There’s intense and then there’s whatever the hell just happened.
A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have dreamt something like this would be my reality. That I would reach the level of depravity I only watched in true crime shows.
But this is different.
What Sebastian and I have is more dangerous than some deviant sexual behavior serial killers possess.
We don’t fantasize about hurting people; he fantasizes about hurting me, and I fantasize about being hurt by him and being the subject of his rough desires.
It’s probably not that simple, though, is it?
Because no matter how twisted we become, we’re still thirsty for more.
I know I am.
Fuck Akira and anyone who judges me for my fantasies that I’m not using to hurt anyone.
After our breathing levels out, I’m well prepared for Sebastian to leave me on the floor and never turn back. It’s his modus operandi, and using names won’t change that.
At least, that’s what I thought.
As I attempt to crawl into a standing position and beg Luce to drive me home, strong arms wrap around me, imprisoning me in place.
I startle, a small gasp falling from my lips as I grip Sebastian’s strong shoulders for balance.
He brings me down so we’re both lying on a small carpet that barely fits both of us. He pulls me closer so I’m lying on his chest and his steady heartbeat is right beneath my ear.
Even his pulse is as strong as him. Steady, powerful, and alluring.
The pads of his fingers stroke my shoulder blade in a steady rhythm. I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror across the room. The image is different from when he was taking my ass savagely and without holding back.
We’re naked after he stripped us both earlier. Our scattered clothes form a mess on the floor. But that’s the last thing I’m focused on when his strong body spoons around me. His leg is thrown over mine as if he’s forbidding me from running.
Or maybe he seeks the closeness.
But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he when our arrangement has been clear and direct since the beginning?
We’re using each other and that’s all, right?
He does pursue me afterward, but that’s only after he’s spent some time away. Be it half an hour or even a few minutes.
There always needs to be some distance put between us so the beast can morph into the man I know. The star quarterback with a fan page that worships at his feet and even knows his morning routine.
Not that I’m stalking him on social media or anything.
I’m not that desperate.
Oh, shut up, Naomi.
Anyhow, point is, this is the first time Sebastian has gotten close right after he’s finished.
Maybe he’s still the beast.
Maybe he’s not done tormenting me.
Though the promise of another round causes my core to throb, I really don’t think I’ll be able to take it. I can already feel the soreness in my ass and even my pussy. I need to go home and rub some oil on it.
And yeah, I kind of have a collection of those ever since this crazy asshole started chasing me.
“What are you doing?” I murmur, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
Sebastian is entranced by the back and forth of his finger on my shoulder as if he’s relearning something about his anatomy—or mine. “What type of question is that?”
“A simple one. You…shouldn’t be here right now.”
“Then where should I be?”
“I don’t know…outside?”
“So you want a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of thing?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His fingers crawl up my shoulder to my collarbone until he wraps them around my throat. The hold isn’t tight, but the threat is there. Even the subtle drop in his voice is an indication of his mood. “Whether I leave or stay is only up to me to decide, so how about you get used to that, baby?”
He’s calling me baby, so he can’t be in his beast mode right now.
“How am I supposed to take it?” I taunt.
“Like a good girl.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Do you prefer being called a good slut?”
“Stop it.” My cheeks burn. “I don’t appreciate being called a slut outside of…you know.”
“That, I do know.” He loosens his grip but doesn’t release me as he fingers the pulse point.
“How…do you know?”
“We’ve been together for long enough that I can read your body language. It’s the first thing I notice about people.”
“Why?”
“Hmm.” His voice is absentminded, seeming deep in thought. “I think it’s because I was taught to be mindful of what type of image I project onto the world.”
“And that gave you the opportunity to learn about people’s body language?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. You would be surprised how much people divulge about themselves with a simple gesture. A rub of the nose, sweaty hands, fidgeting, or even looking at a person for too long gives me a hint of their state of mind.”
“Only a hint? Why not the whole picture?”
“Because it’s never enough. Their clothes, posture, and way of talking are what completes it. Usually, one meeting is enough to determine whether the person is a friend or foe.”
“What category was I in?” I tease.
Sebastian’s expression, however, is blank. Only his furrowed brow is an indication of what I assume is confusion. Or maybe it’s displeasure.
“Neither,” he says quietly.
“I thought those were the only categories you have. Are there others I should know about?”
“Not yet.”
“Come on, that’s not fair.”
“Never claimed to belong to that neurotypical category.”
“Because you read people?”
