Page 21

Marcelo seems like a deer caught in the headlights when I first tell him. But the moment I tell him I need him, his entire face darkens. It takes a single breath, and he’s moving, his stride is fast—determined, and he’s standing before me before I can catch my next breath. Diablo runs, disappearing into some dark corner, but I can’t track him as Marcelo grabs my hands, making me finally look up at him, finally meet his eyes. They’re so dark, but . . . so warm. The brown is a shade so dark, they nearly look red. They’re so different than they were moments ago. It’s like . . . he’s a whole different person. What was once soft and careful, is now hard and demanding.

It’s what I need.

He’s what I need.

The kind Marcelo from the shower was what I needed at that moment. But I felt how much he was holding back.

And I just know the real Marcelo will take care of me. He won’t hurt me.

I swallow the fear in my throat, but don’t break the stare down. He needs to know I am not afraid of this version of him.

Marcelo clenches his jaw, his fingers tightening on mine.

“You want the masked man. You sure?”

Holding his gaze, I nod.

“Will you do as I say?”

I nod again.

In a swift movement, he pulls the shirt over my head and lets it fall to the floor. The air is cool on my nipples, but I can feel his warmth against them from how close he is to me.

And his eyes don’t dare flinch downward. No, they’re locked on mine as if they are the only things he can see in a tunnel of black.

“Shorts too, songbird,” he grunts. “You’ll get them back after you fucking show me what they did.”

My core tightens at the command. This is what I want. But not entirely.

“Put the mask on,” I demand back.

A vicious smirk spreads over Marcelo’s lips.

“My little songbird has teeth. Okay—a deal’s a deal.” Marcelo saunters back to his bedroom, disappearing for only a moment. In the time he’s gone, I shimmy out of his shorts and let them fall to the floor.

Marcelo comes back into the living room, mask already secured to his face, and his hoodie is gone, revealing the skin I’ve only seen in the dark. The stunning tattoos start at the simple black cross on his index finger, but from his wrist up are stunning pieces of black and white work. Angels and demons, a sacred heart, lions, doves, faces of three people who look eerily similar to him. They disappear under the sleeves of his shirt, and I so desperately wish to see what’s under the thin cotton. To see his chest, the rest of the artwork that came together to make this beautiful man.

And here I am, naked, in front of this god of a man, naked in front of a man for the first time , and I’m a bloody, bruised, and beat up mess.

But I know he wants me to be the one on display right now.

“So fucking beautiful,” he says under his breath. Then, louder as he walks up to me. “Couch. Now.”

I feel his eyes on me as I walk past him. My cheeks are on fire, and it takes everything in me not to cover myself—to try to hide—but I agreed to this. There was no other way I was going to show him everything. There was no other way I was going to tell him what Daren did to me.

I sit on the couch, crossing my arms over my stomach, but leave the rest on display.

My nipples are hard and perky as usual, but I swallow the embarrassment as Marcelo walks in front of me. He kicks the coffee table away, giving himself room to stand, as the stupid ghost hunting show still goes on in the background.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathes. “Except . . .” Leaning down, he grabs one of my wrists, and tosses it to my side, and doing the same to the other. I don’t move from where he’s placed me, letting him take in all of me. “There she is. A fucking work of art. A masterpiece of God’s creation. Don’t you ever dare cover yourself. Especially your tummy. I fucking love it.”

And . . . I see he loves it. Holy shit, people weren’t kidding about gray sweatpants on men. The bulge in his pants is at my eye level, and it’s . . . difficult to look away from.

“Tell me what happened,” he demands, either not noticing me drooling about what’s in his pants, or not caring.

He walks back to his bathroom, searching under the sink for something.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “I was waiting for you. In the underwear you bought me. My mother walked in, saw me like that, and I guess . . . I guess she thought the worst.”

He comes back with a store-brand ointment and cleanser, then he kneeled before me.

“I’m sorry,” he grits out. “It’s my fucking fault this happened to you.”

I sit up, cupping his face. “No! No, it is not. I—I don’t blame you. I don’t blame the underwear. That—that was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

He covers my hand with his. “And that is sad. You deserve the fucking world , Junia Forester. Not some lingerie from a creep outside your window.”

I huff a laugh. “Maybe. My mom didn’t think so.”

“So she beat you?”

I nod. “She thought . . .” It makes me sick to even say. Marcelo starts cleaning the wounds, applying the ointment, then moving to the next. I get lost in his rhythmic touch, his fingers delicately dancing over my skin. “She thought I was trying to seduce Daren.”

His hand flinches, but he doesn’t stop, letting me continue.

“He had to stop her at some point.”

“I’m surprised she actually did,” he grunts.

“She did ’cause he gave her money to leave.”

Now his hands come to a complete stop. But I don’t.

“He gave her money to leave the house for a bit. And she took it. She left me. She left me with him .” Fresh tears fall from my eyes, and I’m shaking all over again—but I know it’s not from the cold, not in this toasty room. Not in Marcelo’s warm touch.

“He . . . he’s the one who put the belt around my neck. He touched me.”

Marcelo’s head jerked forward. “What. Did. He. Do.”

I swallowed, following the cross painted across the mask despite my blurry vision. “He groped me, grabbed . . . down there. Ripped the panties you gave me. But that was it.”

“ Puta mierda !” He slams his fist against the floor and grabs my hand. “Tell me to stay.” His fingers interlock with mine, his palm squeezed to mine. “Tell me to stay, and not to go there right now, and chop his fucking hand off. Tell me to stay so I don’t go fucking kill him right now.”

