Adult-FanFiction.org : Marvel 'Verse

For Hire	By : WolverMean Category: X-men Comics > Het - Male/Female Views: 1858 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Marvel characters or the Marvel Universe mentioned within this story and I'm not making any money off of it. This is strictly for fun and not profit.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
I smile when I'm angry
I cheat and I lie
I do what I have to do
To get by
But I know what is wrong
And I know what is right
And I'd die for the truth
In my secret life
- In My Secret Life by Leonard Cohen

What the hell do you think you’re doing?
Just what the ever-loving hell do you think you’re fucking doing, you stupid whore?
The words that were once said to you in anger echo through your head at the most inopportune time, causing your hips to lose their rhythm. Underneath you, Victor Creed growls and his grip on your hips tightens as he tries to get the grinding back on track.
Both of you are (mostly) clothed and on the couch with you straddling the most gorgeous—and dangerous—man you’ve ever seen in your life and despite the both of you are wearing jeans, you’d managed to get the right amount of friction going—that is, until an intro for the local news popped up, showing a video of your house burning to the ground.
“C’mon, baby,” Victor groans, bucking his hips, trying to entice you. “Don’t blue ball me.”
His erection is hard and impressive against your denim-clad groin, and normally, it would take getting driven over by a Zamboni to tear you away from his super-fine ass, but you’re about to be exposed after six years of being on the run and that kinda takes precedence over fucking Victor’s brains out—but just barely.
“Hold on,” you say, removing your hands from under his shirt. “The news in on.”
“Fuck the news,” Victor growls, grinding up into you. “Wait, no; fuck me instead.”
You smack his hands away and pull your shirt on before sliding off him, ignoring his disappointed groan. You grab the remote from the table and turn the on the volume while Victor sits up, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What the hell does a man have to do in order to get fucked in his own goddamn home nowadays?” He’s pissed, but you could give less of half a rat’s ass.
It was his fucking idea to burn your house down and his fucking idea to have a body in there that could be identified as you, but it would mean that everything about you would have to come out: your real name, your previous job, your involvement with less than honest people
Not that you’ve really moved up in the world, but beggars can’t be choosers.
He wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you to him, your back flush with his muscular chest, and nips at your ear. “Tiger, let’s go back to playin’ Victor the Buckin’ Bronco; I’m pretty sure you was close to winnin’ a real big prize.”
At that exact moment Victor pushes his groin against you again (!!!!), a video of your house turning into the 9^th dimension of hell appears, an impressive fireball mushrooming up into the sky, the bright orange glow momentarily stunning both of you.
“Holy shit on a Ritz,” Victor whistles, dropping his hands. “Lookit that fire go. What was your place made of, matchsticks?”
“Badziewie,” came Mr. Mazur’s voice from behind you, making you jump. “Vodka left behind, eh? It—um—It go kaboom! Bah, stupid! Głupek!” He slaps himself on the forehead.
“Shut up, both of you,” you snap, losing your patience. “And how long have you been standing there, Mr. Mazur?” The man opens his mouth to reply, but you cut him off. Maybe it’s best if you don’t know. “You know what, never mind; just cram it!”
Victor chuckles, but both men wisely zip their lips as another shaky cell phone video of your house fire comes up on screen. (Well, not just your house fire—Mr. Mazur’s house and the empty and abandoned houses along that side of the street. Oh, and Mr. Mazur’s cab, though he doesn’t really seem any worse for the wear.)
The news shows picture after picture of the decimated houses, the reporter droning on about how the fire chief suspects it’s faulty gas lines as they cut to the actual fire chief who reiterates what the reporter just said.
When a photo of you appears, you can’t help the gasp that rips from your chest. The anchor says your name—your real name—and that your body had been discovered among the wreckage of the house you’d been renting.
There’s a brief cover of your history—bad childhood, in and out of jail for various reasons, confirmed mutant, became a high class call girl that catered to many higher ups and bigwigs, after years of success in the trade suddenly left town and changed name for unknown reasons.
