada. Then, Monroe Escapes on Bail from Detroit County Jail. And, Crime Lords Bargain with Authorities to Bring in Peter Monroe—to No Avail.
Who is this guy?
I click on the article about his arrest—but it turns out the case was dropped due to insufficient evidence. And when he escaped bail in Detroit, he was caught two days later. Similarly, the charges were dismissed.
This guy has been a nuisance for more than two decades. But there aren’t any articles more recent than five years ago. Does that mean he died? Dropped off the radar because he was picked up somewhere? Or maybe he went into hiding on purpose.
I try various search terms, trying his full name with Aspen’s, or her mother’s—Mari, Dad said, although it’s short for Marina.
Actually…
I glance down at Aspen again.
He didn’t say she was a Monroe. Although Aspen clearly took that last name because of her father. I think he said she was a Saldo?
Dakota and Lennox have the last name Saldo, too.
I guess their mother learned from her mistakes the first time. Is he even on their birth certificates? It wouldn’t help her with child support, but it would give her some distance from him in any custody battle. Unless he demanded a paternity test… but something tells me this guy won’t want any form of DNA on file.
Finally, a result comes up that includes Marina Saldo, Peter Monroe, and Aspen. It’s a tiny little blurb, just covering church activity. It’s included in a piece about the recent happenings of a church in one of the Chicago suburbs.
I scan it until their names pop up.
We extend our hearts and prayers to Aspen Monroe, who joined our One Sacred Church through baptism on Saturday morning. Aspen’s parents are Peter Monroe and Marina Saldo. Her godfather is Cillian Monroe. Welcome, Aspen!
There’s that name again. Cillian.
He called her.
Godfather… and uncle?
I bite the inside of my cheek and set my phone aside. I’ve got a million more questions, but I don’t think a simple Google search is going to bring up the kind of answers I need.
I’ll find a way to make Aspen tell me.
And if she won’t… I’ll find someone who will make her.
29
ASPEN
My head aches. That’s my first thought.
The second is the pleasure between my legs, my pussy throbbing like I’m on the cusp of an orgasm. And then the feeling intensifies, and I whimper. It sweeps through me, obliterating my thoughts. I squeeze my legs together, only to find them held open by two hands on my inner thighs.
I lift my head and squint in the low light.
Steele’s between my legs, his head buried against my skin. His grip on my thighs tightens ever so much, like he’s ready for me to rip my limbs away. But then his tongue pushes into me.
“What are you doing?” I groan, my fingers sliding into his hair.
He pulls up just a little, kissing my pubic bone. His gaze travels up my body, lingering on my breasts under the t-shirt I don’t remember falling asleep in, and finally stops on my face.
“Having breakfast,” he says. “I woke up starving.”
I collapse back to the bed as he leans back down.
“Steele.” I don’t know why I’m saying his name.
Everything is too sensitive. My headache lingers, but it’s really my hunger to come again that makes my hand return to his hair—to tug his lips back to my clit. He obliges with a grin, his tongue flattening on the sensitive bud.
“Oh God,” I moan.
He stops just shy of pushing me over the edge, climbing up my body and shoving my t-shirt up as he goes. He licks my nipple. I drag my nails up his neck and wrap my fingers in his hair. I love that his hair is a little longer in the back and top, because my grip is solid. And I use it to guide him up my body.
Steele growls, going with my pulling but trailing his lips across my skin. Over the shirt that’s now caught around my neck, up my throat to my jaw. He shifts his hips, aligning with me, and I make some desperate noise.
He thrusts into me. I’m slick already, but the stretch of his length, combined with my near-orgasm he left me hanging on, undoes me.
My eyes close, and my muscles tremble, riding a cresting wave. Two hard strokes inside me, and I shatter completely.
I cry out. He captures my lower lip between his teeth. The pain slips into pleasure.
What sort of fucked-up person am I to enjoy pain?
“I know, sweetheart,” Steele whispers, nipping my ear. “I know what you crave—and it’s not sex on a soft mattress. You want to be fucked on the ground. Taken from behind like an animal.” His voice is hoarse, his movements slowing. “You need dirty, and you need to hurt. You need to be stuffed full of cock that you’re not sure you entirely want, like a little slut that Daddy didn’t pay enough attention to as a child.”
I grip his chin before I can register making the conscious thought to do so. I drag his face closer, his dark eyes boring into mine. Sometimes I feel like he can see right through me… and other times, I want him to look into me.
“Maybe I’m a little slut because my daddy gave me too much attention,” I whisper against his lips. “Ever think about that?”
“No.” He grabs my wrist and tears my hand off his chin. He pins it to the bed next to my head. “No, I didn’t. Is that what happened?”