“Because I tactfully avoid the bad kind.”
“Aren’t you bad yourself?”
“Depends on the circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“Being threatened, for instance.”
“Considering your selective skills, you’d be able to prevent danger. You should become a detective.”
“Long hours for minimum wage? No, thanks.”
“Greedy, too, I see.”
“I’m not greedy. I just recognize my worth. It’d be an insult to my IQ to follow a career that won’t lead me anywhere.”
“So helping people get justice leads nowhere?”
“Depends on your definition of justice.”
“There are more than one?”
“Of course. What do you think of when the word justice comes to mind?”
“That people should pay for what they’ve done.”
“That’s just simplistic.”
I hit his shoulder. “And what’s your non-simplistic view?”
“Justice is a system that’s been put in place so the powerful can get away with their wrongdoings under the blanket of righteousness. They legalized their barbaric ways and made laws to protect themselves from naive fools who still think that good will always win. Like all systems, justice is daily tampered with so that truths are twisted and the innocent are wrongly accused for no other reason than being a convenient scapegoat for the people who call the shots.”
“Wow. That’s such a cynical view of the world.”
He raises his brow, a small smile tugging on his lips. “You of all people ought to understand that since you’re sarcastic about everything.”
“Being sarcastic doesn’t make me cynical.”
“With your dark sense of humor, it does.”
“I don’t have a dark sense of humor.”
He lifts his hand and shows it to me. “See that?”
I frown. “What?”
“The black covering my hands when I accidentally touch your humor.”
“Not funny.” I fight a smile as I run my fingers over the script of his tattoo. “What does this mean?”
“My mind is my only cage.”
“That’s beautiful, especially coupled with the Japanese one. Did someone translate them for you?”
“No.”
“So you translated it yourself? That’s impressive. Usually people get all sorts of wrong stuff tattooed on them. I can speak for Japanese, but I heard it happens for Arabic, too.”
He raises a brow. “Is my Japanese correct?”
“Perfectly. When did you get them?”
“When I was eighteen.”
“I wish I was brave enough to get one.”
“We’ll go together and get matching tattoos.”
For some reason, that idea doesn’t seem so crazy to me. I snuggle into him as a chill travels down my spine. He’s so warm, and I don’t only mean physically.
There’s something about him that I’m slowly learning. He has a black and white view of the world but acts as if it’s gray. In a way, he’s emulating feelings he doesn’t have and I find that utterly fascinating.
Is it a defense or a coping mechanism? Or maybe he really is antisocial.
At any rate, all I want is to learn more about him, because apparently, I’ve been fooled by his image all this time.
When I shiver again, he reaches for his jacket and throws it over my nakedness. “Though it’s a pity to hide your tits.”
“Are you a sex addict?” I joke.
“Maybe. Who knows?” He lifts a shoulder as if that’s a normal occurrence. “Now, back to your beloved justice. Do you still believe in it?”
“I do. I believe in the concept that what goes around comes around.”
“Isn’t that karma?”
“Another form of how justice manifests.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you believe in justice?”
I lick my lips and I can feel my walls slowly crumbling. Maybe it’s the fact that our conversation is so easy or that I appreciate him holding me instead of leaving me a bit too much.
At any rate, the words leave me easier than I would’ve ever thought. “When I was in kindergarten, there were a bunch of white girls who bullied me. One of them said I was yellow like a banana and often called me names. She told me her mom said that it’s because of yellow people like me coming here all the time that her dad can’t find a job. Due to the constant jabs and bullying, I didn’t want to go to school anymore, even though I loved my kindergarten teachers. I hid in my closet and refused to come out. But one day, Mom grabbed me by the elbow and yanked me out of there.
“‘Did you do something wrong, Nao-chan?’ she asked me and when I shook my head, she said, ‘Then why are you hiding as if you did?’ So I explained the situation with big ugly tears. I felt so wronged, so victimized, and it made me frustrated. I thought Mom would share my feelings, but her expression remained stern as she told me, ‘Don’t be scared of people who judge you because of the color of your skin or where you came from. Look them in the eyes and show them with action that you’re here to stay.’ And I did. I got back to school and didn’t bow down. When they became vicious, I became just as vicious. Soon after, that girl and her friends lost interest and stopped bothering me.”
Sebastian remains silent for a beat before he asks, “Is that why you believe in justice?”
“It’s part of the reason. The other part is because I need it to be real.”
“What for?”