“She was always quiet,” said one of your (now former) classmates. “She was smart, but hardly ever spoke up in class. I don’t think she had many friends.”
The guy next to her spoke up. “You’d never know she was a high class hooker to look at her. I mean she was just so … ordinary.”
You knew this was going to happen, you knew it was coming, but it’s still an absolute shock to be completely exposed like this. It’s like having your skin ripped off to show your insides to everyone, making sure they get a real good look.
It hurts a little.
Okay; it hurts a lot.
You’d kept your life a secret for years maintaining a low profile, not making friends, using only cash, and working grunt jobs in exchange for that privilege. You’d been going to university under an alias and now everyone you attended classes with knows the truth about you.
Now they all think you’re dead but that also means that the man who wanted to kill you also thinks you’re dead.
Hopefully.
Strong hands start massaging your shoulders gently. “You okay, baby?” Victor’s voice is soft. “Your heart’s bumpin’ pretty fast.”
You reach up and place a hand over his and squeeze gently. “It’s just—it’s really overwhelming. I mean, where do I go from here?”
His lips are warm as he presses them in that spot you like behind your ear. “I got plans for you, tiger. Don’t you worry.”
You stiffen. “You have plans for me?”
Victor sighs, his hands falling away. “Jesus, I didn’t mean it like that—“
You whirl on him angrily. “This is my life,” you say. “I know we’re like connected or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you control me, got it? I get a say in what I do.”
His upper lip curls. “Don’t you go gettin’ all hissy with me, girl. If I remem—“
Mr. Mazur steps in between you two, earning a snarl from Victor. “No fighting!” he says firmly, like he’s chastising children. He whirls to you, pointing a finger in your face. “You! Say thanks to big man; he save your life! Save cat’s life! He save my life!” He spins to Victor. “You! She is good for you! Too good! Be nice!” He slaps a big, yellow envelope into Victor’s hand. “Here! This is for you!”
The elderly Polish man dusts his hands together and trots off towards the elevator. “You kiss, love, be happy!” The door dings open and before he steps onto it, he says, “Want me to bring vodka? My brother makes it—“
“NO!” you both yell.
Mr. Mazur boards the elevator, a pissy look on his face. “Humph,” he huffs. “Dupkami.”
“I speak Polish!” Victor shouts as the doors swish shut.
The look on Mr. Mazur’s face would’ve made you laugh, but you’re still feeling the effects of the news report. You can’t shake the idea that you’re being watched.
Victor’s penthouse (which had been recently redecorated—you have no idea why) is at the top of the tallest building in the city and practically every inch of it is coated in Stark security stuff, and you’re now the mate/girlfriend/wife/partner/life companion/plus one to any wedding invitation he’d ever receive (if he receives those, which you think he doesn’t) to one of the most ruthless and vicious killers in the world so you should feel safe.
But you don’t.
“Mazur’s right, you know,” Victor says, his hand on your upper arm.
“About his brother making the vodka in the home country? I dunno. How they hell does he get it into Canada? That stuff is more volatile than gasoline.”
His lips quirk into the sexy half-smile that makes your panties damp and he squeezes your upper arm. “Not that,” he says softly, stepping close to you. “The fact you’re too good for me.”
Victor Creed is not the kind of man who apologises. He’s the kind of guy who’d rather set your house ablaze than send you flowers or pass a dead woman’s body off as yours for a Valentine’s Day gift.
His words are a request for forgiveness and you place your head against his chest. Victor embraces you, wrapping you in his scent of wood smoke and the slightest hint of his delicious aftershave and you melt a little against his magnificent body.
“This isn’t easy for me, Victor. I mean, Christ, my whole life just got upended again and whatever’s happening between us is so raw and new and confusing … but I am thankful you did what you did, even though it was all shades of fucked up.”
“I know, baby,” he says. “This ain’t my first rodeo, so this ol’ bull’s a little jaded. An’ I am fucked up, so all my plans are gonna be like that. Just so we’re clear goin’ forward.”
