Read Dark Desires: Sold Online
Authors: D. Cristiana
Tags: #Erotica, #assassin, #dark love story, #dark erotica, #unconventional love story
Published by DelSin Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from DelSin Publishing, LLC. DelSin Publishing, LLC and the author assume no liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Credit: Pavel Volkov
Cover Design: CGM Web Designs
Table of Contents
“Have you missed me?”
Marcus’ teeth gleamed like bone in the liquid dark place between her thighs. His predator smile told her she was about to be devoured. While Marguerite still had the ability to think coherently, she returned the question back to him with a twist.
“Have you missed me while decreasing the world’s population?”
“I do my part rather well. You would know that if you watched the news. Or read the newspapers. Your phone and laptop get a signal.”
“And I still don’t care enough to do so.” She rested comfortably on her elbows, enjoying the erotic view. “Answer my question.”
Marcus traced her bare slit with the tip of his tongue. “You’re tucked away somewhere between one package delivery and another.” He gripped her thighs with smooth, elegant hands before lowering his head.
Marguerite flung her arms out and fell back against the rumpled sheets. Her delighted giggles bled into soft moans.
“Don’t tease,” she panted. “Been. . .three months. . .since I saw you last!”
Marcus turned his head sideways. He spread her pussy open with surgical precision, knowing exactly how much pressure his fingers needed to apply. His full lips closed hard over her clit. Marcus sucked her, slurping loudly before swishing his tongue.
Marguerite rotated her hips, ravenous to prolong the drugging sensations of Marcus’ dirty, intimate kiss even while eager to end it in a wailing loss of dignity.
Contradictory fucking. Contradictory living. Fucking living.
Marcus released her with a lewd smack. He slipped two fingers inside of her and crooked them before sliding both out. Marguerite felt how wet she was and imagined the long, slim digits glistening as a gorgeous result. Marcus placed his marvelous fingers on her clit and rubbed them from side-to-side very quickly. Just as she shuddered on the precipice, Marcus replaced his fingers with his lips and suckled her gently.
Marguerite’s spine came up off the bed in a violent arch. She cried out, a tormented exuberance bursting from her throat. She loved dying this way. It was absolutely worth living her life of pampered exile if only to have Marcus White make her come on his talented mouth.
He crawled up, sliding his hands over her pale snow flesh. Marcus waited until she opened her eyes. His lips curled at the damp edges, unrestrained from the mimicry of somber intent.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Two years prior
“What would you do if you had complete freedom?”
He asked the question in the dubious safety of manufactured shadows and pleather seating.
Marguerite Grey stirred her drink, considering the wisdom of sharing precious confidences in tawdry environments—even with someone whose given name contained an odd, serendipitous balance with hers.
That someone being a curious stranger named Marcus White but
could be anyone, really, because Marguerite was going to answer
honestly. Even so, the plastic straw made a wonderful distraction in their exposed confessional booth.
“I would go away.”
“Go where?” The corner of his mouth crept up in a gorgeous imitation smile. She wished hers was half as pretty.
“Really? Why?” He propped his chin on his hand, poison-green gaze urging her to taste his dangerous candy.
“Because I want to disappear from all this.” Marguerite waved a hand above her head as if to swat away the harsh truth buzzing about continuously. Her words spilled out in a disgusted influx. “I’m tired of the world. I’m tired of seeing people and having to pretend I can stand to be in their presence for more than a moment. I don’t fit with the world or maybe the world doesn’t fit with me. Either way I don’t give a shit. I’m just done. Put me on a mountain somewhere alone and I’d be happy.”
Marguerite waited for him to argue her point of view. She expected him to give her the pat reply of “Well, I’m sure you’ll feel better soon!” or “Have you thought about seeing a therapist?” or any of a thousand different answers that all shared the same bullshit flavor.
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Absolutely.” He leaned back from the table. The overhead lighting made strange patterns across his pale blue dress shirt. “Tell me more.”
“Tell you what?” He surprised her. It was something that didn’t happen often. She relaxed the restraint on her true self.
“Where would you go? How would you live? Who would you miss?”
“I just told you. Alone. No one.”
Marguerite’s impatience with vital words and the cultural significance of adding more when only a handful sufficed usually ended badly. She expected him to interpret her abbreviated reply as impatience with him. Scowls, distracted farewells, and clumsy retreats usually came next.
How are you going to extricate yourself from the crazy person, Mr. White?
She took another sip of her vodka, amusingly wrapped up in the name of “Johnny Bravo.” Marguerite didn’t mind this particular excess of words because she enjoyed the cartoon.
“What about a convent?”
Marguerite snorted. “Fuck a convent. I don’t want to serve God nor am I looking to be celibate. I just want to be left alone on my moutain.”
“Solitary yet not celibate. Interesting.”
She savored Marcus’ answer. Taking a closer look at him, Marguerite wondered at the odds of finding the most interesting person in the room. She made a mental rundown—average height, slim build, fine-boned features, long lashes, full mouth, brown hair, ridiculously beautiful green eyes—and found she liked what she saw very much.
In fact, the more Marguerite studied Marcus the more she wondered how she had overlooked his unusual male beauty.
How did he appear so normal? So indistinguishable with a face like that?
“So what’s the happy ending for you, Marguerite?”
“A silent place.”
The feminine scream eclipsed the carnal soundtrack of flesh slapping wetly, groans, and the headboard thumping rhythmically against the log wall.
