by Darcy Rose
I watch everything she does. Everything.
It’s wrong. I know it is. But I’m addicted. She’s a drug I cannot kick. I need her in every way, even though I know I cannot truly have her.
That’s what makes it so surreal to be standing in the same room as her. To smell the cookies, she’d made just for me. To know what she looks like naked, what she sounds like when she comes on her hand, but to have to introduce myself as if are strangers. Which, to her, we are. She has no idea how much I know about her. How much I want to unravel her, to strip her bare and taste her sweetness, to feel her beneath my body, my cock sliding into her, bringing her to the brink of orgasm again and again.
“Hello, Faith,” I greet, my voice low as I fight to keep my heartbeat even.
Oh, sure, I could assassinate enemies of the mob without a second thought, but saying hello to her makes me nervous? Of course, it fucking does. I don’t want her to know about the darkness that lives inside of me. The joy I get from killing people, the warmth of their blood on my hands, listening to their screams, and pleas.
Faith turns to face me, and I watch a blush creep across her cheeks. So fucking beautiful. I want to kiss her, to spread her out right here on the counter, and claim her as mine.
“Hi, Vincent. Merry Christmas,” she replies shyly, her blue eyes flicking away from me almost nervously. It takes everything in me not to step closer.
You aren’t good enough for her. Too dark. Too dangerous.
Luckily, I don’t have to stop myself because Margaret forces herself between us. She clings to my arm for a moment as she snaps at her daughter.
“Christmas Eve, Faith. It’s not Christmas yet.” She’s trying to sound like she’s playfully teasing, but I hear the edge in her voice.
Margaret turns back to me with a winning smile, pushing up her chest in hopes that I’ll get lost in her vast cleavage. I don’t fall for it, not when the only woman in the room who has my attention is Faith.
“Does it really matter, Mom?” Faith shoots back.
I hate watching the expression of hurt appear on her face and nearly throw Margaret off of me. But instead, I gently lift her hands from my arms and move her to the side. Margaret stands dumbly, unsure how to react to me rejecting her advances, as I step forward.
“Pardon me for wanting to be accurate,” Margaret huffs.
She turns on her black stiletto heels—I wonder what type of woman willingly wears them in her own home—to open up a cabinet on the other side of the room. “Let me grab a serving tray, and we’ll have these cookies.”
While Margaret busies herself, I move closer to Faith. From here, I can smell her, the sugar cookies, and vanilla, all things sweet, wafting from her body. My mouth waters, and all I want to do is take a bite out of her. Her scent is intoxicating, enough to bring me to my knees.
She’s wearing a sweet sweater and tight black leggings. I can see the gentle curve of her ass, and almost stop breathing when she stands on her tiptoes and leans over the counter, giving me a perfect view of her sculpted legs. All I want is to hoist her over my shoulder and take her back to my house, where I can finally make her mine.
Stop! I can’t…
“You’ve made some wonderful cookies,” I whisper under my breath as I grab a sweater-shaped cookie. Faith straightens and looks at me in shock, like she can’t believe I’m complimenting her on the cookies I know she made.
Her blue eyes go as wide as saucers, and being this close to her, I notice that there’s a smattering of freckles across her nose. My stomach tenses, and I feel like an animal. I lock eyes with her as I bite into the cookie, letting the sweetness dance across my tongue.
Damn. It tastes amazing. Faith is an incredible baker, and just when I thought she couldn’t be any more perfect.
“Oh, I uh. No, it’s okay. My mom did—” she stammers.
I understand why she lies for her mom, but it pains me.
“I know the truth, Faith. Don’t worry.” I wink. It’s the only advance I’ll allow myself to make at her. I’ll behave the rest of the night, not because I want to, but because I have to.
Margaret pops between us with a garish plastic serving dish patterned with holly leaves. She pretends to be shocked when she sees that I’ve taken a bite already. It’s overdone, as if she’s an actress on stage, playing to the back row. In close quarters, it’s annoying and insincere.