You pull him closer, rubbing your cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt and breathing in his smell like you’re trying to commit it to memory. Just in case.
He’s a need, like water, food, and oxygen, although you’re pretty sure Abraham Maslow hadn’t been picturing a tall, blonde, gorgeous hunk of man meat when he was building his hierarchy of needs. Maybe he should have though, but the man probably wouldn’t have gotten anything accomplished. You feel the defined muscles of his chest under your touch and lust curls in your centre.
Victor chuckles and pushes you away gently. “Don’t start with that, tiger. We won’t get any shit done.”
He shakes the envelope and crosses to the coffee table as he tears it open. The feeling of dread intensifies as a DVD jewel case and a piece of paper slide out. The sheet is parchment stock, thick and expensive, with deckle edges.
You used to love touching it, trace the ragged edges with your fingertips, feel the weight of it in your hand. It’s truly beautiful stuff, impossibly smooth and creamy.
You take a step back.
Victor notices your reaction. “Ain’t no scent, tiger.”
You shake your head and wrap your arms around your waist. “I know who it’s from.”
You used to receive letters on that kind of paper.
Letters from him.
The items on the table feel like they were pulsing, wanting your attention, begging you to look at them. You have an idea of what the letter will say but the DVD is a complete mystery to you.
It scares you. You don’t think you’ve ever been this scared in your life—and you’ve been bumpin’ uglies with a crazy psycho hitman on the reg.
Nausea touches your stomach and you retch violently (not because of the bumpin’ uglies thing) and Victor’s suddenly beside you, putting an arm around you as he leads you to the couch. touch brings you comfort.
“C’mon, tiger,” Victor says softly, handing you the note. “Let’s do this together.”
With trembling hands, you open the folded piece of paper.

Mr. Creed;
You’re not the first to spill your seed between her legs and you won’t be the last.
I’ll be the last, right before I put a bullet between those pretty little traitorous eyes.

It was unsigned.
You chuck the letter as far away from you as you can, as if it’s burned you. Its weight carries it an impressive distance as you leap to your feet, wiping your hands on your pants. You want to go to it, tear it into a million pieces, toss it in the toilet, and shit on it before flushing, but you can’t bear the though of touching it again.
Does he know you’re still alive? Is he looking for you right now?
“I can’t,” you say quickly, hating that your voice is shaking, hating that that dickless piece of shit still has the power to scare the hell out of you. “I can’t do this, Victor.”
He rises from the couch and wraps his arms around you. “I won’t let him hurt you, baby,” he says, his lips against the top of your head. “I’ll kill him before he lays a fuckin’ finger on you.”
Victor’s words are meant to calm you, but you start shaking the second he lets you go in order to grab the case and slide the DVD into the fancy-looking television you’re pretty sure came from, like, 500 years the future.
The picture is crystal fucking clear as an image shakes itself onto the screen: it’s a bed, one of the opulent ones that only expensive hotels possess.
“Oh, god,” you whisper, covering your mouth with your hand.
You know this place, almost as intimately as the man who walks onto the screen. The second you see him, a whimper claws its way out of your throat. He had been recording this?
He’s tall and handsome, dark hair, green eyes, and sinfully long fingers. “Champagne?”
“I prefer not to drink on the job,” you say as you come into view.
You’re wearing the most expensive dress you could afford at the time, something from the Bay, and a pair of strappy black heels. You’d swept your hair into a complicated French chignon, and one of your friends had agreed to do your make-up.
Damn, you look so young.
“Madame said that this is actually your first job,” he says, pouring a glass of sweet bubbly. “It’s smart of you not to accept a drink from a stranger.” He picks up the glass and drains it, then tips it over to show that it’s empty. “See? I wouldn’t drug a beautiful girl like you in order to get what I wanted.”
You see that sarcastic smile you’re so good at as DVD You sits down to remove a shoe. “So, you pay for it instead?”
