by Celia Crown
I push back the urge to beat them senseless, and I aim the gun at the brother’s head first. The shot is silent as the bullet goes through his skull; he’s dead with his sister’s piercing scream echoing in the room.
I do not feel much satisfied with his death as he’s merely a means to an end of this partnership. Also, it’s for him to not say anything when I kill his sister.
Tapping the barrel of the gun towards her forehead, I watch her tears run down her cheeks as she sobs disgustingly.
“Do not waste your tears, pig,” I snap coldly, “You will not change my mind.”
Nothing can quench this fire for revenge. I will only feel better once I have removed this threat to Malia.
The killing part is my favorite, but I do not have the patience to play with them to bring out their greatest fear. I have to get back to Malia and care for her; she needs me to tell her that everything will be alright.
One trigger and one bullet lands at the same spot of her forehead as it did with her brother. Her limp body falls to the ground and blood seeps from her wound; the hideous pair of eyes gazing emptily at me as I pass the gun to my butler.
He gets started on disassembling the gun, wiping it down, and dissolving the weapon with an acid that is known in the black market to get rid of firearms.
My guards are gloved up and suited in protective gears as they kneel down with saws in their hands to dismember the bodies for easy disposal method. I prefer melting everything to prevent DNA and trace evidence.
This is the secret that Malia cannot know.
I’m more than a businessman. I am a killer that has no remorse for the bodies that I have murdered.
I watch them use the saws on the bones from a distance to not get blood on me; the distinctive sound of muscles separating from tissues as they get submerged into acidic chemicals is enough to tell me that it is done, and I do not need to be here any longer.
My butler will deal with the rest, and it will be a simple cellar that I have turned in an office for the sake of appearances when others ask me what I do in my office.
Taking care of business is the correct answer.
I go to another room to change my clothes and hop into a shower to get rid of the blood that might have splattered on me. Malia has eyes that pickup details, but she misses a lot of them. I do not wish for her to spot a drop of blood on me as she knows how clean I like to keep myself, professionally and personally.
Reputation is everything.
Putting on a simple red shirt and black pants, I step out of the room and into a deep section of the manor where no one has access.
I open the door with an iris scanner, fingerprints, and a voice recognition software. This room is the most protected because all of my most prized wine is here under the best conditions. It’s supposed to be built to withstand earthquakes and tornadoes, but I have to be realistic that earthquakes can destroy them if the shaking is strong.
I walk down the aisle where my wine bottles are all locked in individual cases; they get older and older until I get to the middle section where the bottle of wine that Malia had thought she broke is sitting.
Every professional wine collector would tell you that they will never display their old wine in uncontrollable conditions; privacy and security are the biggest concerns when it comes to old wine that has been aged through time and through the barrel of wood that cannot be reproduced anymore.
Naïve little Malia thought she had destroyed a bottle of expensive wine, but it was only a simple duplicate that I put at the front. Those who do not understand wine culture will be amazed at the year, but enthusiasts and I will share a laugh over a drink about the tactic that I used to lure in foolish idiots.
I take the bottle of wine from the case and bring it to my eyes; the dark glass can’t display what is inside, but the sound of liquid hits my ears. I cannot wait to open this and feed it to Malia; she will taste the wine that she thought she broke while thinking this is just another wine.
I do not care that she isn’t educated in wine nor have much life experience to have deep conversations with me. I just want her to look at me with amazement in her eyes because I will be her villain disguised as a hero.
A bastard inside and out, I am proud to be one because it is who I am.
I leave the secured room and go up to the stairs that will lead me to my room where I have a previously opened bottle of wine that I had indulged in the night before.
It wasn’t the best, but it was rich in depth.
I nod at the guard to move away from the door; he leaves down the hall, and I watch him go before I deem that the coast is clear. I open the door to see Malia’s little body in the middle of my massive bed; she is a tiny little thing while she is taken by the silkiness of my cover.
A childish wonder is bright on her face while she happily plops her face down and shakes her ass in the air.
My cock jerks and I breathe out a curse under my breath as not to startle her, but she is spurred to see me with a bottle of wine in my hand.
Her hesitation is clear on her face when she crawls over to the edge; I put a hand up to stop her from getting down. Then I flick my wrist to signal her to get back into the middle of the bed while I go to the counter where I have a bar to put my wine in.
The wine glasses clink together as I take one out of its place.
I go back to the bed and take a seat close to her, our thighs touching as she kneels with curiosity glowing in her eyes.
“What’s that?” she points at the bottle.
“It’s wine, my love,” I say with a chuckle when she blushes.
“I know that!” she pouts, “It’s just that it looks familiar.”
“Does it?” I test ambiguously as her eyes squint at the label.
She shrugs, “Sorry, every bottle looks the same after a while.”
“I understand, my love,” I say.
I am not offended at her disregard of the importance of labels on the wine and their unique characteristics, but Malia can never make me angry no matter what she does.
It’s that charming little thing in her eyes that does not allow the usual sadism to go too hard on her.
