Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  For a minute...I swore his expression almost resembled Olga’s, right before Vinny bent her over on the floor. That same helpless plea. I don’t want this.

  “Why...why you?” I ask, and suddenly I don’t know if I’m referring to making the video or...everything. Of all the men, he was the only one who interfered with the red-haired man’s original plan.

  Lucifer grits his teeth rather than answering. In an instant, he’s cold and collected again, my angel in the flesh. With one hand, he undoes the fastenings of his pants while the other reaches into his boxers for his cock. He isn’t hard, I see when the boxers finally come down, and he’s fully bare before me.

  Even so, his size is impressive. I can’t help but wonder how large he’ll be once fully erect. His hand tightens over the shaft as if he senses my train of thought and doesn’t like one damn bit of it. He eyes the ceiling and strokes himself slowly. Then harder. Faster.

  It’s no use. He’s still not aroused despite the friction. He doesn’t want me.

  I step forward without thinking, my hand reaching out. “W-What can I do?”

  He bites out a growl when I take a step too close. It’s like approaching a caged animal, one that is mortally wounded and doesn’t give a damn whether I’m friend or foe. It’ll chew off its leg rather than admit its own weakness. For so very long I was that animal. I know the bars of that cage well. You will never convince the beast to come out on its own; you can only climb inside.

  He flinches when I reach for him again. “T-Tell me what to do—”

  “Get the hell away from me.” He continues to stroke himself and then groans when the action fails to produce any results. Those icy blue eyes settle on my cleavage. For nearly a minute he watches me until he finally crooks his finger again, beckoning me closer. “Come here.”

  I obey, my heart pounding. My throat’s dry. I don’t know why I choose to sink to my knees, just out of his reach.

  Lucifer watches me warily. Then he grounds out a sigh and inches forward. His hands fall down to his sides, and he’s at my mercy.

  She palms my cock with all the care of a snotty little socialite handling her tiara. I can’t deny the softness in her fingers. Heat stirs in my blood at her touch, something I couldn’t accomplish myself.

  I hate watching her. Her wide eyes drift up and down the shaft. She licks her lips. Then she curls her fingers around me fully and guides her hand back and forth. Damn...she studied those videos too fucking well.

  One of my hands shoots back to find the wall, and I brace my palm flat against it while tension gathers in my abdomen, shooting down my spine. She’s not like the other handfuls of women I’ve had. She takes her time. She’s slow. Careful. Her pampered, prissy hands lavish attention on every inch of my length, and the greedy fucker’s hungry for it.

  I inhale and breathe out through my teeth. I try to imagine that it’s anyone but her. Not Stacatto’s stuck-up whore. I don’t want her. I don’t want to taste her skin or bury myself between those stick-thin little thighs. I don’t want to rake my hands through her hair and hold her goddamn mouth in place while I pummel it. I don’t want...

  I flinch when her other hand settles against my hip, using it for leverage while she increases her pace. Holy...fuck. She’s too fast. Not fast enough. I glance down to find that she’s already looking up, her gaze meeting mine. I don’t find shame stretching across that pale, battered face. There’s hell in her eyes: the inferno Stacatto put her in, and the new flames that she herself is willing to set. She’s beckoning for me to join her, become swallowed by the fire.

  Espi. Espi. Espi. I chant his name like a fucking prayer to counter her. I’m doing this for him. Not because I want her. I don’t. She’s...

  A fast learner. Her mouth twitches in only the slightest clue of her hesitation. Then she parts her lips wide and leans forward to take as much of the tip of me into her mouth as she can. Her tongue cradles the underside. She bobs her head slightly, mimicking the motion she’s only seen performed by porn stars. It works, however. I stiffen. I’m thicker. Her entire body trembles as she realizes what she’s done, but it’s too late. The hell she wants to burn in so badly...I’ll give it to her.

  My entire vision goes red when I fist my hand in her hair, dragging her closer. She takes me deeper with a startled gasp, and the pathetic vibration travels all the way to my brain. My hips jerk, my cock twitching, aching to plunge into the wet heat of her mouth. Every stroke of her tongue paints my vision in slashes of red and amber.