He clutches at his chest, like you’ve stabbed him. “Ouch,” he says. “Guess I deserve that. It’s like this, though: I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to chase women around. This is easier, simpler. Besides, Madame always has what I like in stock.”
He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, a tender gesture when Victor had done it, but this one seems creepy, calculated.
You remember thinking at the time how charming and good looking this man was. Fuck, were you stupid. You’re still stupid if you think he believes you’re dead.
He sees you removing your heel and raises a well-groomed eyebrow. “Eager to get started?”
DVD You smiles at him wickedly as you dangle the shoe from your fingertip. “Well, this is my first time and I’ve heard so much about you, Mr.—“
He places a finger over your lips. “Ah ah ah,” he coos. “No real names here. As far as you’re concerned, I’m Felix.”
DVD you licks his finger and murmurs, “It’s your money. I’ll call you whatever you want, Mr. Felix.”
He takes the shoe from you and tosses it over his shoulder. You hear the thunk as it hits a piece of furniture. “I guess we can always get to know each other after …”
You close your eyes as the sounds of kissing and the rustling of clothes being removed come over the speaker. A huge lump has formed in your throat and you don’t want to cry—you don’t—but as soon as you hear the moans and groans, you start sobbing.
You were just a dumb kid, trying to get money, playing a sick and twisted game you didn’t understand. You were foolish and easily manipulated, happy to be among the elite instead of the dirt poor, thrilled to be making good money for once in your life, and ecstatic that rich men wanted to buy you expensive things.
He was right; you were a stupid whore.
You open your eyes just in time to see Victor smash his fist through the TV, his fist making a gaping hole. He yanks it from the wall and hurls it to the floor, stomping on it with one foot, crushing it into little pieces. His face is twisted in fury and his claws are at full length as he grinds the TV into oblivion.
“Victor!”
His amber eyes snap up to you. His lips are curled back, showing his elongated canines. He looks bigger than he did five minutes ago and you realise what’s happening.
Victor is going feral.
It’s as intimidating as fuck.
“Go upstairs,” he snarls. You take a step towards him, but he jerks away from you. “Upstairs NOW.”
The last word is a roar that echoes throughout the penthouse, rattling the hanging lights above. You take a deep breath and move towards the staircase, fighting the urge to run.
Something inside of you tells you to walk slowly. Running would only ramp up Victor’s instincts, make him want to chase you. You didn’t want to be on the losing end of that particular race.
Halfway up the stairs, you hear more snarling and smashing, lethal claws tearing through fabric. Part of you wants to look, but the new smart part tells you to keep going, keep moving slowly out of his sight.
Don’t show fear. Don’t bring his attention to you.
There’s no door to the bedroom; the wall curves around, hiding it from the downstairs. The room is huge, taking up almost all of the space, except for the extremely lavish and embarrassingly large bathroom that’s hidden behind a sliding barn door.
It’s done up in silvers, greys, and creams, the bed low to the floor. It’s made up of a large platform that lies flat until it gently curves up, forming the headboard. A thick and gigantic mattress sits on top, like meringue on a pie.
Grey and cream bedding covers the mattress, including the fluffiest duvet you’d ever felt and sheets with a thread count so high, you’re pretty sure it’s a made up number.
Two black and grey nightstands grace either side of the bed—one bare because you’d only slept here last night for the first time ever—and the other had books scattered over, under, and around it.
A silver starburst chandelier hung over the bed, casting just enough soft light to read by and to ensure it didn’t cause glare on the floor to ceiling windows, ruining the view of the city and sky.
There was a closet you haven’t seen yet because all of the clothes you now own are in a plastic Wal*Mart bag that you’d tossed casually on the cream coloured reading chair in the corner. How Ryan had known your size, you’ll never know. And you’re pretty sure you don’t want to know.
The bathroom is nice and cool and it feels great on your hot, damp skin. You’ve never been a pretty crier, so your skin is blotchy and shiny like a peppermint candy. The water washes away your tears of sadness, fright, and disappointment, but your skin hasn’t changed and you have nothing to soothe it or to cover it with.
