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GHOST

M y blood is on her skin, drying and settling into each small crease of her palm, but it is my blood. On her skin. The colors go well together, and I watch the red stain past the heel of her palm. One drop races to her blue veins and I want nothing more than to watch as they open, and that blue oxidizes to red.

Her thigh brushes my dick as she focuses on my stitches. She’s so mesmerizing when she’s concentrating. And it’s even better knowing that I am the only thing that has her attention.

But she ruins it by asking, “Why did you come here?”

She doesn’t look away from my forearm as she waits for me to answer. I can see her attention beginning to split. But it’s dangerous to have her. Delilah is more potent than opiates. Just being in her vicinity has me weak and forgetting how she destroys lives. That’s why I answer her truthfully when the only thing she deserves is deceit, like she gave to me.

“I don’t have anyone else,” I say pathetically.

It’s her fault. Yet I keep that information back when she turns her head and pauses with the needle threaded through my skin. Her eyes roam over my masked face and her lips slowly part.

I’ve stayed away from her because I can feel my resolve weakening and I knew it would happen, the same way it always has where she is concerned. All I want to do is fucking shake her and get the truth. Or some lie that would justify her deserting me after upending my life. We weren’t a fling or something to pass the time with. We were fucking real, and try as I may, I can’t stop myself yearning for those moments to come back.

I miss someone that never existed while she examines someone who doesn’t exist anymore. We’ll never breach that gap, and I look away first as she restarts her stitches. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she leans closer to my arm. Some of the strands have dots of red on them, and I gently lift them out of the way, exposing her increasing pulse.

The mask is supposed to create distance, a barrier, to stop me doing something stupid and giving her control of me again. Delilah is an expert at inhabiting someone and I’m still unprepared. Even without her seeing me, really seeing me, she knows how powerful she is.

Her voice is softer, the same one she used to wrap me around her finger, as she asks, “Why have you been ignoring me?”

Because I crave you more and more with each interaction.

Because the only thing that can save me is watching you in this glass house, knowing I can’t touch you.

Because I still want to sink down to my fucking knees and worship at your feet.

I clench my jaw to keep the truth back as she finishes up the final stitch and knot. This is what our lives could have been like, maybe not the luxury with me not having the funds at the time, but I could have had her as solely mine, sat on my thigh in a quiet house. All the old conversations come back. The ones where we would discuss having children, growing old together, a perfect life.

But she always has to fucking ruin everything and her red-stained hand slowly leaves my arm. I catch her wrist before her fingers can even brush the mask, and there’s no fear on her face as her tone hardens.

“Why have you been running away from me? You’ve still been watching, but you didn’t talk, or come closer.”

Is she hurt by my dismissal?

I hope she is, and I relish in the thought as I lean into her. The leather beak brushes the tip of her nose as I fall prey to her again.

“There was a time in my life that I had goals, ambitions, a family,” I say, “but I lost them all because of you.”

Her brows slam together, and she spits, “I am not a homewrecker.”

I laugh. I actually fucking laugh at the thought that Delilah is anything other than a force of destruction, such a delicate name for someone so prone to chaos and violence.

“You are, koukla mou,” I nod, brushing the tip of her nose against the beak. “More than you know. But I forgive you for that, for taking that family away, but I will never forgive you for leaving me.”

Twisting her wrists, she whines, “Let me see you.”

“No. You left me bloody once. Stay with me this time.”

She doesn’t attempt to remove the mask again, and I press my thumb to her pulse point. There’s no erratic thrum, she’s relaxed, and I tighten my hold as she watches me while making no attempt to free herself.

Whether she likes it or not, she trusts me. She trusts me enough to challenge me, and I want to take her apart. My old hobby of collecting items that other people had disrespected, disregarded, and allowed to be wasted comes back with one fixation. Delilah. I want to take her apart, rebuild her into something new while keeping all those fascinating pieces intact and displayed as the focal point. My new collection won’t be games, it will be one little doll only to be played with by me.

Her voice trembles as she asks, “Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“Badly?”

“Yes.”

She takes in a shaky breath before her next question.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Maybe.” I sigh and relax into the seat as my arm grows a pulse around her stitches. “But the Devil can’t give your punishment when it’s owed to me.”

She falls silent at my answer. Her hand is limp, and the smell of my own blood has a groan building in my chest. The full expanse of her palm is coated in me. The edges have dried but the middle is soaked and I slowly graze her knee with my own bloody fingers.

Her breathing shallows and she fights the urge to watch as I move further up her thigh. “How did we meet each other?”

I smile under the mask and it’s genuine at the reminder of when things were innocent.

“You walked into me and promised to change my life.” I smile.

The blood on my fingers flakes off against her thighs, and my thumb brushes the scar on the inside of her knee. I don’t know how she got it, and I look down, unprepared for the sight of my bare hand touching her, of my blood streaking her thighs, and the dry pieces clinging to her skin like confetti.

“Fuck, my blood is on you,” I groan as my dick hardens further. There’s going to be an imprint of my zipper against my shaft, and I need relief. I need to feel more of her. I need more of me on her.

I slowly move her hand down to my crotch and let go of her wrist. My voice is rough and eager as I order, “Make me come.”

She tortures me and time slows down as she slowly lowers my zipper. The teeth part one by one and there’s excitement glimmering in her blue eyes as I take the knife from my pocket. She freezes as I bring the sparkling blade to her face to trace her features, her skin barely denting from the force, and I watch the fear make her even more beautiful.

“It would be easy to cut you,” I muse aloud while carelessly pressing the flat of the knife to her jaw. “To peel back your skin and see who you really are under your mask.”

