Two

two

LORI

This day is utter demonic shite! It smells like crap. It looks like crap. And I feel like crap.

It all started with a few unsatisfactory hours of sleep caused by the urgency of finishing an essay for my constitutional law class. It went pear-shaped when I woke up to find a zit on my chin that stopped me from reciting my mirror-mirror-on-the-wall chant because the fairest of them all can't sport a bloody pimple on their face. Snow White does converse with animals and sings with birds —hidden innuendo there?—which makes her mad as a bag of ferrets in my opinion, but she's always a thing of beauty.

Bollocks!

On my way out of work, I quickly glance at the empty reception desk as my cute leather boots take me inside the almost empty elevator. Still, if someone accidentally brushes my ass again, I'll turn Texas Chainsaw Massacre on all the riders. I have to get rid somehow of the shitty vibes inside me.

And I'm back to today's shite. My morning princess-demoted-to-commoner routine was disturbed by the landlord, a.k.a. Octopus Prime—his sweaty hands always find their way near my body; it's like he has multiple arms sticking out of his torso. He evicted me for having a pet in the apartment. He said he received too many complaints, and that the noises that Wednesday makes are like Satan's alarm clock.

I brought Wednesday home two weeks ago from Pet Palace, the pet shelter I volunteer at. I couldn't resist her unmoving reddish eyes almost entirely covered by a black and white fluffy crest, the little claw on the back of her feet and the considerable waddle of her round hips. Her careless attitude and unfazed look make her adorably weird and comically creepy.

I never thought I'd ever get a pet, but she was mine the minute I saw her ingurgitating an alien-looking, eight-hairy-legged and yellow beady-eyed spider like a tic-tac. Now I have my own personal home-based eco-friendly pest control solution—and a two-week-notice eviction.

You would think that the people living in a building which is a few tip-tap steps from collapsing wouldn't care about pets. Plonkers, the lot of them!

I've been late with the rent, it's happened only a couple of times, while Curly Barbie from 6B is always asking the landlord for a few more days. I know she gives him another kind of lip service as an extra. I can unfortunately hear the big, oily, old cockwomble with a one-dollar beer belly, an allergy to soap, and garlic breath making rapid gurgling sounds like a dying turkey when Curly… mouths her thanks.

I can also read his repellent thoughts every time he leers at my mouth—they make me hurl.

The elevator stops on the first floor and everybody else exits, leaving me alone. I can see the dark evening sky beyond the front glass walls of the building and…a tall guy in a hoodie and a white mask—which covers his entire face—standing on the sidewalk before the elevator doors close once again. Lord, I've been working late for too many days, my sight is playing tricks on me. I should go to see an eye doctor. But the Kramer case is a real brain teaser since the opposition keeps magically pulling out new testimonies and evidence.

Not that I have anybody waiting for me at home, except Wednesday.

I sigh inwardly—and outwardly as well. Because fuck my life and this day that could've only brought the usual trip to the HR office and the sight of Gabriel Reed, my boss's boss's boss and my bestie's brother-in-law.

He's always so detached. If his pulse gets any lower, we'd have to declare him dead.

Admittedly, the bloke has taste in clothes. Over his shirt and those surprisingly wide shoulders, he always wears a smooth, tight vest. Today it was anthracite gray with a nice suit jacket on top. His long legs sported suit pants of the same color that fit his strong muscular thighs just right. His blond hair was combed back in the usual style, no lock out of place. He looked like an untouchable, superior entity.

I can never decide if my urge to strangle him is stronger than the one to tear off his stylish clothes. He is so infuriatingly attractive. His face is almost too perfect to be real. Maybe that's why I need to punch it; perfection is bloody overrated. While angry sex is truly the best. But all I get from Gabe is flat indifference.

I don't take it personally. Everybody gets the same unfazed treatment from him, even his family. Don't know if his emotional detachment was caused by the horror he went through during that secret government project or by the evil-dispatching family business. The only time I've seen him show a tad of interest is for a donor—or maggot, as I like to call the arseholes they kill.