Ryan and Mr. Mazur had picked up only the bare essentials last nigh: food, litter, and a box for Bob and Doug McKenzie, a few snacks to tide everyone over until it was safe to make tracks, and a few pieces for you to wear so you weren’t flashing your goods.
No make up, no shampoo and conditioner, nothing.
Victor had graciously let you use his toiletries this morning, which is what led to the two of you grinding on the couch like horny teenagers. He had enjoyed that you smelled like him, thought it was sexy.
You cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, running your hand over the sinfully soft duvet cover. Last night had been one of the best sleeps of your life and you’re sure it was because he had been close to you, the both of you touching each other even in sleep.
It was frustrating because you didn’t quite understand what was going on. He wasn’t being particularly Bill Nye the Science Guy about it, explaining this whole “mate” dealie with common household goods and shit.
This whole damn thing with him—what the hell even was it? Was it some sort of spell or …
Be still.
This new voice of yours isn’t fucking around. Victor appears at the entrance and you keep your body relaxed, no fear, no apprehension. His presence seems larger than life; it fills the entire bedroom, your entire body, your entire world. The bite mark on your neck tingles with anticipation.
Victor is magnificent, his whole body poised, held in a state of graceful readiness as he looks around the room. A few seconds of silence pass before you hear him start scenting the air.
When his beautiful amber eyes fall on you—pupils blown wide—you’re electrified, a blast of pure energy detonating in your chest. It causes you to gasp and he tilts his head to one side, studying you like you’re a bird on the other side of the window.
Victor comes towards you slowly, his muscles bunching and flexing adroitly with each carefully calculated step. It’s almost like a dance, each move so intricate, so subtle.
It’s breathtaking.
And so fucking hot.
Good. Be still.
Victor stops when he stands before you. He’s a big man—bigger than normal—but looking up at him from a sitting position makes him look like a giant and not the friendly one with the rooster and the giraffe.
You say nothing and stay motionless as he sinks to his knees, wedging himself between your legs.
He lowers his nose to the crown of you head and inhales deeply, letting out a pleased growl. Victor smells your face, your mouth, and gently pushes your hair aside so he can reach the mark on your neck. His mark; the one he claimed you with.
“Mate,” he rasps, his lips caressing the soft spot just under your ear.
You shudder as his barbed tongue scrapes over the bite, bolts of pleasure shooting to your groin. Victor clamps his hands around your upper arms carefully before he licks it again and again, until you’re panting with want.
“Mine.” His voice is hoarse as if it’s difficult for him to form words, probably because he’s teetering on the edge between man and beast.
Victor leans back on his heels, studying your face, like he’s committing it to memory. His nose twitches and you know he can smell your desire for him but he doesn’t make a move.
He’s waiting for you.
Touch.
You reach out and caress his cheek gently. Purring softly, he turns into it like a cat.
Kiss.
You claim his mouth hungrily, opening for him, your tongue stroking one of his sharp canines. He lets out a low moan as you do the same to the other.
Victor’s need for you is palpable. He’s trembling under your touch, gasping and moaning and eager. You need to feel him against you, skin to skin.
He offers no resistance as you pull his shirt off, even raising his arms in order to assist you. Your hands are immediately on his chest, wondering at the softness of his hair and the sheer strength you can feel under the flesh. It’s so incredibly sexy and it’s getting harder for you to control yourself.
“Victor,” you whisper, looking up into his eyes.
He growls as he reaches for the bottom of your shirt. It rips easily under his grip and you shrug it off. The second you’re exposed, his face is between your breasts as he eases you down flat on the mattress, nipping and kissing the skin there.
Your bra’s suddenly gone and Victor’s kissing and licking your nipples, drawing a sharp cry form you. His barbed tongue is a marvel; it should chafe your tender and sensitive skin, but it doesn’t. The rough texture sends a pleasure through you that you didn’t think was possible.