“I want you to try it,” I offer as I give her the glass.
Her small fingers curl around the handle, and she looks at me with her big, brown eyes, “But it’s really old.”
If the age on the label is the only thing she learned from a day of teaching her the schematics and traditions of winemaking, then I cannot be angry at her. I do not even feel offended that I have taken the time to break down the complication for her; it was all out of the goodness of my heart.
I was willing to do anything to spend time with her.
“Yes, and I want you to try it.”
When she opens her mouth to argue, I interrupt her with a smile. “I have worked hard on this.”
That does it. Her lips seal tight, and she is a good girl who will not let my efforts go to waste, but my ulterior motive grows a little too strong when I hastily snap the seal of the wine bottle by holding the neck of it.
The seal is off, but I still have the plug to deal with. It pops off with a twist from a corkscrew that I have taken with me to the bed. I set the sharp instrument away from Malia and onto the nightstand where my Rolex is laying.
I do need to find the time to bring up the habit of putting away expensive watches, but they are materialistic things for an appearance that I do not care much for.
However, my life needs to be neat and simple. A hectic room is not what I want to see the first thing in the morning.
A messy-haired and adorably-confused Malia was a sight when she woke up in my arms after the rooftop dinner date.
“Try it,” I say, urging her to take the glass to her pouty lips.
The swirl of rich colors between deep purple and blood-red is gorgeous, and there’s a faint smell of the wood that was used to age the wine infused with the perfectly harvested grapes.
My mouth waters slightly
at the scent as Malia hesitantly takes a small sip. She cringes while licking her lips; Malia shakes her red hair and hands the glass back to me.
“Not good?” I ask while taking the wine into my mouth.
Bitterness fills my tongue, but my taste buds are trained to taste every distinctive step of the making process. I am not going to let my mind dive into the depth of the entire sip as I push back the glass to her.
I can access my memories later to criticize it later, and I have this entire bottle of wine to use as sampling.
“My love, you must indulge in the bitterness to enjoy it.”
She whines, “I can’t enjoy it when it’s so bitter.”
“Trust me,” I state with a firmer tone so that she cannot deny my command.
She should not trust me. Animal behavior demands self-preservation, but she is blindly trusting me to take another big gulp.
She wrinkles her nose and shudders, and I fill the glass with more wine while she sputters that she can’t drink that much.
“I never drink alcohol,” she comments with a sheepish smile. “I think I’ll be a really weird drunk, and you don’t want to see that.”
“How interesting,” I muse with a smile.
“No, not interesting at all,” she shakes her head in denial.
I am very interested in how she behaves when she’s drunk. I have seen many drunk guests in fundraisers before; all of them are aggressive and obnoxiously entitled.
As I feed her the wine, she takes it down her throat like a good girl with no more protests knowing that I will not be listening.
By the third glass, the alcohol has taken effect on her small body. Every person has their level of tolerance, and Malia’s is lower than the average. It is usually based on a person’s weight and history of drinking, but Malia doesn’t have a long history of drinking, and she has a smaller frame.
I take the glass away when she sways back onto the bed with a whine; her red hair bleeds into the white pillows and body prone to heat as she tugs on her shirt.
“Hot…” she murmurs as her stomach is exposed to the room.
My eyes focus on the patch of skin; the softness calls for me as I graze my fingers on her quivering stomach.
“Malia, my love,” I growl deeply, kneeling over her as the sun starts to paint my room orange and red with yellow as it's under shade.
“Stay with me.”
I wasn’t asking, but she answers with a nod anyway.
I figure that I can take this chance to wring out any questions that I have and she will answer truthfully with no inhibition stopping her.
Alcohol is a truth serum.
Many relationships are ruined because of it, but it is their fault for hiding secrets from their significant others.
“Do you love me?” I ask, and I look into those hazy brown eyes.
She’s unfocused when she answers, “Yeah, love… love you.”
This connection between us is not unpretentious infatuation; it runs deeper than anything I have ever felt, and it does not frighten me to not understand it.
Now that she has admitted that she loves me, I do not see any reason to hold back my intentions any longer. Though it is ideal to tell her that when she is sober and ready to receive all of my affection like the queen that she is.
“It’s hot…” she slurs, tugging on her pants with a teary sob when frustration catches up to her as she can’t get them off.
Her strength is weak, to begin with, and with alcohol running through her blood, she is unable to do anything other than laying there.
“It’s alright, my love. Allow me to help you.”
I am a despicable man. Taking advantage of a sweet girl who trusts me, I am a very bad man with more than vile intentions that borderlines sinister.
I tug her pants down. I am a bit impatient as I take her panties along. The wet patch at the center calls for me to sniff it, and I do bring the fabric to my nose and inhale as if my life depended on it.
“Fuck,” I hiss as my cock pulses thickly.
It’s sweet, feminine, and of Malia.
Throwing them to the side, I part her legs, and they fall limply to the side. Her pussy parts like a flower opening for me; it’s pink, small, and soaking wet. That tight, little hole hasn’t been used before, but I will not be breaching that tightness today.