The method he uses to unalive them is the most frightening among the brothers—I've observed them all, enjoying the various styles. They all have their own merits, but his lack of verbalization combined with his soulless silver stare and knife throwing instills mindless fear in the maggots.

He maintains the record among the bros for most involuntary bladder release—in other words he makes the maggots so scared shitless they piss themselves. I keep a torturing record book (TRB) on all the brothers—using code words and nicknames that not even DaVinci could have deciphered—tracking most blood spilled, skin carving work, talkative tormentor, eclectic weapon user, shirts splattered. I started it only recently since I became part of the evil-dispatching family business only a few months back when Ollie met KKJ—his husband, whom I call King Kong Junior. I haven't killed any maggot yet, but I'm getting there.

My TRB needs more info. Raph, the psycho Bully Boy, is the brothers' historian, he has an eidetic memory filled with details, perfect for my book. But he's always too busy nailing his husband.

I obviously didn't struggle when I found out about the family side business. No ethical conundrum here. I actually felt like I fit right in—who wouldn't? It's a sausage fest with seven tormented brothers. I've always had a thing for ruthless men. As long as their ruthlessness isn't aimed at me. Twisted, but it's already too late for my wicked mind. And the consequences of my actions are only mine, right?

I've been fighting against bullies and prats all my life. I learned how to defend myself, and because of my eccentric clothes, odd way of expressing myself, and don't-give-two-shits attitude I have to do it on a daily basis.

I'm not ashamed of who I am, I worked hard to reach this spectacular level of Lori-ness. I made a few mistakes on the way, but I can easily say that I like myself.

Gran would have approved the whole Angels of Wrath enterprise. She'd have made me a tea and laughed at the bloody irony. Life can truly be a slag.

The elevator finally stops at the underground parking garage. I take a second to push away the sorrow that overtakes me when I think about her, then I make my way to my car as I look for the keys inside my Dior bag. I need to cross the whole parking lot because—and this is more demonic shite to add to the pile—I couldn't find a free spot closer to the elevator.

I'm a few feet from my car when the hair on the back of my neck stands up as though someone is watching me. Glancing around the gray cement structure, I immediately spot a man with a smirk stretching his thin lips. "Hey, do you know if there's a bar around here?"

My eyes slide quickly over his much taller physique and long, wild as if windblown black hair brushing against the tops of his shoulders. Super tight jeans and a t-shirt under a chocolate brown windbreaker cover a fit body. I've never seen him before, but the firm has clients coming and going every day. His dark, calculating eyes leave me feeling slightly unsettled. I brush it off and keep walking to my car as I reply, "Drink-Me is two blocks west if you like beer."

"I sure do. Like to grab one with me?" he asks, his voice coming from right behind me.

When I turn around, he's right in my personal space. Once again, my blazing fire attracts moth-like personalities. My stranger danger radar is bleeping like crazy though. I tighten my hold on the keys in my fist and smile sweetly as I say, "Not even if the Guinness bloke comes out to pour it."

He narrows his eyes with what looks like annoyance, but the smirk on his face doesn't fall. Using an arrogantly dominant move, he places his hand on the roof of my car, forcing me to lean back. His arm brushes my curls, and he gets even closer to my upturned face. The stink of cigarettes coming off him makes my nose scrunch up.

"Just one drink. You won't regret it, cutie."

I like the confidence, but…c utie ? Gag, hurl, and puke. "Although this conversation is as sparkling as a coal mine, I have to impolitely decline. And I'd like to breathe some clean air. Back off, Chimney."

Surprisingly, he does. But unsurprisingly, he grabs the front of my pink shirt and yanks me toward him, pulling me up onto my tippy-toes. His playful smirk turns vile. "Let's go for a ride."

A ride? How can guys still not understand the word no?