“Vincent! Tut, tut,” she says, playfully slapping me on the hand. “You just couldn’t wait to help yourself to my baking, could you? Well, I surely don’t blame you. But let’s go start up the fireplace, hmm?”
Margaret struts off toward the living room, and I motion for Faith to go ahead of me.
“After you,” I say with a small wave.
She smiles at me from beneath a strand of hair on her face, and before I can stop myself, I wipe that stripe of flour off of her cheek. She lets out a soft gasp when my thumb makes contact with her face but maintains eye contact while her face turns red-hot.
She smiles again but quickly turns away, following her mother. I keep pace close behind, keeping my eyes on the back of her head. Wouldn’t want Margaret to catch me staring at her daughter’s ass. I must keep some semblance of decorum.
Margaret sits on the couch with one leg crossed over the other. Her green dress has ridden up enough that I can see the lace garter of her pantyhose. Faith must notice too because she gives a hefty eyeroll as she flops into the easy chair facing the couch. Margaret is patting the cushion beside her, but I decline and sit on the opposite arm of the couch, leaving one seat between us.
A friendly evening between neighbors. That’s all this is.
3
Faith
I can’t believe he’s here. In our living room, on our couch. His large frame makes the space feel smaller. His body is so muscular, it should have the couch crumbling beneath his weight. I wonder what it would be like to feel that weight against me.
My cheeks heat at the thought, and I force myself to think about something else… anything else.
I could pinch myself. His top lip curls slightly in disgust when he looks at my mother. I can’t believe he sees right through her. No one ever believes me, or maybe no one cared enough to.
Vincent is different in every way. I’ve never met anyone like him, and I don’t think I ever will. He seems so in control of his every move like his body and mind are well trained, but every time he looks at my mom, I can see his disgust. The more I watch him, I realize that he must really dislike her to show so much disdain on his face.
The question is, why did he come over then? Surely, not because of me.
Just thinking about that possibility makes me fall so much harder for him. It makes me believe I might even have a chance.
Up close, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. There is just a slight amount of stubble on his face, just enough to shade his cheeks and jaw. His hair is slightly messy but in an artful way. I’ve never known anyone like him before. It still feels insane that he is inside my house right now, that he touched my face, complimented my baking. I keep pinching myself in the same spot on my palm until I realize it’s gone numb.
“So, Vincent,” Mom says, still using the saccharine tone that sends shivers down my spine. “How do you afford that Porsche out front?”
“Mom!” I protest. “That’s so rude.” But so typical of her. All she cares about are nice cars, flashy watches, and rich guys who treat her like shit.
“I’m making conversation,” she snaps. Her megawatt smile turns to bared teeth in a flash, but her mask is back on once she faces Vincent.
“It’s no mind,” he says gently, raising a hand to me. He gives me a lopsided grin, and my stomach does a somersault. “My family and I own a chain of dry cleaners, and I manage the eastern branches.”
“Which cleaners?” I ask.
He seemed too sophisticated to just manage dry cleaners. His gray sweater is lush and tailored perfectly, and he wears jeans that hug his legs
, showing off his body. I guess it tracked, but who knew dry cleaners were so lucrative? Something doesn’t add up.
“Fontanas,” he replies, a slight Italian accent creeping into his voice.
Fontanas? That name seems familiar, but I can’t think of where I know it from. I can’t really think of much when Vincent is distracting me with his talking.
His voice is supple, smooth, like worn leather. I want to talk with him all night. I want to fall asleep listening to his voice.
“How is school, Faith?” he asks. My name catapults me back to reality.
His stare is intense as if he wants to devour me. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel really warm inside. I probably should be scared of it, but instead, I simply feel wanted.
“It’s going well. Next semester I’m taking a life drawing class.”
His eyes light up for a moment. “Drawing. Are you very artistic?”
“I used to draw a bit in high school,” my mom interjects. Leaning forward, she puts a hand on Vincent’s knee to bring his attention back to her.