Marcus draped himself over her back. His proud whisper seared the damp flesh across her neck. “That good, huh?”
Marguerite reached up and grabbed the back of his head. Her fingers twisted into his dark brown hair. “Don’t sound so smug. I can’t help coming so much. This is just what happens when you’re gone for this long.”
“Is that a complaint?” He nipped her shoulder while squeezing her breasts.
“As if I’d tell you.” Marguerite left one hand high on the carved headboard and let the other slide between her widespread legs. She traced the edges of her open slit, letting her fingertips tickle the base of his deeply entrenched cock.
He chuckled. Marcus’ merriment was a contagious thing. He kissed her neck one more time before lifting himself off of Marguerite. Grabbing her hips, Marcus drew her back against him. Measured strokes sliced her in a way most divine. Her laughter broke off piece by jagged piece.
“Keep playing with yourself, baby. I like knowing how hungry you are for this.”
Marguerite twisted against him, hand clenched against herself. She snapped her hips hard, trying to get as much of Marcus into her as she could.
I’ll swallow him whole, strip him clean, and fuck him until I can live with myself again.
Looking over her shoulder, Marguerite watched him pound into her, needing to feel this one connection in a big, wide, empty world. Face taut with pleasured concentration, mouth relaxed, and muscles bunched from exertion, Marcus made another pretty picture to frame in the low hum canvas of her mind.
His thumb pressed against the coy rosette just a few inches north. Marguerite bucked. She whimpered, suddenly greedy for more.
Fuck me till I can’t walk. Fuck me till I beg you to stop. Then fuck me some more.
Marcus’ eerie gaze collided with hers. He smirked, knowing without words exactly what she was thinking. Deliberately, he sucked his thumb and forefinger into his mouth. He kept his steady, toe-curling pace, making sure to stretch Marguerite wide for a different kind of invasion.
Her mind coiled around the synchronicity of a recovering nihilist and a conscience-deficit assassin doing something as spiritual as making love.
Two years prior
“Where am I?” Marguerite winced and dropped her head into her hands. Everything was too much, sharp edges cut into darkness and indistinguishable from one another. The light from the small tableside lamp too bright, the metal chair too hard, the table too cold, the air too iron.
“An airplane hangar. Here, drink this. It’s not drugged. I swear. Look, the seal is still on.” Marcus waited while she took the water bottle from him, uncapped it, peered cautiously at the benign liquid, and took a swig. “You’ll feel less groggy very soon.”
“What time is it?”
“Did we have sex?”
Still dressed in the same black suit and sky-colored dress shirt sans tie of before, Marcus answered her with a mischievous smile. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
“Did I get drunk?”
“Drunk? No, not drunk.” He apparently enjoyed their Q&A session if his long, drawn out answers were any indication. Marcus pulled out a chair opposite from her, considerate of her throbbing skull since he lifted it so the legs wouldn’t scrape the concrete.
“I don’t remember leaving the bar.”
He nodded. “And here we are.”
Marguerite’s scowl should’ve dropped him dead. “Here being an airplane hangar.”
She carefully closed the cap on her drink and placed it on the dingy table. Marguerite lifted her head and straightened her back. “No, not exactly. Why can’t I remember getting here? Why am I here? What do you want?”
“Interesting questions usually receive the same kind of answers. I found that out two nights ago with you, Marguerite. You ingested chloral hydrate. Only a little, itty, bitty bit.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger together in front of one squinting eye.
She understood him in reverse. “You drugged me.” She waited for her body to twist itself in fear knots. Nothing happened. “Am I still drugged?”
“No. You’ve been out for a while. Not the drugs. I think you needed the sleep.”
Marguerite noted his speech patterns resembled hers. She blew out a long breath. “Interesting.”
His beaming smile started a revolution in her colorless life. “I’ve gone insane.” She chortled loudly before cupping her head.
Marcus leaned over the table and pushed the bottle towards her. “Take another drink. It’ll help flush the last bit out. Good girl.” His gentle grin took a suicide dive. Marcus took on a stranger’s appearance.
What am I talking about? He’s always been a stranger.
“I’m going to ask you a very serious series of questions, Marguerite. I want a hundred percent honesty. Don’t lie to me, flatter me, or tell me what you think I want to hear.”
Her back twitched as if he traced her spine with a killing sharp knife. “I’m never in a flattering mood, Marcus. That is your name, right?”
He dipped his head. “I want to buy your time.”
Marguerite blinked slowly. She processed the words. Finally her stomach assumed the knotted position. “I’m not a prostitute. Did I give you that impression because if I did—”
Marcus held up his hand. “I’m not talking about buying you for a night just for sex. I’m talking about something a bit more long-term. Consider it an intimate relationship based on mutual interest. The sex will come as a natural result.”
“Cut the crap. Tell me straight.”
“Half a million a year. One year minimum. In addition, all personal expenses will be paid by me. This includes food, clothing, and entertainment. You leave the country tonight. No real, meaningful contact with the outside world during the time I’ve purchased.”
Marguerite became a living statue, rigid to the touch and solid with disbelief. “I have a family.”
“Yes, I know. Your mother’s name is Margaret and your father’s is Lawrence. Oh, excuse me. Larry. They’ve been divorced for the last seventeen years. Your communication with them is sporadic at best. Siblings are two—both brothers. Your communication with them is nil. No dire family issues that I could see. Only apathy.”