"Fuck off," I succinctly tell him.

His leery eyes halt on my lips, and just like Octopus Prime, I know what he is thinking. My mouth is a gift from heaven and a curse from hell—Gran's words, not mine. The shape and plumpness attract men of all kinds until I part my sexy lips and the words coming out make blokes run away with their tail between their legs.

"I can easily change your mind," he adds suggestively and very unimaginatively. I can feel his unwanted pheromones wafting my way. If I could, I'd throw up through my eyeballs.

My mood, already as dark as the pits of hell, cannot be more affected by the relentless prat.

But this is a gloriously perfect end to this sedative-use-inducing day. I need to vent, and here is my punching bag served in a pair of ridiculously too-tight jeans.

"Listen carefully, you tosser, take your hands off my favorite off-shoulder shirt, or I'll be the one having fun here sending your balls back to their home planet." I give him a stern look, but he doesn't seem impressed.

Underestimating my petite size is such a cliché.

"Listen, cutie—" I don't let him finish, too eager to get to the enjoyable part—while trying not to peel the skin off my face at the sound of that horrific cutie again. I plant my feet down and assume the defense stance raising my hands near his chest. Then I hit his forearm hard twice with the palm of my right hand as my left fist, still gripping the keys, gets him right in the nuts. His oomph of pain makes my body titillate with delight.

Titillate ? Ugh, what is this word doing inside my brain?

As soon as his grasp loosens around my shirt, I grab his arm and twist it, forcing him to back off as I shove him away from me.

I take two steps back, letting out a chuckle at his half-bent position and loud grunts. "Is that all you got?"

I internally wince as I carefully place my rented Dior bag on its side on the dirty, disgusting ground. If it gets stained, Chimney will die a slow, painful death.

"Getting beaten up by an undeniably gorgeous bloke almost half your size. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I should post your epic defeat." My taunt has the desired effect as he turns his twisted mouth and angry eyes toward me.

He slides a small pocketknife out of his jacket and slowly straightens up while spitting on the ground.

Danger always brings me clarity, that's why I'm good at fighting. My mind turns incredibly clear while the adrenaline pumps inside my veins.

He starts toward me as he hisses, "I like 'em fighting. I'm gonna have all the fun here."

I take a step back and slide my pink leather belt out of my jeans loops. I wrap it around my left hand, so that the buckle end swings loose, without taking my eyes off the advancing prick. "If you find bleeding fun, you're definitely going to have it all."

My heart is pounding inside my chest as I watch him rush toward me in slow motion, knife in his left hand ready to do some damage. I wait until he's on me to duck and slip to the right, which throws him off enough that I can swiftly loop the belt around his wrist and give it a hard twist.

The knife clatters from his hand and skitters somewhere on the ground as I release his arm and give the belt an abrupt jerk letting the buckle hit the bloke straight on the nose. Blood paints his lower face as he bends and stumbles back. I halt his retreat by grabbing a fistful of his hairspray-hardened locks and yank his head up to belt-slap him hard on the cheek.

As I let him go my eyes fall on my hand. My fingers feel sticky from whatever cheap product he applied on his hair, and fuck, my black nail polish is ruined! I hate when that happens, it makes me crazy. My distraction costs me dearly as, out of the blue, his elbow smashes into the side of my skull, on the soft spot high on the temple.

Bloody fucking hell! Black spots cover my vision. I'm barely able to keep my balance as the sharp-as a-broom-stick-in-the-butt pain registers. I absorb the trauma, swallowing the throbbing ache, then kick my way slowly back to the surface. When I open my eyes, Chimney is in front of me, his fist back and ready to send me to the floor.

I'm trying to make my head work and find a way to avoid the hit when Gabe is suddenly looming over us. He lands a nice stiff left on the prick's face and then hits under his ribs where the sternum ends with the narrow side of his premium leather, solid brown briefcase. It paralyzes the bloke's diaphragm, making him gasp like a fish out of water and double over, pitching forward onto the hard ground.