He nips his way down your body, that amazing tongue swirling in around your belly button before continuing lower. Your jeans and panties are shredded and you couldn’t give less of a shit.
Wal*Mart clothes are cheap and flimsy anyway. Bring back Zellers.
Victor’s hands slide up your thighs, parting your legs. You let him. In the few times you’ve been together, he’s never gone down on you and you are so goddamn excited. You practically yelp when you feel his hot breath on your skin and you’re so ready for him, so desperate for him.
“Please,” you moan, lifting your hips slightly.
He growls and yanks you towards his mouth. You’re about to explode and you almost do as his tongue strokes your clit once, the barbs grazing the hypersensitive flesh.
It feels goddamn fucking incredible.
“Shit,” you gasp, grabbing a handful of his soft blonde hair.
He circles your nub a few times before licking again and you let fly with another expletive as you hold Victor’s hair tightly, your other hand fisting the duvet. When the purring begins, you almost go fucking crazy as the vibrations resonate up and down your body, hardening your nipples and causing goosebumps to pop up on your skin.
You can’t help but shudder as his claws prick the insides of your thighs as he pushes them open wider, pressing his face tighter against your dripping pussy, his tongue pushing deeper.
“Oh, god …”
You’re grinding against him now, wanting and needing that special friction, loving the way his blonde muttonchops tickle you. Victor’s purr intensifies and it’s too much, it’s too perfect and you can’t keep it inside any longer. It has to come out; it has to be free …
“Fuck!”
You pulse your hips twice more before you’re overwhelmed, throwing your head back as you wail your euphoria to the ceiling, wetness flowing from you, Victor’s tongue eagerly lapping at it, getting as much of it as he can.
He gently works you through the last of your orgasm, kissing your thighs and lower stomach, nibbling at your bellybutton again. You let go of his hair and practically ooze into the mattress as you relax, panting for air like you’ve just completed the Canada Fitness Test and knew you’d only earned a participation certificate—which you’re totally fine with.
You barely get time to catch your breath before you’re flipped onto your stomach and you feel Victor’s body over yours. He’s on his hands and knees above you, his nose touching the back of your neck as he inhales deeply. His erection is pressing into the small of your back and you whimper, arching your back slightly so it skates down.
Victor growls lustily and his hands are under your hips, nails piercing your skin as he lifts you so your ass is in the air. One large hand presses between your shoulder blades, telling you to keep your torso down against the mattress.
His finger dips into your pussy to check and finds you still soaking. You suddenly feel the tip of his cock against your opening and you groan, thrusting yourself back. You want him.
“No.” Victor snarls, his grip tightening on your hips. His voice is bestial, rough and hoarse.
The air is thick with what has to be animal pheromones and they seemed to have burrowed deep inside of you. You feel unhinged, almost crazy, and you can’t help but wonder if Victor—in his feral state—is unlocking something deep inside of you.
You’re keening, your fingers digging into the bedding. The need to have him inside of you has passed more than sheer lust or desire. It’s a deep, concentrated necessity; you feel as if you’ll die if he doesn’t take you right now.
Almost as if he was reading your thoughts, Victor enters you, sheathing his cock in one quick thrust.
“Aaaah!”
He’s so impossibly big. Your pussy aches from the sheer size of it, the burn beginning to build. You know it’ll pass, that it’ll turn into ecstasy, but right now, it hurts; but like John Cougar Mellencamp sang, it’s hurts so fucking good.
The switch flips and you groan as you’re filled to the top with bliss. Victor begins a slow, easy rhythm, leaning over you as he pushes into your slick and tight insides.
“Mine,” he purrs, his hips starting to snap a little more forcefully. You moan, content to be moved by his thrusts as he licks the mark on your neck, causing you to cry out.
Victor leans back and his hands are on your hips again, keeping you still as he plunges in into you vigorously, driving himself deep, his heavy balls practically slapping against your clit.
