Page 12
Scarlett
Apparently, slutty costumes and sexual exploitations don’t stop at college parties, because Eden is housing almost a hundred of the most dirty, depraved, and underdressed individuals I’ve ever seen in one space.
I’m wearing a skimpy Red Riding Hood outfit while Penelope is dressed as some sort of provocative burlesque bunny, and even we seem seem to have the most skin coverage. The Prince didn’t tell me what he would be wearing tonight, but he should definitely be able to recognize me in my red costume.
We don’t waste any time making our way to the bar and ordering our drinks, scoping out the place to admire all the creative getups. My stomach flutters when I see a man with long hair out on the dance floor, but before I can get a closer look, two hands reach from behind me and cover my eyes. For a second, I start to panic but then I hear Penelope giggle.
“Guess who.” The familiar voice drains the tension from my shoulders, and I lean back into the body behind me. His arms come down and wrap around my chest, hugging me closer so he can press a kiss to my cheek before he spins my bar stool around to face him.
The Prince is wearing the most ridiculously indecent nurse outfit, fitted in only a set of tiny white shorts and Crocs on his feet. A stethoscope is wrapped around the back of his neck, hanging down over his deliciously broad chest. I run my hands up and over his washboard abs, trailing further until I reach the instrument, then grab both ends and drag him closer for a kiss.
He invites me in, opening his mouth instinctively to attack my tongue in a battle that only becomes more vicious as the alcohol starts to hit me. The beer on his breath sours my taste buds, though.
I fucking hate beer. It doesn’t matter how many variations I try; every single one tops the last on my list of ‘most disgusting things that are falsely labeled as edible. Sauerkraut is a big contender.
I have to pull away from the kiss to avoid vomiting, but he doesn’t seem to mind with the way he’s looking down at me to inspect my costume. His fingers come up to fiddle with the ties of my cape while I play with his stethoscope.
“Does Little Red Riding Hood need a checkup? I know the Big Bad Wolf has been giving you trouble,” he teases, but I can’t help wondering if he’s referring to Casanova and Broody.
I wasn’t shy about telling him what Casanova did on my first night, and thankfully, he took pity on me instead of rejecting me for making him the obvious second choice. But when he scared off Broody, he marked me as his first choice—his priority—and I appreciate that more than he could understand.
“As long as my little rabbit doesn’t mind us missing for a while.” I glance back at Penelope, but she’s got a shit-eating grin on her face. She’s been very vocal about her approval of The Prince, though she keeps making jokes about me leaving the mystery men for her to handle.
They’re not mine , so I shouldn’t care. This isn’t the real world; we aren’t dating these people. Despite what arrangements I have with The Prince, there is no exclusivity. After the comment Broody made to Pen on our first night at the bar, I don’t think they would even go for her, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try. Either way, I have to be supportive. I told her that I was done with them, so I’m sticking to it .
With her official send-off, The Prince and I order a set of drinks to take back with us to the White Room. The butterflies are gone now, replaced with a silent calmness running through my veins alongside the alcohol that’s numbing me from the inside out.
We’ve only had a few nights together, but I find comfort with him because I know he’ll listen to my words, my body, and will give me what I need. I can’t say the same for the mystery men who clearly enjoy torture more than they do pleasure.
Fuck, why am I still thinking about them?
It's not long before I’m pulled out of my thoughts. Suddenly, we’re standing in the middle of the White Room without me even realizing we’ve entered. The Prince’s hands cradle my face when he bends in for a kiss, and I’m not complaining. The man deserves credit where it’s due—he knows what the fuck he’s doing.
I melt into his embrace, throwing my arms around his neck and pressing our bodies so closely together, I can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. A low grumble from his throat is the reward for my enthusiasm, and my uncontrollable smile breaks the kiss.
“You think it’s funny, what you do to me?” he whispers against my mouth. “Fuck, I need you.” His hands slide into the space between my cape and backside, grabbing my ass in two giant fistfuls.
I do like working him up and doing my own bit of teasing. He’s already proven that he won’t get as feral as Casanova, but I can’t help what I like.
Trapping his bottom lip between my teeth, I bite lightly and draw my head backwards to yank on it. He lets out a deliciously deep moan, and the grip on my ass becomes punishing.