I hold back a moan. Seeing a man fighting is four-red-chili-peppers hot, even if the man is Gabriel Reed, my insufferably icy boss. When I'm in his presence, I can't stop my belligerent side—and hell on earth I try—from bickering, bantering, and quarreling while he barely responds. His indifference around me awakens my bellicose self to clash, battle, and crusade on his ass even though he barely glances my way—or maybe it's because of that.

For a second, I see a glimpse of rage in his eyes as he kicks the bloke in the ribs again and again until he barks, "Enough!"

To whom? His own Italian full-grain leather shoe-clad foot? I'm not doing anything but holding my head and staring at him, so it must be to himself.

"You okay?" Gabe asks me, and his voice is…different—deeper, gruff. That elbow must have gotten my head harder than I thought because when Gabe turns toward me, he looks like his usual pompous, stunning self. Steel gray, impenetrable eyes and his inscrutable countenance that gives close to nothing away. Fuck, he's handsome. The more I see him, the more attractive he becomes. The idea of getting him to fuck me is becoming more solid inside my head.

I nod while brushing my curls away from the aching side of my forehead.

In two steps, he's in my personal space, crowding me, taking my breath away. Gaze focused on my temple, nostrils flaring. His rich cologne envelops me, making me lightheaded for a second. Or perhaps the hit I got does that.

We've never been this close to each other—his natural stiffness sends stay-away vibes all around him. He's not touching me, but I can feel the warmth coming off him and penetrating my cooling body. It's weird how no inner warning bells are ringing even though Gabe is standing a foot away from me. I mean, I could count the lighter streaks in his wheat blond hair, and for the first time, I notice the dark blue flecks in his gunmetal eyes. They are the color of a night fog, his whole world hidden in their depths.

I feel a delicious and unwelcome tingling sensation in my belly as his gaze lands on my lips, it makes me want to show off my assets, peacock style. Instead, I swiftly turn to retrieve my bag from the ground and put some space between us. Because this is Gabe cold-blooded Reed. I dislike the handsome twit…very much. Yes. Yes! Very much indeed.

"I was taking care of it," I tell him, while wiping the bottom side of my Dior. I wouldn't have gone down. I'd have found a way to beat the arsehole.

He makes a humming sound which says nothing and everything at the same time.

"You think I couldn't have kicked that bloke's arse?"

"I've seen you do it enough times I won't be added to the group of idiots who keeps underestimating you."

Despite the lack of emotion in his tone, the words he utters make me speechless for a few seconds, but then my tongue regains its snark. "I wanted to do my mean high kick."

"Mean high kick?" That's lawyer 101, repeating what the opposition says using a slightly derisive or bored tone to irritate them, and boy am I vexed when he does that.

"You sound dubious. Should I feel insulted?" I place my hands on my hips in a defensive move, but the truth is that I can't be bothered by people's assumptions anymore. My skin has gotten extra thick—but still soft as a baby's tushy thanks to my beauty regimen.

"I'm just wondering how you'll keep your balance if you try to move in those shoes." His eyes jump to my high-heeled ankle boots. So bloody observant.

I snort. Because he doesn't know that when I'm barefooted I walk on my tippy-toes like a ballerina after many hours of practice. I feel naked without those extra inches under my soles. I'm so used to wearing heels, I move better in them.

"That sounds like a challenge." I don't like to lose—ever. It's gotten me in trouble more than a few times, but damn what a rush. I'd do that all over again if I had the choice. My usual M.O. is speak first, think and regret later, then ask for forgiveness if I care enough.

"It wasn't." He looks more rigid than usual as he takes off his suit jacket and folds it over his arm. He clenches his left hand, then extends his long, masculine fingers out a couple of times in a nervous movement. "Do you know him?"

