Chapter Eighteen

Demonic Creatures, Red Wine and Questionable Decisions

Crossbody

The restlessness was still there when I got home that night. The restlessness I’d hoped would finally leave me once my match with Vince was over.

Although it might have also been because of the fucking stupid thing I’d done last week. The other stupid thing. Not the… incident in the arena.

“Where are you this time?” I muttered in disdain, my lip curling as I cautiously walked into my living room.

Last night I’d come home to a puddle of regurgitated cat food on my rug. The night before it had been a monstrously large hair ball in the centre of a velvet cushion. And don’t even get me started on the kitty litter flung every direction in a wide circle around the litter box.

Why did I listen to Corey? I thought in despair as I hesitantly peered under the sofa and coffee table, bracing myself. I’m not a cat person. No one should be a cat person. Cats are evil.

I’d picked the damn cat from the adoption centre because of its ridiculous name, assuming it meant the creature was lazy and not too much trouble. I’d been wrong.

Very wrong.

Lady Potato was a fucking demon. I was sure of it.

The moment I’d brought her home last Thursday, she’d streaked up my curtains and crouched at the top, hissing at me. Then, on her way back down, she’d intentionally dragged her claws along the entire length, leaving tracks in the fabric.

She also liked knocking everything off every single surface, kneading every single piece of fabric in the house to pluck at it and swiping at my ankles if I dared walk past something she was hiding underneath.

And her favourite thing to do was wail outside my bedroom door at five in the morning for no fucking reason. I’d tried feeding her. I’d tried half-heartedly patting the top of her head, which was an extremely risky endeavour. I’d tried cleaning out her litter tray, because she refused to step foot in it again if there was so much as a single used clump present. I’d even tried letting her sleep in the bedroom with me. She didn’t want any of that. She just wanted to wail at five in the morning. Every morning.

I was half-convinced that she was some kind of cat shifter who was fucking with me.

When I couldn’t find her in the living room, I took a deep breath and cautiously walked into the kitchen. And there she was. Curled up in the fruit bowl in the centre of the island.

The fruit was scattered everywhere. An over-ripe peach splattered on the floor. A pomegranate that had split and exploded on impact, sending seeds and red juice shooting across the kitchen. A banana that she had, for some unknown reason, attacked viciously, because its skin was covered in tooth and claw marks.

She’d also spent some time attacking the mail I’d left on the counter this morning, it seemed, because several envelopes had been torn open and ripped to shreds, now scattered on the floor.

I sighed and bent to collect them as Lady Potato lifted her head and blinked at me with a sleepy mrow . As I was straightening, familiar handwriting on one of the exposed letters made me freeze.

It was from my mother.

It had been a while since she’d last written. At least a year. My heart started to pound, sweat prickling on my scalp when my eyes automatically scanned the few lines of the letter that were visible beneath the ruined envelope.

When a certain word—a name—appeared, I flung the letter down and immediately covered it with the others.

Lady Potato lifted her head again to eye me, and for some reason her scrutinising stare made me flush and lift my chin, trying to compose myself.

Trying not to think about what I’d just read, I strode to the cupboard and grabbed a tin of cat food. That made Lady Potato shoot out of the bowl, sending it skidding across the counter and flying off the end to shatter on the floor. I flinched, scrubbing a hand down my face.

Why the fuck had I got a cat?

While she was busy eating, I swept up the shards, cleaned up all the ruined fruit, and stuffed the pile of mail into a drawer to deal with another time.

Maybe never.

Wine seemed like a better idea right now. Yes.

Instead of making myself a proper dinner, I grabbed the bowl of olives from the fridge and carried it and my wine glass into the living room. At least there were no disgusting regurgitated lumps of wet fur for me to clean up this time. Small miracles.

As I took my first sip and attempted to relax, I turned on the TV and settled in. Then I quickly got back up to close the curtains, because I didn’t want anyone to peer in and see what I was watching, even though I lived in the middle of nowhere and never had any visitors. Ever.

But still. No one could know that I was addicted to reality television shows.

I watched all of them. Every kind. I didn’t care what the subject matter or competition was, I just found them all fascinating. Getting to see how humans lived, how they dated, how they cooked, how they competed against each other for anything from a stand mixer to a million-dollar prize.

I picked at the olives and sipped my red wine, actually managing to relax somewhat. Every now and then, an unwanted thought would pop into my head—the letter, the cat, work, Vince, our upcoming ‘couples’ therapy—but more wine seemed to be working well at making them go away.

It wasn’t until I stumbled slightly as I made my way back into the kitchen for the fourth time that I realised I’d finished the bottle. And was a little drunk.