Her eyes widen and she squeezes her thighs together as she slips her hand into my jeans.

“Just because yours is pretty and perfect doesn’t make it any less dangerous,” I say.

She pauses with her hand on my dick—my boxers stop her from fully touching me—and her brows slowly pull together. Her lips part and I slowly drag the tip of the knife to the corner as she whispers, “We all wear masks. A different one for a different setting.”

They’re not her words. She’s repeating something that has been said to her, and I have no time for her bullshit or her thinking about anything from her past, not when all of her energy belongs to me. Her life belongs to me.

I sit taller and rest my elbow on the edge of the dining table as my anger steels my voice.

“I don’t give a fuck. Use your mouth or your hand, but you will make me come.”

She presses the heel of her palm over my dick and her eyes harden. It’s intoxicating seeing that stubborn streak, especially since I’m going to break it. The fear is still there but she speaks through it and manages to hide it.

“You are nothing to me, and I don’t have to do shit.”

Delilah ends on a gasp as I roughly grab her wrist and pull my thigh out from under her. The satisfying thud of her knees hitting the floor only makes me harder. Everything she does has that effect on me, and her fight is there. She pushes against me as she shouts, “Get the fuck off me, you crazy bastard!”

I knock my knee into her chest as punishment for the distraction. There’s not enough force behind the movement for her to fly backwards, but she stumbles, and I lock her bicep between my thighs as I tug on her wrist. Her other hand is still free, and she punches my leg as I bring the tip of the knife to her blood- soaked palm.

My dick throbs at the sight of my blood on her skin and a groan breaks free as I cut a line from below her middle finger to the heel of her palm. Delilah’s blood is fresh, wetting the dried edges of my own. The cut isn’t deep enough to pour down and cover us both, unfortunately, but our blood mixes together.

She moans and I lose the last thread of my control.

The mask isn’t fully removed as I push her hand under the beak and it blocks me from being able to see through the sepia lenses, but all of my senses are lost as I seal my lips over her wrist and fucking taste her. My tongue races after each droplet and the blood that escapes clings to the ski mask.

I’m snapped back into reality when she strokes my thighs and moans, her face inching closer below the mask. The sneaky little thing is trying to see me. I drop her hand and right my mask to fully cover my features.

But her sad whisper floats up. “I want to see you.”

The tips of my fingers slap against her cheek as I make her focus on her task. “You haven’t earned the right.”

My thighs widen as she softly presses her hands to the inside of my knees and sits up fully. Her head is below my chin but even on her knees she’s powerful. It’s in her voice, her eyes, just everything she possesses exudes it. Her voice is husky and dripping in lust as she bats her lashes, attempting to entice me when I’m already obsessed with her. “What if I said I want to kiss you?”

Bile rises in the back of my throat and burns the roof of my mouth at the thought of putting my lips on anything, anyone. I can’t. Even if it’s someone as sweetly toxic as Delilah. The burning sensation roughens my voice, and the words scrape against my throat as I say, “So wrap your poisonous lips around me. My dick is the only thing I’ll allow you to kiss.”

I lift my hips to free my dick without exposing any more of my body. If I’m naked, it’s vulnerability, and I won’t be able to withstand the torture of her presence without some form of armor.

She doesn’t fight as I hold the back of her hand and guide it to my dick. I squeeze so her blood drips down over the tip. Each drop clings to me and I thread my fingers through her hair before pulling her forward.

“Taste our life together, koukla mou,” I say softly.

Her pupils are fully dilated. She loves this shit, the twisted wrongness and the high it gives her. It’s why she can’t tear her eyes off my dick and there’s no force required from me as she licks her lips and wraps her hand around my length.

My head drops back as she strokes me from base to tip. Each inch is coated in red. Blood, Delilah’s blood, streaks my skin and she lightly punches my abs to get my attention. My fingers tighten in her hair, the strands wrapping around my digits, and she gasps. Air brushes the tip of my dick as I look down and watch her fight for me.

She hisses as she strokes me harder, and it applies more pressure to the small cut on her palm. It will heal without leaving a scar, but she has to be fucking dramatic about everything.

I wrap my hand around hers and add more pressure. Her breathing shallows and I pull her forward as she tenses her neck. It’s not to stop me because her mouth opens, eager to taste me, to taste us.

Her lips close around the tip and pressure builds inside of my skull. The loss of blood combined with feeling her tongue lap up our blood makes me lightheaded. I’m on the fucking edge of release when she hums and moans.

Pressing down on the back of her head, I force her to take more as I thrust up, adding her choking to the symphony of pleasure she creates. I have to physically bite my tongue to stop myself from singing her praise. The only way to have control is by taking hers, and I lift my leg over her shoulder. Her body sags as I make no attempt to keep my weight off her and bring my knee up, so she’s trapped.

I fuck her face with abandon. Her spit dilutes the sticky red and mixes with the blood on her palm. All I can hear, feel, see, fucking smell is Delilah.

I need more.

I need her fully, and I need to rewrite the memory of everything she’s done with her husband.

She gasps as I roughly pull her head back by her hair and my tone is cruel.

“Crawl up the stairs like a desperate little bitch in heat if you want my cum.”

Her cheeks are flushed and spit drips from her skin. The edges of her mouth are pink from the blood, and she just stares at me. If she refuses, I’m going to shove every toy in existence inside of her until she’s stretched so fucking wide, she’ll be able to be worn as a hat.

She sits up on her knees, defiance etched into her features, and her hands drop to the hem of her hoodie. Her eyes don’t leave mine as she lifts it and wipes her face.