"Who?" I point at the empty space on the ground where the prick was lying just a few seconds ago and jerk back at the angry, deep growl that comes out of Gabe's mouth. I didn't know that fighting could turn him into this sexy beast. I've always seen him so composed.

"He must have run off when we were…distracted." I shrug, studying the slightly darker color of his short beard.

"Who did you piss off this time?" Gabe asks.

"Mmm." I pretend to take some time to ponder his question as I tap my finger on my chin. "The list is quite long. In this case, it was just some daft creep who smelled like an ashtray."

I debate whether I should mention the bloke's intention of dragging me to his car but I push the thought away. It isn't a big deal, and not the first time someone tried something like that with me. Wackos are everywhere, and I can handle myself just fine.

My eyes fall on a red card on the ground, and I bend down to pick it up. The word Crimson is written on it together with an address.

"Can I have that back?" Gabe holds up his hand, and after glancing at the golden writing on the card again, I place it in his palm.

"Is that an invitation to a secret Masonic meeting? Are you going to wear one of those black, baggy, pointed face masks American Psycho style? Will there be any sexual rituals involved?"

Gabe just stares at me with eyes that don't give anything away, and then points at my car. "Get in. I'll tell Rami to pull the security footage and see if he can get a name on the guy who assaulted you."

"Alright. What an anticlimactic end to this shite of a day," I fake mumble as I take the few steps to my car and open the door while making a show of defeatedly sagging my shoulders. I get in the driver seat and turn a tired-looking gaze to Gabe, who's staring at my Nissan Micro with an almost critical eye. It's not much to look at, but is my supermini barracuda, nothing can stop her—not even my sportive driving.

He closes the car door, and then lingers for a few seconds as I roll down the car window.

"Call Sari or Michael to check on your head." If he hadn't uttered the words while walking away from me, I'd think he was sweet.

I adjust the rearview mirror to look at my reflection. My big soft curls hide the red spot where I took the hit, but I can feel the bruise forming on my temple. That won't stop me from finding out what Crimson is and why Gabe is going there.

I take my phone out of my bag and slide it into the holder on top of the dash after typing the address I saw on that red card into Google Maps. I turn on the engine and steer the wheel toward the exit. I give the yellow barrier a love tap with the front bumper of my car as I stop to use my parking exit pass. I have to pull my entire torso out of the car window to reach the screen on top of the infernal machine, but the barrier eventually lifts.

I'm making my way out of the parking garage when I see Gabe's pretentious ass gliding into the back seat of a shiny black car on the other side of the road. Now that I think about it, why was he inside the parking garage if a car was waiting for him outside?

My smirk turns wicked and Grinch-like as excitement starts to bubble inside me. I yell, "It's stalking time!" And not my first time, either. I've learned a few things from my previous mistakes and let two cars follow Gabe's before I enter the same lane.

"Siri, call Ollie."

After two endless rings, my bestie picks up.

"Can you talk, or are you being plundered by KKJ?"

"What did I say about my husband's nickname?" He sighs with exasperation.

Giving funny nicknames keeps my mischievous mind active—plus, Rague really looks like King Kong Junior.

"And hello to you too, bestie with boundary issues," Ollie adds, making me snort. Like we don't divulge every single detail of our horizontal rumbas to each other.

I send a colorful curse at the truck driver who cuts in front of me and hides Gabe's hired black car from my sight. I have the address to Crimson, but tailing his car is so much more fun. Bugger!

"I wish my life had background music." I sniff as I get a glimpse of my ruined black nail polish, such a perfect color for the middle finger flipping I give to the coiffured lady trying to cross the street.

"I'm going to regret this, but why, Lori?"

"To accompany what the bloody hell is going on, of course," I explain to him, as I push my head out of the window to spot Gabe's car.

"Of course," he patronizes me. "And what song would be playing?"

"Well, ten minutes ago, it'd have been "Milkshake" by Kelis since the prick who tried to assault me in the parking garage at work really wanted to…milk Papa Lori's gherkin."