You start making incoherent noises, grunts and mewls that spur Victor on until you’re screaming underneath him, hands fisting the duvet fiercely. It seems like it’s your only lifeline, the only thing that’s keeping you from soaring into the void of ecstasy.
Victor’s growls and his dick are stroking you in all the right places and your knees begin to tremble. You don’t have much left. His hand is suddenly in your hair, yanking your head back. He’s knelt up, bent over you, still pistoning into your sweet heat, his mouth is next to your ear and he’s snarling, the sound of it making your pussy tighten.
You want to tell him you’re going to come, but you can’t form the words. Instead, you howl as you surrender to him, your vision going white for a few seconds as you detonate.
Victor slams into you. “Mine,” he growls into your ear. “MINE.”
He arches back, roaring as he comes, his hot seed running down the insides of your thighs, dripping onto the duvet. A few more thrusts and then he’s pushing you down so you’re both flush on the bed, Victor half on top of you.
He’s still inside of you and you feel his cock twitch. It feels nice and you sigh, content. The both of you stay like this for a few moments, catching your breath, until he pulls out of you and rolls to his side.
You look at his face and see no trace of the animal that had been here earlier. His amber eyes are wide with concern. A smile comes to your lips but he doesn’t smile back. Instead, his hand comes up and touches your cheek gently.
“Didn’t hurt ya, did I, tiger?” Victor asks gruffly.
You move so that you’re facing him and run a finger along his lower lip. “You’d never hurt me,” you respond softly.
He huffs and reaches out to pull you close. “I don’t got much control when I’m like that, when the beast takes over.”
“What happened?” you ask, smoothing a hand down his chest. “Was it … the video?”
Victor brushes his mouth against your forehead. “You’re my mate. Seein’ you like that with another man, it made me nuts. My restraint ain’t so good when it come to that shit. Lost my mind; gave over to the beast,” He runs his eyes down your body. “You sure you ain’t hurt?”
You sit up suddenly and he follows you, alarmed. “You’re not—upset about that, are you?” A lump forms in your throat. “I didn’t kn—know he was filming us. I—“
Tears threaten to fall. Victor grabs you and pulls you against his chest. You sigh and lean into him as he rubs a hand up and down your back.
“I said it before, tiger: it ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. You was barely more than a kid an’ you made shitty decisions. We’ve all been there. Alls I know is that I don’t give a shit about anythin’ in your past; I just want you with me.”
You stifle a sob because you know that he’s a typical man when it comes to a crying woman and you really want to prolong this moment, these few minutes of peace and acceptance between you.
“An’ you—you ain’t afraid of the beast?” he asks gently.
You pull back, look directly into his eyes, and take his chin between your thumb and forefinger. “Victor or beast, both of you are mine, got it?”
He finally smiles and lowers his mouth to yours. He’s delicious, your taste lingering on his tongue. You whine and push closer to him, palming the back of his neck, wanting more. He gives it to you, his purr melodic and beautiful as you drink from his mouth.
After a minute, he untangles you with a chuckle. “Gotta stop this, tiger,” he says to your pouting face. “We got some decisions to make. Here; I got somethin’ for ya.”
Victor reaches to his nightstand and pulls out another large yellow envelope and smiles as you recoil. “It ain’t like that. This is a good one. Open it.”
He plops it down in front of you just as his cell phone chimes. He rises to get it, answering without hesitation when he sees who’s calling. Victor tosses a wink over his shoulder at you as he moves towards the stairs, still deliciously naked. When he’s done, maybe you’ll see if he wants to take another ride to Sexville.
Once he’s out of sight, you cautiously open the envelope and immediately upend it, closing your eyes as the contents fall to the bed. You dance your fingers over every item; none of it feels like a DVD case, but you there is paper; not the facny kind, though.
You open your eyes and your hand flies up to cover your gasp.
In front of you lies your new life: birth certificate, passport, drivers’ license, social insurance number, everything you’re going to need to begin again.
And thanks to Victor Creed, you’re going to do it right this time.
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