“I guess it’s time for my checkup then,” I purr.
Taking position in the middle of the bed, I lean back on my elbows and watch him traipse over before slowly climbing towards me on his hands and knees. As he should .
I bet Broody and Casanova would nev—
Stop. Thinking.
“I’ll start with your chest. Let’s make sure your heart is beating at the right pace for me.” He’s hovering directly over me, tugging at the ties around my neck until they loosen and the cape falls onto the bed beneath me.
His body looks cut from marble, and when he rises to his knees to put the stethoscope in his ears, the faint light in the room casts defined shadows across his abdomen and around each muscle.
The metal is ice-cold when it touches the skin of my chest, and I’m sure my heart rate elevates from the shock alone. He’s listening to me lose control, staring into my eyes as my heavy breaths fight against the diaphragm of the stethoscope.
Roleplay isn’t usually my thing, but this is hot as fuck.
The way he looks—the way he’s looking at me—with his dark, curly locks falling into his eyes, is enough to make me want to cover my face and hide. I’ll give him one thing; he may not have that ferality I loved from Casanova, but he isn’t lacking intensity.
The Prince looks at me like he wants to devour me; body and soul.
As if reading my mind, he rips my top down, folding it over the bodice I’m wearing. When he licks the path between my breasts, I arch my back and rise into him, chasing his tongue with an embarrassingly whiny yelp before the diaphragm returns to my chest.
The pleased hum he releases tells me that my heart must be fucking pounding—not that I couldn’t tell, myself. I’m hanging off the edge of my seat, desperate for his touch.
I’m lost in the reverence of his affection, throwing my head back with eyes shut tight, soaking in the feel of his hands and lips on my breasts as they skate across my skin. From my collarbone to my shoulder, from my sternum to throat, he trails kisses across the expanse of my chest .
When I feel his hot breath covering my nipple, I gasp, rising to watch him suck the hardening bud with heavy-lidded eyes. He’s already glaring at me through his lashes, and when our eyes meet, it only spurs him on.
His tongue dances frantically across my nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, biting hard enough that my entire body wriggles like there’s electricity coursing through it.
My hips act on their own and buck up into him, seeking any kind of friction to ease the aching want between my thighs. But he doesn’t stop. “Please, please, please, pl—”
He shushes me, crawling up to whisper in my ear, and I’m grateful for the show of mercy on my throbbing nipple. “I’ll check on that next, don’t worry. Be a good girl. Patience.”
Good girl.
It’s not an uncommon phrase—especially not here, I’m sure. But now there’s no keeping Casanova out of my head. Not while The Prince nibbles on my earlobe, or when he licks into my ear with his hot, wet tongue, forcing goosebumps to span across my neck. Not when he kisses my throat, sucking on the skin as his lips trail a path down my chest. Not when he slides down the bed, grabbing the outside of my thighs tightly while his face dips underneath the hem of my skirt. Not when his tongue makes contact with my clit, or when his fingers enter me with a force that rattles my whole body.
No.
Nothing is keeping Casanova from creeping to the forefront of my mind and out of the deep chasm he was locked away in. I could almost imagine that it’s him in The Prince’s place, buried between my thighs.
But the tongue movements aren’t quite the same, nor is the grip on my thighs quite as demanding or controlling.
If I tried enough, I could imagine him standing here, watching with rage as The Prince eats my pussy like a starving man. My eyes drift towards the door, fantasy fresh in mind, attempting to conjure the image of him to fuel the fire burning in my core.
It takes me a second to adjust, unsure whether I’m going crazy or if my imagination is just that fucking good. The room is dark aside from the dim light of the LED strips lining the ceiling, but if I squint hard enough, I swear I can see someone.
The door is cracked a few inches, but I barely remember entering the room so I’m not sure if The Prince left it that way. I don’t know why he would, but who knows?
A small movement—a hand rising to press a finger to a pair of lips, signaling for me to keep quiet—is all I need to clear up the confusion. Someone is watching us. I can’t see their face or costume through the darkness, but do I really need to?
It’s him. Like a fucking manifestation of my sick fantasy, he’s here watching The Prince go down on me.