"He what?"

"I'll tell you later." I swerve the supermini barracuda to the right and then make a hard turn as I follow the black car, leaving a chorus of honks behind me. "I need a stalking song. I didn't prepare a new stalking playlist for this, so be a dear and don't sing for me. Find Sully and ask him to do it." Ollie sounds like a crow with a case of tonsillitis when he decides to sing.

"Where the heck are you, Lori?"

I pull my head back inside, dreading the reflection of my windblown hair. "Just a sec… Wow, old ladies are fearless when walking with those small chair-looking carts. They use them like a weapon. Respect." I send her a flying kiss.

"Ha-cha-cha, motherfucker!" Then I scream at the pigeon flying too low near my car.

"You're DRIVING?" He sounds surprised.

"You're slipping, mate. But it's sweet that I haven't lost the ability to surprise you," I say cheekily.

"I don't want to end up as a witness in court when you run over someone—and their family."

"Hey you pillock, my driving record is clean, no accidents, if you don't count the truck mishap." I honk at the moron on the side of the road. "Get on the sidewalk, Forrest Gump!"

"What truck mishap?"

"It happened when you were exiled in the Hocus Pocus cottage with Rague. There was a feral raccoon involved that looked incredibly like Marylin Manson's estranged twin and a tipped Dunkin' Donuts truck." I almost hit a streetlamp when the infernal creature jumped on the hood of my car. "But I got myself a carton of free sugar glazed and jelly donuts that night." And quite a few pimples to remember the wrongness of my greedy ways.

"How am I still sane after years of being your friend?"

"You aren't, Ol. Face the facts. I mean, you married a gorilla, who's possessed by a destructive red demon at times and kills evil people when he's himself. By the way, how is the red haze flip-over going on?" KKJ is one of Gabe's foster brothers—or as I call them, the sausage fest, because damn, there's a delicious man flavor for every taste. He too was experimented on when he was a kid. Don't remember the scientific details, but at times, he's governed by a violent red haze attack, going out of control, bloodthirsty, and unstoppable.

"Fine. Same as last time you asked, which was this morning. Are you bored, Lor? I know how you spend your nights at home…with a sock."

"," I sniff.

" socks? That porn must be good!" He chuckles. God, I missed the teasing fucker.

The truth is that I feel a little lost and restless, and I try to distract myself when I can, since… No, I'm not going to think about it.

Ollie must read my mood in my silent response. "I'm sorry I haven't been around much lately. But we're back."

"Yeah?" I stop at a red light, grabbing a piece of gum from the glove compartment to pop in my mouth. "Tell Sully-doo I'm coming for a pizza night tomorrow." I haven't seen Ollie's brother in a few days. He needs company—even more than I do.

"Brad will be here too." That's Sully's bestie.

"When isn't he?" He still feels guilty for what happened to Sully. Like him being kidnapped was Brad's fault and not that Phoenix arsehole, a.k.a. Bird Turd. When I get my hands on them, there won't be any ashes left to resurrect from. "Where are you, mate?"

"The base. Rague just finished with a donor. Who are you stalking, Lori?"

"Gabe." I ignore his gasp. "Ol, ask KKJ to be my soundtrack. He's an amazing Captain Corelli with that mandolin of his." I hear KKJ's amused grunt through the line. He's a grumpy gorilla, but he's perfect for Ollie. Would burn the world to keep him safe.

I envy Ollie at times. Feeling so adored by the person he treasures more than anything else must give him such a euphoric thrill. A thrill only one man could never give me. Ollie is right, I easily get bored, especially of my conquests.

"It's an ukulele, and no, he won't enable your crazy-ass addiction," he retorts.

"My only addiction is Yoga. And I remember you ordering me to stalk KKJ a few months back. ‘ Follow him ,' you yelled!"

"So help me God, that's when your stalking fixation started!" he hisses.