She shoots me a glare, and I know what it means, go away. Mommy’s getting laid.
I purposely ignore her stare. She made me bake cookies; I’m at least spending a few minutes talking to the object of my stupid hormone-fueled crush.
“I am asking Faith,” Vincent says pointedly, removing my mom’s hand from his leg.
Is it wrong that I feel a jolt of happiness in seeing him do that?
“Well, yeah, I think so,” I say in a quiet tone. I love to draw, but I don’t usually show anyone, not that there is anyone to show my stuff to anyway. “I’ve been drawing on my own for a while, and I’m excited to get better at it.”
“I’m sure you’re already wonderful. What else are you studying?” He sounds genuinely interested. It’s as if he actually wants to get to know me more.
He’s leaning toward me and hasn’t taken his eyes off of mine. I’m not even sure he’s blinked. The guy’s more intense than I expected, but it doesn’t scare me. In fact, it only piques my interest. It makes me want to run away with him.
“Literature, mostly,” I reply.
He hums an approval, then takes another bite of his cookie. He finally looks away from me, turning to admire the Christmas tree. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. God, this man has my mind reeling.
I take the few seconds he is looking away to gather my thoughts. It’s a nice, quiet moment, so of course, my mother has to ruin it.
“Faith, sweetie, I think it’s about time you go upstairs and let us have some grown-up time,” she sneers, speaking slowly as if I’m a toddler.
I open my mouth to protest, but something about the ice in my mother’s stare makes me back down. It’s not worth it to fight her tonight. It’s Christmas Eve, so I might as well just go to my room and try not to hear the sounds of my mom screwing Vincent on the couch. I push to stand up, hanging my head while trying to avoid looking at them.
Ugh, of course, they are sending me away. He was only being nice to me because he wants to be with my mom. I’m an idiot for thinking otherwise. I’m nothing more than a teenager to Vincent, the child of a woman he wants to screw.
“No,” Vincent snaps to attention, his voice demanding and firm. He whirls around on my mom, glaring at her, and for a split second, I see something in his eyes I didn’t expect. Something feral, dark, and possessive. As fast as it appears, it’s gone, and I wonder if it was there at all. “I don’t want Faith to leave. I’m enjoying her company.”
“Vincent, she is a teenager. She would just be bored by the adult conversation.”
I ball my fists at my sides, grinding my teeth to keep from yelling at my mother. Christ, I’m smarter than she’ll ever be.
“Faith is a grown woman, and I do not want her to leave, Margaret.”
His tone is firm, leaving no room for my mother to protest. My stomach flips again, and I feel almost dizzy from the emotional whiplash. What I would give for stable ground.
My mom looks angry and confused, processing what Vincent is saying. The sides of her mouth curl up in a sneer, and she stands up, patting down her dress angrily.
She wobbles a little bit on her heels as she marches forward but is fueled by anger at this point. Nothing will stop her now.
“Well, fine,” she huffs, standing up and shoulder-checking me as she shoves past.
I stand firm against her, refusing to give under her weight, but it sets her off-balance. She tries to catch herself as she loses her footing, but the four-inch-tall spikes on the bottom of her shoes betray her. She throws her arms into the air and gasps, falling onto her back with a shriek. The sound of her body hitting the floor is a dull thud.
All is quiet for a moment. A giggle escapes my lips before I can stop myself.
“Goddammit!” she yells, grimacing on the floor for a moment.
Vincent is half-standing, staring at my mother on the floor in disbelief. His hands are slightly up as if he went to go catch her.
Suddenly, a laugh bubbles out of him, from a deep place in his chest. The laugh builds in him until he’s chuckling with his whole body. My laugh builds, too, blending in with his in the most beautiful way.
Mom tries to roll over on the floor but loses her balance, falling back down again. Vincent and I really start to lose it then, laughing uproariously until we start gasping for air.