It’s for my greedy cock only.
I drop on the bed and take her thighs over my shoulders; she moans softly when my breath hits her sensitive cunt.
Pressing my nose to her clit and breathing in her scent, the wetness nudges my nose as I’m drunk off of her scent. I haven’t even gotten to tasting just yet, and I am near the need to cum in my pants.
Parting her folds, I find her clit with my tongue and the initial burst of sweetness makes me groan against her pussy.
She moans loudly; her voice is wet and small when she calls for my name. She wants me to rescue her, but I am not the hero because I am a beast that will devour her pretty, little cunt.
Sucking her hard clit, I spread her pussy for better access, and her scent becomes pungent with a sweetness that mingles with rich femininity.
“Kace,” she whimpers, the sound is delicate and shattered with the sleep in her voice.
My cock is thick and heavy against the bed, rolling to get the sweet relief that I should be getting by fucking her.
“I can,” I sneer with a smile, paper-thin control burning with the flame in my vein.
“Yes, I can,” I repeat with more determination, “I love you, my love. So fucking much.”
I love her so much, too much to do something that will destroy what we have if I am not careful. Taking her virginity in her drunken state is a step that is too low, and I even thought about taking it, but I cannot.
My love for her will not yield to the demand that my cock needs to breed her tiny cunt.
She won’t be able to leave me then.
My breath is fast and erratic; this incapability to control myself does not sit well with me. I am a man that pulls strings, and I will be pulling hers as I lick her cunt with vigor.
Circling around the twitching hole, I keep thinking that it would be heaven if I just am the bastard of a man that I am when I execute people with ease.
No, no, absolutely not.
My Malia deserves to feel every inch of my fat cock taking her virginity and feel the thick cum breeding her fertile cunt.
I want to pull away as I am not sure if I trust myself to be able to go through the promise of leaving her virgin cunt intact today.
She gasps, mewls my name with a throaty cry.
I don’t pull away. I devour her cunt with my tongue, licking and sucking on her little clit. My fingers take over on her clit, rubbing and pinching that hard nub with her pussy juice coating the digits.
My tongue runs down her slit, tasting and drinking up all her sweetness when she arches her back.
Malia is a virgin, and that is more than true when her orgasm rolls through her body with her squirming and bunching up the cover under her. The quivering and shaking she is feeling does not stop me from catching all her release with my tongue and greedily running my rough tongue against her delicate folds.
“Kace…” she cries.
The urge to look at her takes over, and her tears clinging to the edge of her closed eyes have me doubling over with a groan.
She’s crying, either in pleasure or sensitivity when I circle her clit with my calloused finger, but Malia rocks her hips up to chase for her.
I take my cock out, stroking the thickness and pressing the tip to her small hole. The inside of my cheek aches and a metallic taste hit my tongue with her sweetness as I have bitten too hard to contain myself; my pain will suffice the urge to breach her pussy.
Her silken folds cradle my head, sucking and hot around it as I try to tell myself that it is not what Malia would want.
She wouldn’t want her virginity to be taken by a man more than twice her age, three times bigger, and han
ds coated in criminality.
“Just the tip,” I convince myself as I push just a bit.
The head pops through her virgin hole, and her muscles coil around the intrusion. The air gets knocked out of me when I am not prepared for the active tightness and silken hotness.
My balls become tight and firm when I stroke the shaft; cum spurts out as my cock thickens in my hand. I jerk quicker, bringing every fertile drop into her virgin pussy and marking her with possessiveness.
“I love you.”
It’s a phrase that I keep repeating when I kiss her as her pussy pulses for more of my cum.
“Mine. You’re mine, my love, and I will kill to keep you.”
Chapter Nine
Malia
I am naked.
Naked as the day I was born under the silkiest cover slipping down my shoulders as I woke up disheveled.
That isn’t the biggest problem. I have known Katerina to sometimes takes off her clothes when she is having a particularly difficult sleep so it could be that she rubbed off on me.
What my main concern is that I can’t remember anything from last night after being taken into Kace’s room.
Saying it makes me blush.
Another thing is that I’m wet between my legs and when I reach down to touch what it is, I find that it’s warm and thick. Looking at my hand from it comes up, I rub the viscous fluid between my fingers and cringe.
My body should not be producing something this thick and this white too. I should go check with a doctor since there is so much of it and it’s leaking out of me.
So many questions and not a single source for an answer.
There is a problem with the aching in my body.
Wow, the tumble down the stairs made me more sore than I anticipated. Every inch of my body is screaming for me to walk awkwardly, so nothing touches anything in my body, and I hope Kace doesn’t come into his room and sees a wild zoo animal out of her cage.
Speaking of him, I don’t see him anywhere in the room, and I am glad that this is not witnessed.
As I search for my clothes that I had flung off my body, I keep thinking that I must have finessed a way to unhook my bra because that contraption is meant to lock in place.