I tsk. "Don't flatter yourself, it was already in my blood, waiting to surface." I turn on the radio as I yank the wheel back toward the lane, jolting on my seat while I continue to tail Gabe's black car. Hydrants shouldn't be placed on the edge of sidewalks, this is the umpteenth time I've almost hit one.

"The Diner" by Billie Eilish comes on. "Ollie, this song is bitching fate!"

"Yes, you're as creepy as the guy she sings about. Tell the squirrel on meth in your head to make a U-turn and go back home!"

"No can do. He's too busy counting his nuts at the moment."

"Gabe is on a case," KKJ's raspy voice utters.

"All the more reason to go. I want to get deeper into the evil-dispatching business, and this is the perfect opportunity. Plus, Gabe just entered a very posh, very secretive building. I have to go! If it gets too weird, I'll split."

"Like it could ever get too weird for you." It's Ollie's turn to snort.

"Remember the night with the hairy Dom, the laughing monkey, and the egg slicer? I fucking draw the line at that horror show." I park the car two blocks down and grab my quickie-kit bag from the back seat. I always leave it in the car, for when I need to look my best to get a quick fuck. I don't know where I'm going, but the forest green eyeliner, red rose lipstick, and slutty skirt have gotten me inside too many places to count.

Ollie sighs loudly. "How could I forget."

"Kitty, what is he talking about?" I hear a confused KKJ ask Ollie.

"He can tell you as a bedtime story," I say, while lifting and turning as I pull down my jeans. "Any advice to give me before I get there?"

"Not giving you any advice just so you can twist it to suit your own warped worldview!" Ollie replies.

"You're right! No planning. Planning blows!" I move the side mirror toward me and start to apply the eyeliner and lipstick.

"And you twisted my words anyway."

"I feel the urge to stab you." I open the car door and push my feet into my ankle boots again. I stand up, and while fixing the tight faux-leather black skirt, I grab my Dolce by D the smell of his cologne is in my nose as I nuzzle his neck. His hands lower to my butt, getting a handful of each cheek, while my arms remain limp at my sides. Fuck, Gabe can grope me as much as he wants if he promises me another explosive orgasm.

I'm mad horny.

It's not the first time I came in a club in front of people—anything can happen on a dance floor, if you catch my drift. But Gabe didn't even touch me, and I want more. Always had a high sex drive, but this feels more like a skunk reflex. This drug is seriously dangerous. And we need to stop it, as soon as I turn sane again.

"It will be okay," he whispers in my ear. His assertive tone makes my whole body almost explode with lust.

"Promise?" I hate to hear the fear in my own voice.

"Promise." I can feel his steely resolve behind that one word.

He stops, and I lift my head to turn my eyes in the new dim room. It looks like a boudoir sex room. The walls are almost black with a dark jewel tone. There's an elegant, huge bed covered in silky red sheets, two curvaceous armchairs that give off sensual vibes, and a wide mirror in a gold frame. I can't continue looking around, as the pain that I'd hoped had been extinguished by the strongest orgasm of my life hits me again, making me almost fall from Gabe's arms as I jerk uncontrollably.

He places me on cold sheets, leaving me horribly alone again, and the burning lava sensation punches me like a waterfall, running its way through my legs, my arms, chest, and groin. My cock is agonizingly hard again. I'm vibrating, trembling with torment. The overload of torture freezes my body in an arc, head thrown back. I'm wailing as the pain keeps running up and down all over my body.

My hand goes under my skirt, and I start beating my cock like a madman. It's the only thing that assuages the agony I'm feeling. Lust overcomes it, and I pull on my balls, trying desperately to come. And I do. My body spasms with ecstasy it spreads like wildfire reaching every single part of me, while my hole begs to be filled by a cock. Gabe's cock?

I'm going to die tonight. I'm sure of it. Death by pleasure.

The last sane thought that invades my head is that it will be with Gabriel Reed.