  Clenching my jaw, I shove her away, staggering against the wall. My cock twitches angrily in protest. Desires I’ve suppressed for too fucking long flare up, unwilling to be locked in their cage again. Five years. Five years. Five years. It’s a mantra that guides me when I reach down and clench the base of my shaft in a fist before I come too soon and end this fucked-up little party.

  It’s been five years since my last roll in the hay. It’s the timespan that makes me react—not her. Not those goddamn fucking eyes or the faint glimmer in them that flares up as she falls back onto her ass, her lips parted and wet. It’s harder than I want to admit not to move forward and shove myself between them, rubbing out this searing, stupid physical reaction.

  Arno can take his deals and shove them up his ass. I won’t go through with this. I open my mouth, aiming to tell her as much... “Get...get the condoms.”

  She obeys on her hands and knees, nearly lunging across the floor to reach the box near the base of the bed. Her fingers shake as she gets the top open. She withdraws a square of foil and glances back at me.

  I thrust my hand out, but before she can move, I jerk my chin toward the box again. “There’s lube,” I grit out. A customary sample size according to the box.

  It’s a simple courtesy that I’m not sure why I grant to her. Her comfort or dignity doesn’t seem to matter to her one damn bit, but she fishes it out anyway, tucking the small packet in her other hand. I try not to react when she approaches me again, still on her fucking knees. She places the condom onto my palm, and I tear it open with my teeth. I have it on in seconds, held in place with one hand. It’s like I have to hold my fucking cock in place. It stirs while she eyes the lube in her grip.

  Slowly, she nibbles a hole in the corner of the packaging with her teeth; those pornos taught her another trick. She lathers the substance onto her fingers and then brings them to the waistband of the thong Arno gave her to wear. She hesitates, uncertainty distorting her features. Then she tugs on the elastic with one hand and slides the two fingers of the other underneath...

  “Fuck.” My head rears back, my eyes shutting as heat unfurls swiftly and centering between my legs. I’m thicker. Harder. My eyes fly open again and find her, carefully slicking the entrance of her cunt. In three unsteady steps, I’m in front of her while she scrambles to her feet. I reach out, intending to shove her back onto the bed, but she bats my hand away.

  “No.” Her hand is on my chest before anger can even flare up. The fingers tremble as she pushes me back, causing her nails to graze the skin beneath the cotton of my shirt. I stiffen, prepared to shove her off. “I...I need to be in control.”

  That’s right, a part of me remembers. This is her little game. I’m just a guest at this twisted tea party, merely meant to be manipulated into position for the best possible effect. She takes another tiny step toward me, her scent heavy on the air: blood, pain, and desperation. Then, before I even know it, I’m the one herded back onto the bed. My knees bend automatically when she flicks her wrist. Seconds before the curtain rises, Vinny Stacatto’s little whore gives me one last appraising glance.

  Then she turns to the camera—her true co-star—and it’s show time. People say that men like me can change within the blink of an eye. We can go from contained to uncontrolled with little provocation. We shed our skins eagerly to become the monsters we only pretended not to be while out in public. It’s like hitting a switch almost; it’s that fucking simple.

  Stacatto’s girl flip
s her own switch. She stands taller while her eyes hone in on the camera’s lens. She doesn’t hesitate to shed her underwear, revealing an ass stained blue, purple, and green with healing bruises. She inhales, and her entire body seems to recoil with the breath she takes.

  That pathetic little princess is gone when she turns back to me. The creature, staring out from behind a sea of black hair, is a completely different animal entirely. I can’t ignore the part of me that stiffens and howls out in welcome as she mounts the bed on her hands and knees, waiting for me to do the same. There’s a hint of recognition in the way she takes her time slinking toward me, imagining her fiancé watching every move. There’s no shame. No barely concealed self-depreciation of a porn star. She’s in control. Hell, she’s drunk on it. A part of me knows exactly what she’s feeling: the instinctive need to scratch this dark, dangerous urge that won’t be satisfied until she’s sure Stacatto is punished. I can almost hear the insistent buzz emanating from the back of her head, swelling to a hum.