I grab his other hand, the ointment falling from his grip. “Stay.” I beg. “Stay with me. You said the other night you could make me feel good. I need you to make me feel good right now.”

Shaking in my grasp, Marcelo shoots up, standing abruptly and letting go of my hands.

“Lay back,” he demands, guiding my shoulders into the couch cushions. I flinch, feeling the material on my welts just as I did earlier tonight, just before my mom left me.

Somehow, that’s the traumatizing part. I think part of me had been mentally preparing for Daren’s unwelcome touch for a long time, and while it was still awful and disgusting, it is nothing compared to that final look in my mother’s eyes, nothing compared to the image of her back to me as I begged her to stay.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please stay.”

Marcelo runs his hand through my damp hair, brushing it surprisingly gently. “I will, songbird. I’m never fucking leaving you again, you hear me? Wherever I go, you go.”

I release a shuddering breath. I hadn’t realized how desperately I needed to hear that.

He sighs and crouches again in front of me. “Once I finish putting this ointment on you, I’m going to make you food, and you’re going to eat. Got it?”

I nod.

“And . . . And then will you make me feel good?”

I squeeze my thighs together, hoping he understands what I mean. I want his touch. I want his touch to replace the feel of those grimy hands on me. I want Marcelo’s hands on me, and no one else’s.

As I stare into the mask, I regret making him wear it. I wish I could see his expression underneath. Is he . . . interested in touching me? Or . . . disgusted?

He squeezes my thigh roughly—in a spot with no welts.

“You have no idea how good I want to make you feel. I want to fucking worship you, to praise you with my fingers, my tongue, my cock. I want to hear you moan for me, to scream for me—I want you to sing for me.” The heat coils between my thighs, and God do I want his fingers to trail just a bit higher. His thumb is already so close to me, all it would take is a little shift—“But I don’t think I should do that tonight. I want you to feel everything I do to you, to relish in just how good I make you feel, not use it as a retreat. When I touch you, June—and please, be aware I will touch you, vows be damned—I want you to know without a doubt it is because I want to, and not because you asked.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and though everything he said makes sense, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

“But I will do something for you.”

Marcelo pulls the mask from his face and tosses it onto the coffee table.

“I won’t touch you. But you can use me.”

I tilt my head, scrunching my eyebrows together. Marcelo stands, lifting me along with him.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want the ghost of his hands on you. Use mine. I won’t move, and you can use my hands as you want.”

He pulls me with him across the room, and pushes me against the wall between the bathroom door and the kitchenette, crowding in front of me.

My breasts press into his chest, and I see the small vein in his neck in response. “Know this will be very difficult for me.”

Holy shit.

He’s really giving me full rein to use his hands. I . . .

“Put it between my legs. Please.”

Marcelo braces a hand on the wall beside me and leans into me, his warm hand drifting between my legs.

His fingers against my thighs are like lightning. It sends chills all along my body, heating my center.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

I reach between us, guiding his hand exactly where I want it—cupping my pussy.

“ Fuck ,” he curses again, stepping into me just a bit.

“Are you going to stay still?” I ask, teasing him. I don’t know when I started teasing but . . . it feels hot.

“Y-Yes,” he says breathlessly.

I inch my hips up, sliding his stiff fingers against me. Marcelo bites his lower lip, and the expression is enough to make my knees weak. As I slide against him again, his fingers slide between my wet slit. He curses again and moves his knee between my legs, supporting his hand with his thigh.

“Rub your clit on me, make yourself come,” he demands—no, begs .

I guide his fingers to that bundle of nerves and it is like fireworks going off in my brain the moment I feel the friction. I suck in a sharp breath at how damn good it feels. I’m basically using his hand to masturbate and somehow it feels so much better than my own hands or anything I’ve rubbed up against.

“God,” I moan.

“ Cono . Moan again, songbird.”

I grind my hips again, sliding myself against his hand as I moan.

“So wet—God, I’m regretting every decision I’ve ever made right now.”

I snicker, but keep my hips moving, slowly grinding against his calloused, strong hand. His fingers are long and perfect and, God, I’m really going to come all over his hand.

“Have you always shaved?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“N-no. I shaved earlier . . . just in case you came and . . .”

Marcelo keeps me pinned to the wall, pushing back as he raises his thigh, pressing his hand harder against me. Obediently, he doesn’t move his fingers even a centimeter.

“You did it for me? Fuck . Grind that pretty pussy on me,” he begs again, his hard cock pressing into my hip. God, I want to be grinding myself on that . “Make yourself come, mi amor .”

My legs have gone out from how damned good this feels, but he keeps me up. I grind my hips quicker, feeling his rough skin on my clit with each movement, pressing him into me.

“Ah—Marcelo!” I moan, throwing my head into his shoulder, slumping into him.

Marcelo props his elbow on the wall, and reaches his hand behind my head, yanking my hair back so I’m forced to look at him.

“Don’t hide from me, June. I want to see that gorgeous face as you come for me.”

He’s so close, I can’t look away, not as he watches me intently. The eye contact heightens everything .

“Ah,” I moan again, as the crescendo takes over. I drive my hips back and forth, sawing myself against his hand, the friction growing so, so deliciously. My toes curl and I feel the familiar warmth pooling in my belly as my clit becomes sensitive to every touch. I can feel the end of the song coming to an end. It’s just there—I just need to play the final note.

I throw my arms around his neck and grind my hips against him, and the moment my clit slides over him, I scream.

But it never reaches the room.

Because Marcelo’s lips are on mine, swallowing my moans as I come all over his hand.