I could blame it on the precision of his tongue or the strategic curl of his fingers, but truthfully, it’s the desire to taunt Casanova that motivates me to put on the best show of my life. My fingers tangle into his hair, hips rising and falling as I command his mouth and close my thighs around his ears to trap him there.
But my eyes never leave the man in the doorway.
When the finger against his lips transforms into a tightened fist, I know it’s working. Looking back on this night, I’ll have to remind myself it was supposed to be The Prince’s skilled tongue that drove me over the edge, not the prospect of finally breaking Casanova.
Oh well, whatever gets the job done. I crumble in pieces, throwing my head back with a shrill cry as the orgasm washes over my body.
The bed shifts and I hear the faint sound of a zipper, then The Prince’s hands are prying my thighs apart to open me up for him. I’m so ready for it, aching to be filled with more than his fingers, but before he can even position himself between my legs, a blaring alarm echoes through the room. It doesn’t take a genius to make out the source of flashing white lights and aggressive racket .
The motherfucker set off the fire alarm.
I’m halfway to dragging The Prince in by the neck for a kiss—because fuck that asshole if he thinks he’s going to stop me from getting laid—but he won’t have it. He doesn’t know it’s a fluke. He doesn’t know it’s some fucking power play to hurt me.
Being the gentleman that he is, he corrects my top so my tits are covered back up, reties the cape around the base of my throat, then rushes me into the bar area.
Everyone but me is in an utter panic, running towards the exits while the staff does their best to herd them all to safety. Casanova is nowhere to be seen, otherwise he’d be getting a faceful of fist right about now.
The rage bubbling inside me is so fierce, and I have to seriously fight the urge to break the club’s rule of anonymity. All I want right now is to take The Prince home and get fucked properly in a safe, private place where we can’t be interrupted.
We somehow manage to survive the stampede of half-naked people as we escape down the emergency exit stairwell, the lot of us gathering outside the building—aimless and horny as shit. Staff members walk around to hand out our phones and bags, and for a brief moment, I consider giving The Prince my phone number.
A group of people to our left are talking about relocating to a nearby club, insisting that nobody has to take off their mask because it’s still Halloween. It’s a tempting offer, but the chilly night air is slowly killing my libido. Now, I want nothing more than to go home and curl up in bed, defeated and alone.
Penelope emerges from the crowd and rushes over to me, hand-in-hand with her own partner for the night. She begs for me to stay out with her, trying to convince me to hit up one of the campus parties instead, but I politely decline and tell her I’ll just see her at home.
We’re all sitting together on the curb, waiting for Ubers to take us in separate directions, and I’m blabbing to The Prince before I even stop to think about what I’m saying .
“I’m really sorry about that.” When his head tilts in confusion, I continue before he can say anything. “I was really looking forward to having a good night with you, and I’m just pissed that it had to end so early because of some freak incident.”
He chuckles lightheartedly, clearly not as distraught as I am. “I still had a good time.” I almost miss the grin on his face when he leans in close to my ear. “I’ll just have to savor the taste of you until next time,” he whispers.
Now I regret the Uber, because that springs my libido right back to life.
He grips my chin, turning me to face him, then his lips are on me without warning. I can taste myself on his tongue when he deepens the kiss, and as much as I appreciate the hot filth of the moment, I’m just thankful to have something other than sour beer on his breath.
My phone vibrates at the exact time a car horn jolts me into awareness, ripping me from the dream that is The Prince’s embrace. I toss him a sympathetic look, but he gives me a soft smile and a peck on the cheek before helping me to my feet and into the cab.
The entire ride home, the tingle of our kiss lingers on my lips, and I’m starting to rethink not bringing him home with me. The car drops me off in front of our duplex, and I’ve only just walked through the door when I hear the TV in my room—which is pretty fucking weird, because I’m sure it wasn’t on when we left the house.
‘Tis the spooky season, I guess.
I don’t bother turning on the bedroom light. Tossing my purse onto the bed, I sit and remove my boots before using the glow of the TV to head straight out to the balcony for a midnight cigarette.
In the light of the moon, I look down and notice various red splotches scattered across the skin of my chest and neck. I’m not normally into hickeys, but I don’t hate the sight as much as I thought I would.