  After all, it takes a wolf to know a wolf.

  He feels like glass under me when I finally straddle his broad waist—unbreakable, bulletproof, thicker-than-steel glass. It’s a fragile, terrifying game to balance myself over hard muscle and twisting sinew. His erection stabs at the air. His eyes set the room on fire. He’s calculating my every move, and it’s a good thing that the camera won’t be able to catch his expression from this angle.

  My ruse would be over before it even began.

  I try not to tremble when I reach down to place the flat of my hand against his chest while I shift my weight to bring myself closer to his hips. I can feel his heartbeat—it rails against me, fierce and brutal. For a brief, faint moment I consider scrambling away and insisting they find someone else. Anyone else.

  Lucifer is too...everything. His cock aims away from me, and I swallow hard while I try to entertain the notion that he could ever fit inside me. It will hurt. Some sick part of me even craves that pain.

  Not Vinny. He’s not Vinny, this little voice at the back of my head screams. Vincent Stacatto would never lie back and let me mount him like this. He wouldn’t merely stare while my shaking fingers reached for his cock. He wouldn’t dare me with his eyes, issuing a silent challenge to just do it. Fuck him already.

  I press my knees into the bed to find enough leverage to lift myself off him. He’s steel in my grip, and it’s almost a struggle to place the head of him against my entrance. Lube won’t be enough to ease him inside me. I know it, and it’s nearly impossible to swallow the wave of fear that washes up, threatening to pull me under...

  But I do. My eyes drift above Lucifer’s head and find the ever-watchful eye of the camera. I stare into it while I lower myself onto him, trying to force him inside me. He grunts. I gasp. There is burning tension already. He’s too big. Too much. He’s...not Vinny.

  I let that single thought drive me as I flex my hips and sink down hard. God...it burns. He’s an inferno inside of me, swelling and raging against the confines of my body. I’m consumed by the feeling. I see black; the pain is so much. Grunted sounds tear from Lucifer's throat. He strains, twitching inside of me, begging for more friction.

  My vision is a blur when my eyes open again. My head’s thrown back, my gaze on the ceiling. One of my hands is at my lips, trying to smother the sound of pain I’d made—and a sudden, terrifying realization batters me down. Vinny owns me even here. Even with another man inside me, I can’t erase the damage he’s done, the reactions he trained my body to perform instinctively.

  I can’t. I can’t...

  “Fuck.” The coarse sound yanks at me like a tether. I glance down to find Lucifer staring up at me, his dark eyes hooded. He wants me to move...on him. I can see the need in his eyes even though he tries to counter it by clenching his jaw.

  I flex my hips ever so slightly, feeling my body protest at the intrusion of his. The blue fire grows hotter. Searing. Biting my lower lip, I move again, bracing my hand against his stomach for leverage. Again.

  His pupils dilate. His hips jerk beneath me. I swivel harder, gasping out when he nudges inner parts of me, as hungry and brutal as a battering ram. With every sick, painful movement Vinny can’t touch me. I move faster, rocking an instinctive rhythm back and forth, forth and back. Up. Down. The faster I move, the better I feel. Oh God, he feels...

  The bed shifts. He’s arching up, changing the angle of pressure. I hiss between my teeth, but I don’t resist. I gasp again. Colors spot my vision. My fingers curl, snagging a fistful of his shirt, yanking him closer...and then shoving him right back down. I almost forget Vinny in the dizzying rush. Then my eyes spot the camera, capturing every moment.

  It’s like surfacing from an eternity spent under water when I rip the ring off my finger and throw it into the corner of the room. I’m drunk on the feeling. Freedom? It prickles all over my body, gathering between my legs and traveling up my stomach. I feel him everywhere, Lucifer, even though he digs his nails into the bed sheets rather than touch me.

  And I need him to. I need Vinny to see. I need to feel. I need, need, need, and for the first time in my life, I just take what I want. My hands grab his wrists, and I place the calloused fingers on my hips, my breasts. Touch me.