“Faith!” my mother screams from the floor. “It’s–you have to take me to the hospital, Faith! I really hurt my back. I think it’s broken. Owwwww.”
If I didn’t know that she was faking, I would feel heartless to continue laughing at her. I simply know her too well, and she is most definitely faking.
“You’re fine, Margaret,” Vincent says between chuckles. “Get up. Don’t make such a fool of yourself.”
In a moment, I brush against Vincent’s arm and feel the entire side of my arm become electrified. Vincent stops laughing and freezes in place, caught off-guard by the sudden wild-eyed stare he gives me.
His nostrils are flared, and for a moment, I think he might pick me up and carry me away.
Just like my fantasy…
He breathes in slightly, and even my mother stops moaning and groaning on the floor, her eyes fully on us now. The tension in the air is so thick, I can barely breathe.
He’s staring at my lips as he takes a shaky breath, and I think he might swoop in to kiss me—like in the movies. That imaginary bubble pops almost instantly when Vincent straightens up and suddenly turns, heading for the door.
He pauses at the entrance to our living room, breathing hard. My mom gives up on the broken back act and pushes herself into a sitting position.
“Vincent? Are you all right?” Her voice cracking slightly at the end.
“I have to go,” he says in a strained voice, and I’m too shocked to say anything.
Did I do something wrong? Did he feel electrified too?
A moment before he turns away, my mom begins moaning on the floor again. I go to help her up, and Vincent leaves.
When my mom grabs my hand, I hear the front door slam. Shame, regret, and shock wash over me all at once. My mom seems about as surprised and embarrassed as I am.
I pull her to her feet, and she wobbles a moment before staying steady. I cross my arms and fight the urge to pout like a kid.
“Well, this calls for some cabernet,” she announces, turning on her stilettos and heading to the kitchen. I roll my eyes and leave for my room, where I can try and figure out what the heck just happened.
4
Vincent
Though it pained me to leave Faith so suddenly, I couldn’t stay a moment longer. The sound of her laughter, the sight of her smile, the feeling of her slender arm against mine, it made me into a beast. The sound of my heart beating reverberated in my ears, and every nerve in my body screamed, grab her, take her, she’s yours! Blood rushed to my cock, and I feared that Faith or Margaret would notice the hard-on raging beneath my zipper.
Though I would have been okay with Faith seeing how much I wanted her…
Instead, I left. I ran away like a fucking coward—not before taking a little…souvenir, though—I’ll never go into her home again, just watch from not-so-afar.
When I reached to grab the leather jacket from the coat rack, I spotted a green and white sweater hanging half beneath it. I checked over my shoulder, making sure Margaret and Faith were not looking at me and pulled the sweater from the rack.
Before I could second-guess myself, I left. Nearly sprinting down their driveway, checking back and forth to make sure that nobody is out on the street. My breath billows into the air in a white cloud, making it clear that I am panting like a dog. I force myself to slow down as I walk the short distance between houses, clutching sweet Faith’s sweater to my chest like a talisman. My cock is still rock-hard, and my pace picks up again the closer I get to my front door.
I fumble for the keys in my pants pocket, my hand brushing against my erection as I pull the keys free. I’ve never unlocked a door faster than I do right now, with the soft, cookie-scented contraband against my chest.
Quickly, I open the front door and close it again behind me. Without even taking off my jacket, I unzip my pants and free my throbbing cock. The tip is swollen and purple, and my balls ache, begging for a release.
I should wait, do this in private, but part of me hopes Faith looks out her window and sees me fucking my hand. I want her to know what she means to me and how badly I want her.
Taking my cock into one hand, I stroke it from tip to base, at first slowly, before furiously pumping the organ, wishing it was Faith’s tight pussy wrapped around it.
With my other hand, I hold the sweater to my face. It smells of cookies, and there are clear stains of flour and butter on it. It makes it all the more perfect. There’s a slight smell of sweat and perfume; I can tell Faith wore this right against her skin.