“So those who hurt people weaker than them pay.” My voice breaks at the end and it doesn’t escape his notice.
He stares down at me and I lower my gaze as I swallow. “I was nine and he was Mom’s boyfriend.”
I feel the way he turns rigid, how his muscles become as hard as granite. When he speaks, his voice is tight and closed, “What did he do?”
“He came into my room when Mom stepped out to do some late-night work. She didn’t usually leave me alone with him and he hadn’t made a move on me before. But I knew, somehow, since I didn’t feel comfortable around him. It was as if he was biding his time for the right moment.
“For that night. I remember…waking up startled as if I’d had a nightmare, but I couldn’t remember it. I recall my hazy vision slowly getting used to the darkness, to the motifs of the sun on my curtains, the curves of them and the way they seemed like headless monsters in the darkness. I’ve never forgotten that sight, even twelve years later. I also remember the scent of alcohol, pungent and harsh to my nostrils. It’s why I don’t like drinking much, even now. It’s strange how the brain remembers things like that, but I couldn’t erase them if I tried.
“It took me a few disoriented seconds to realize there was a heavy weight perching over my small body and hands feeling up my chest and between my legs. I remember wanting to vomit as a coaxing voice told me to stay quiet, whispered it with his alcohol-scented breath near my ear. But then…I lost track of it all. It was dark, too dark, and there were screams. I think they were mine, at least at some point. I swear there was red, too. Like blood. It was sticky and all over my fingers and face, but I don’t remember how it got there. I don’t even remember how I fainted.
“The next time I woke up, I was tucked against my mom’s chest as she cried softly in my hair. It was the first and last time I’ve seen her cry. She’s more powerful than the world itself, my mom. She’s the strongest woman I know, but she was weeping like a child. I couldn’t return those emotions because grief wasn’t what I was feeling back then. It was anger. Blind, ugly anger. I was mad at her for leaving me with him. I think I’ve been mad at her since because justice didn’t happen. She just cut off ties with that scum and he got to move on with his life as if he didn’t ruin mine. She let him get away with it so he could find others to prey on.”
Burning tears prick my eyes when I’m finished and the sting hurts just like the memories from that night. As foggy as they are, they’re still there.
Haunting.
Taunting.
The red night made me who I am, whether I like to admit it or not.
It made me scared of people, of attachment, of allowing anyone close.
And most of all, it made me grow apart from the only family I have. My mom.
Sebastian remains quiet even as his finger strokes my throat.
I sniffle, waiting for long beats and getting nothing. Did I divulge too much? Should I somehow take it back?
“What’s his name?” he finally asks.
“Why are you asking?”
“Answer the question.”
“Sam.”
“Sam what?”
“Miller. Sam Miller.”
He nods as if satisfied, but he doesn’t say anything, his gaze lost someplace else.
“Why do you want to know his name?”
“Just curious.”
“That’s all you have to say after what I just told you?”
He breathes deeply for a few beats. “I also understand why you enjoy being my prey.”
“You think I’m depraved, don’t you?”
“I think you’re brave.”
“How can someone who enjoys the repetition of their childhood trauma be brave?”
“It’s not the repetition you enjoy.”
“I obviously do.”
“No. You enjoy knowing that you can end it at any time. You’re brave to recognize what you want while having control over the situation. So, in a way, you like having the power you weren’t fortunate enough to possess back then.”
My lips part. “Are you…using your people-reading technique on me?”
“I always have, Tsundere.”
I clear my throat. “Let’s pretend what you’re saying is true…”
“There’s no pretending. You and I know it is.”
“Fine. Let’s take it from that perspective. If I enjoy it for the control, why do you enjoy it?”
“For domination.”
“But I can end it at any time.”
“But you don’t.”
“I could.”
“But you wouldn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re addicted to this as much as I am. You love being fucked hard until your voice turns raw and you’re sobbing through your tenth orgasm.”
“That…still means I could use the words.”
“You won’t, because you know that will destroy the connection we have.”
“And let me guess. You get off on that type of domination?”
“Besides the one where I throw you down and dick you into the nearest object, yes. But that’s not all.”
“Your need for violence?”
He nods. “I’ve had it since I was the lone survivor of the accident that took away my parents.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I told you to stop apologizing for things you had no hand in.”
“It’s in my nature. We can’t all be emotionless vaults like you, who only feel when violence is involved.”
“That’s the thing.” He looks at me funny. “My urge for violence has become less important since you.”