  He doesn’t want to. I can see the challenge blaring from his eyes. He wants this over. I need this to continue.

  “Please.” I don’t recognize the woman who calls out. Her voice is a plaintive little howl, but Lucifer’s nails graze my skin as he starts to grope, punishingly and brutally at my flesh. My hands clutch his wrists, manipulating his touch. Here. There. I want every part of me raked raw by his fingers. I want him to mark every single inch of me.

  My eyes drift shut, and my body moves of its own accord, driving him in, deeper, deeper, deeper. Harder. Faster. Harder. More. More.

  I’m not prepared for the heat that swelters. Sweat slicks my skin. He roils beneath me, too strong and heavy to fight, but he lets me stay on top. He lets me set the pace. He lets me keep control.

  And I’m drowning beneath that power.

  We fuck for Vinny. We fuck each other. We fuck, and there are no pretty words to describe it. I’m a base, primal creature hungry for only one thing. He gives it to me, holding me in place for several brutal, hungry thrusts that claw noises out from my chest. His own growls echo mine, tense and strained. They reveal the secret he didn’t want me to know—when he finally throws his head back and groans out his release I feel the truth hit me like a kick to the gut.

  He wanted this.

  It’s a bitter victory that some part of me gloats over. I let him grip me. Bruise me. Use me. Hold me up while he thrusts out the rest of his release and fills the condom.

  I’m laughing when it’s all over, and Lucifer relaxes beneath me if only for a second, his body devoid of that animalistic tension. I laugh when he shoves me away and peels off the bloody, sweaty, filthy used condom. Our desperation marks it, mine and his.

  I laugh and laugh until I don’t even notice the tears that fall down my cheeks as I lie limp and used on the mattress. I’ve never felt dirtier than I have now. I’ve never felt cleaner. I’ve never felt better. For the first time in my life, I truly feel free, if only in this moment...

  A stranger between my legs had to give me this, driving the sensation into my body like a nail.

  The devious thought makes me stop laughing. It makes me hate him—how many women experience this with him?

  But for some reason, that thought only makes me hungry for more.

  It isn’t fair.

  My head’s still separated from my body when I stand and toss the used condom onto the floor. The camera flashes a red light to let us know it’s still fucking recording. Still watching. Still waiting for us to put on a good show.

  I nearly knock it over when I jab my thumb against the button to shut it off. It trembles on its tripod, that ever-watchful eye swaying back and forth, threatening to turn Vincent’s princess’s little exploits into nothing m
ore than smashed metal and film.

  Oh, but no princess I knew of could fuck like that. She’s a little predator wrapped up in the skin of a lamb. It takes one to know one, though my disguise had been shredded long ago in favor of my true form. I wear it when I face her again. She’s slumped on the center of the mattress, her eyes swollen, chest heaving, nipples stabbing at the air, legs still parted.

  The rules of her little game were simple. We play nice for the camera. We put on a good show for her big bad fiancé. I let her ride me like a cheap circus attraction.

  But the show’s over now. It’s time for the dancing animals to be shoved back into their cages behind the stage. There’s a mess that needs to be cleaned up. Fresh tickets to sell.

  The little bitch doesn’t react when I grab her by the ankle and drag her to the edge of the bed. She watches me, a grim smile playing over her mouth like she knows the thoughts circling through my head when I sink down onto my knees and pull her legs apart, throwing one over either shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch until I seal my mouth over her cunt and shove my tongue inside her.

  She makes a sound that she didn’t learn from those porno videos, however. Her hands claw at my shoulders. Then my hair. She whines when I find her clit and graze the bundle of flesh between my teeth. Her taste floods me, more potent than any of the shit Arno has stocked in his bar.

  One hand on her waist keeps her pinned down while I taste the little bitch inside and out. She’s sweet, if it’s even fucking possible. Sweet like liquor. Sweet like heroin. She’s an addict’s kind of bitter taste—my own personal hit of dope.