I blink.
Breathe.
His eyes go impossibly darker. “Did he tie you up, sweetheart? Put something in your mouth?” He’s stopped moving entirely. There’s more, he knows there’s more. And he doesn’t shy away from it. “He spread your legs. And then what? Did he touch you?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I whisper.
I don’t have nightmares about my childhood.
I don’t have lingering trauma—unless something like what Steele did to me triggers it. In everyday, ordinary life, I’m fine. Normal. Happy.
“You are going to talk about this, Aspen. Because knowing what happened to you lets me inside you just a little bit more—and I won’t stop until I’m buried so deep in your bones that I’m impossible to remove.”
I shudder.
What’s worse is my body’s reaction. My skin prickles, my core tightens. I’m sure he feels the way I clench around him.
“Tell me, and I’ll be yours forever. Just let me in, viper.”
My gaze slides away from his.
“Tell me, Aspen.”
“Soft. Everything was soft and slow,” I gasp, trying to break his hold on my wrist. A yank, two—it does nothing. “He’d leave me tied up for hours in the dark, and I’d cry and plead, and nothing ever worked.”
I can’t believe I’m telling him this.
My wrists wrapped in his silk ties. My legs held open with padded cuffs, each secured to the corners of my mattress. The flash of a camera, sometimes, or just a red blinking dot in the dark. A piece of rubber in my mouth. My tongue would loll against it, and sometimes it felt like I couldn’t get a breath in. Especially when my nose clogged, when the tears burned my eyes and panic overrode my senses.
I stare up at him, and part of me wants to believe him. But the other part is sure that he’ll run away from me and never look back. “Everything is warped in my memory. His face staring down at me, the flashes of his camera. I don’t know what else, but it’s not anything a kid should know about, much less be forced to endure. I was six when it started, Steele. Six.”
He doesn’t. Fucking. Flinch.
And for some reason, that pisses me off.
Like he doesn’t give a shit that my father is the worst piece of trash on the planet?
I yank at my wrists again, just wanting him off me. I thrash with my whole body, harder than I’ve ever fought him. My hand slips from his grasp, and before I can latch on to reason, I punch him in the face.
He growls and rears back. His cock slides out of me, and the sudden loss creates a newfound ache. Why am I so messed up?
I scramble off the bed, falling to the carpeted floor. The hotel room is foreign, dark, and it’s hard to get my bearings. Didn’t need them up until now. But I spy the open door to the bathroom and rush for it.
Steele slams into me, our bodies hitting the counter next to the sink. He folds me over it and grips the back of my neck. My cheek kisses the cold surface, and a shudder ripples up through my body. He kicks my legs wider and pushes back into me.
I groan, bracing my hands against the wall. “More.”
He gives me just that. His fingers on my skin are bruising, and I close my eyes as he takes whatever he wants from me. And then he lets out a noise, a gasp with my name on his lips, and stills fully inside me. He groans with his climax, and the force of his hips pressing mine into the counter. The way he fills me, the lust and pain that seem to mirror each other in my body—it’s all too much.
We stay like that for a moment. Connected.
My heart thunders, my pussy pulses.
I want to come, but he didn’t make any move toward my clit. Nothing that would give me pleasure.
And fuck if that makes me wetter.
He slips out of me. His hand leaves my neck, but the pressure on my skin doesn’t. He keeps his palm on me, sliding down my spine. It stills at the small of my back. My breathing turns ragged when cool air brushes my ass cheeks—and then his lips. His teeth follow a moment later, and I try to jump—but there’s nowhere to go to evade him.
He chuckles, nipping my sensitive skin again and then licking it. His free hand cups my other ass cheek, squeezing gently. And then it parts my cheeks, and my body goes hot.
“Steele—”
“Quiet, Aspen.” His tone warns not to argue with him.
I shiver at the darkness in it. And he doesn’t make me wait long before he runs his finger around my asshole. He spits—the noise is unmistakable—and the liquid hits my ass a second later. He uses it like lube, smearing his spit on my skin and then slowly pushing his digit inside me.
I groan at the sharp sensation.
“I wish you could see how my cum looks seeping out of your cunt right now,” he says. “Do you feel it on your thighs, little viper?”
Bite.
I close my eyes.
He kisses and bites his way lower, tilting my hips to get better access. His tongue flicks my clit, and I moan again. Unbidden. Every inch of me is hyper-focused on him. His hand on my back, his other inching deeper into my asshole.
And then he removes his hand from my back, and he thrusts two fingers into me. Hard. My back arches, my breasts pushing into the counter, but I don’t lift more than that. He sits back and finger-fucks me, pushing his cum back into me.
