in a way that almost scares me. Almost. To be with someone like Victor, you have to be able to match him, blow for blow.
I cup Vic’s head in my hand and, with very little pressure, manage to bring his mouth to mine again. That’s how easy he is for me to control; I only wish I had a leash to show the world the truth about how easy he is to command.
He fucks me even harder, the sound of our bodies joining echoing around the silent space. My own hips rise up, eager to meet his, stirring up a delicious sort of friction that I can feel in my teeth, my bones, my cunt.
My body throbs around Vic’s, squeezing him, rewarding him.
The emotions of the day twist around inside of me as Victor pleasures me with his cock, and then it all comes pouring out in one, last surge of emotion. Finishing my purge. I end it much hotter than I began, with an orgasm that rips through me like an electric storm, frying my brain, burning me from the inside out.
It’s violent and messy, when Vic gathers me close and comes inside of me, holding me to him, marking me. The scratches I’ve left down his back don’t hurt either; they very clearly say Do Not Fucking Touch.
Victor is panting above me, doing his best to regain control of both himself and his breathing. His head is bent, dark hair wet with sweat.
“I love you, Victor Channing,” I tell him, and he freezes. I swear, he even stops breathing. After a moment, Vic exhales and his tense muscles relax.
“I love you more, Bernadette, and I always will.” I frown at him, but he just lifts his head and lets his mouth twist into a villainous smirk. “Don’t argue, just enjoy.”
“You’re a fucking prick,” I growl as he rolls off of me with a laugh. I sit up, still dressed in my black gown, the fabric thoroughly fucked into the dirt and probably irreparably damaged and stained with cum.
Whatever.
It’s symbolic, right? The wedding dress, I mean. There’s a reason I got married in black.
Victor turns onto his back and lights a cigarette, passing it to me as I sit there with my attention on the gravestones all around us. Somewhere beneath us, there’s a dead—or soon-to-be dead—cop. A dead stepfather. A dead rapist.
I’ll never know if Neil Pence actually killed my sister or not. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Because he ruined her, with his lust and his greed and his narcissism. He ruined the person I loved most, and I will always love the sweet taste of vengeance in my mouth.
Confucius says, dig two graves before embarking on a journey of revenge.
Well, bitch, I’ve already dug more than that. What next?
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, finishing the cigarette in my hand and stabbing it out into the grass beside me. Victor turns toward me, his own smoke still clutched between his lips, and smiles.
It’s not a very nice smile.
It never is.
“Whatever you say, my love,” he growls, shoving up to his feet and looking down at me. Vic, his shirt undone, his tattoos glowing in the sunlight, stares down at me with smoke curling from his lips and grins.
I take his outstretched hand and he hauls me to my feet.
Vic then pulls a small pocketknife from his jacket, cuts his palm, and offers the blade out to me. I take it, slicing my own palm and curling my fingers through his, our wedding bands brushing together. We look at each other, past our clasped hands, and he smiles.
“Blood in,” Victor tells me with a nod of his chin. “Blood out.”
Together, we walk hand-in-hand through the gravestones toward Vic’s waiting bike.
1. stepdad.
I take the tube of red lipstick from my purse and pop the cap off. Victor waits beside his Harley, the back decorated with a Just Married sign, cans and flowers tied to the saddlebags and dragging. I wonder which one of the boys found the time to do that? It had to be one of the Havoc Boys; Victor would never let anyone else near his ride.
The eyes of my new husband are dark as he watches me kneel down on the pavement in my wedding dress, silence rolling through the cemetery as the sounds of our moans fade into a distant memory. My hands are dirty, staining the old envelope as I smooth it out in front of me.