Lady Potato had vanished, her food bowl empty and a fresh steaming shit in the litter tray. Deciding to deal with it in the morning, I locked up and turned off all the lights, then had to cling to the banister as I made my way upstairs.

Alright, maybe I was more than a little drunk.

I poured a bit too much oil into my bath and ended up splashing water everywhere when I climbed in and my foot slid out from under me. My skin felt slippery as I lay back in the tub and absently ran a hand over my chest, my eyelids drooping.

That name on the letter popped back into my head, so I groaned and quickly tried to think of something else.

And of course, my mind went to Vince.

It usually did.

I hated how much I thought about him.

I hated the way I responded to him.

I hated him.

My hand slipped further down, fingers trailing over my stomach.

I hated how eerily dark his eyes were. Intense. Unfathomably black. And I hated that his long, greyish-black hair looked like it shouldn’t be soft—I was sure he hardly ever brushed it—but it was. I remembered feeling it that night in my dressing room, after our first match.

And his skin was smooth. Cool to the touch. He smelled like petrichor—the scent of earth after rain. Fresh and comforting. I hated that too.

And I’d hated how his body had felt pressed up against mine while we were grappling in the arena last week. I’d hated the things he’d said to me. The things he’d called me. I’d hated how hot his mouth had felt around my cock, how his long tongue had teased me, how his finger had felt inside me.

I’d hated it so much.

Lazy pleasure shot through me, and I realised my eyes had drifted closed, and my fingers were now sliding over my cock where it lay throbbing on my belly. Weak panic shot through me, but I decided to keep my eyes shut and pretend it wasn’t happening.

I wasn’t touching myself to thoughts of him. I wasn’t.

I was just drunk. Drunk people did stupid things all the time.

A shudder rippled down my back when I curled my fingers around my prick and stroked, hips rising in the bath and sending water lapping at the sides of the tub. I was slippery from the bath oil, and it wasn’t long before I was pumping my fist in earnest, my breaths shallowing as my head tipped back.

Memories of each encounter with Vince raced through my head, a blur of remembered touches and sensations and words. His cock choking me in the backstage area, long fingers gripping my hair tight. His lean body grinding against me in my dressing room and his thumb playing with my piercing.

His strong hands tying my wrists together above my head in the ring, and his tongue and teeth on my skin. His mouth sinking over my cock, his finger pushing inside me. His low, rough voice calling me a slut. Telling me he was in charge. Putting me in my place by making me apologise and thank him.

A strangled sound left me as I almost came, but I whipped my hand away from my cock and opened my eyes, breathing fast.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t get myself off because of him. Then it would become… something else.

I climbed unsteadily out of the bath, ignoring my aching cock, and dried off as I brushed my wine-stained teeth and gulped down some water from the tap. I swayed a little as I made my way to the bedroom, and when I climbed into bed and lay back, my head swam and the room spun slowly.

My cock was still stiff and throbbing, every tiny movement I made dragging it against the sheet and making my breath catch. I found my hand creeping back down, heart beating fast, and I sank my fangs into my lower lip as I started stroking again.

I didn’t want to come because of him. To thoughts of him.

He’d made me come himself, twice now, but that was different. That wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t help it if he was grinding against me or sucking my cock. Those orgasms weren’t the same as me lying alone in my bed, imagining him between my thighs, my hands restrained, my legs spread wide while I was totally helpless.

I whined and slid my heels over the mattress, spreading my legs wider as I started pumping my cock faster, my breaths panting out of me now. My other trembling hand reached down to slide between my legs, rubbing my hole like he’d done in the arena. But it wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel the same.

I concentrated my strokes at the head of my cock, jerking it fast and tight, but the orgasm remained just out of reach. Wetting my finger, I slid the tip into my hole and clenched around it, picturing Vince gazing up at me as his tongue wound around my cock. A strained sound left me, my fist now a blur, but the orgasm still hovered on the edges and I couldn’t seem to tip over.

With a frustrated groan, I stopped and let my arms flop onto the bed, the ceiling spinning when I stared up at it, bleary-eyed.

It was because I wasn’t tied up. That had to be it. The helplessness, the total lack of control, those were the things I’d enjoyed. Not the fact that it was him.

Rolling onto my side—almost rolling too far and faceplanting the mattress—I pushed up on an elbow and peered drunkenly around my dark bedroom. Maybe I could somehow construct something to tie my hands together and—

No, that was a terrible idea. Even if I wasn’t drunk.

My bleary gaze landed on my nightstand. Specifically on the phone resting there.

Too pent up and miserable and drunk to really think about what I was doing, I reached for it.