Outside the bedroom, they draw judgmental attention that isn’t worth the hassle or bouts of embarrassment. Inside the bedroom, I love the idea of being marked up. I might even like doing the marking myself. It feeds into our natural human instinct to claim and to own, and I never said I was better than a man.
I only picked up smoking a few years ago, and I know it’s an unfortunate habit to have, but fuck…nothing beats it—not that I’ve found anyhow. There’s something to the ritual of it that I can’t shake, and I’ve tried. It doesn’t even feel like an addiction to the nicotine; it’s more that the whole process is a sort of therapy for me and my anxiety.
It's the schlick of the lighter and the first pull that ignites the tobacco and paper, creating a beautiful orange ember. It’s the three pulls after the first one, watching the cherry expand as the stick burns away slowly. It’s the steady inhalation, in case I ever have trouble regulating my breathing. It’s the exhalation of the smoke, like a tangible representation of my stress being ejected from my body. It’s the fact that I know it takes me exactly ten minutes to smoke a full cigarette, so if I’m ever in need of liminal grounding, I have a personal timer to keep myself in check.
A creak comes from what I can only assume is the floorboards of my bedroom. I glance quickly over my shoulder, but the room is still dark aside from the dim light of the TV. Stupidly, I ignore it and turn back to look out into the woods behind our house.
Another creak. Then another.
“Little Red Riding Hood is in trouble.” The dark, ominous voice makes me jump enough that I drop my cigarette when I swing to look towards the doorway. Two figures emerge from the back of my room, silhouetted against the TV behind them.
I don’t move. They don’t move.
It’s too late, and I’m too tired to deal with their bullshit right now. Putting aside the fact that they’re in my fucking house and must have followed me home from Eden, I’m more concerned that they’re continuing to ruin my night .
I just wanted a quick cigarette before I crawled into my nice, warm bed. But here I am, standing on my balcony while two maniacs loom invasively in my bedroom—blocking my only means of escape.
I get an idea, but it’s not a safe or smart one by any means.
There’s a trellis next to my balcony that runs the entire length of the house; I could climb down it, but then I’d have nowhere to go. I’m shoeless, there’s alcohol in my system, and my phone is inside. I can’t drive anywhere. I can’t call the police. Penelope isn’t home.
I’m completely alone and vulnerable here with them, but I have no other option except to stall them. “And what, are you The Big Bad Wolves?” I’m mocking them. That’s probably not smart either, but I’m still riding a buzz and my reasoning skills are clearly a bit altered.
“No.” I recognize the voice as Broody’s, so deep and harrowing that it rattles my bones to hear him talk.
“We’re worse,” Casanova drawls, stepping through the doorway enough that the shadow slides off his form, revealing his costume for the night.
He’s wearing a pitch-black robe with a long hood that covers half his face. He’s not wearing a jeweled mask from Eden, but he is indeed wearing a mask.
A red Anonymous mask with devil horns.
The same mask from my nightmares.
There’s something different about this one, though. The bottom of the mask is cut away below the cheeks and nose, brandishing an evil, teeth-baring smile. It’s repulsive, and all I want is for him to go the fuck away, but he steps closer. Broody comes up behind him, and it’s no surprise he’s wearing the same demonic garb.
I’m trapped between two psychopaths and the ledge of a balcony, with nowhere to go but down. As quickly as I can, I pivot and reach out for the trellis, vaulting over the railing once I’ve got a solid hold.
The trip down isn’t as graceful as I’d like it to be, but I manage to right myself after slipping on one of the rungs. I can’t steady my breath, but hyperventilation is the least of my worries right now .
I have to push forward; I can breathe later.
The leaves on the ground crunch beneath my bare feet when I reach the bottom, and all seems well until I look up and see one of them leaning over the railing with a knife pointed directly at me.
The other one is already halfway down the trellis.
There’s no time to think. There’s no time to breathe. There’s no time to hesitate. They’re seconds behind me, and I don’t want to find out what their intentions are. With the last bit of sense I can gather, I decide that bolting into the forest is my only option.
Why is this happening? How is it possible that I’m not dreaming right now? There’s no way that they could know about that mask—that exact mask—unless they read my journal. And if that’s the case…
They might actually kill me.