Unmaking Marchant (15 page)

She hands them to me, but she doesn’t leave. When I head to the elevators, she follows me. I don’t look at her. Not when she pushes the “2” button, and not when she gets off the elevator before I do. I don’t look at her as I clench and unclench my hands because I’m feeling so damn edgy.

She gets a card into the door before I can, and pushes it open. As she steps away, those pretty hazel eyes peek up at me. “You sure you want me to go?”

I don’t know what I want. I don’t know anything—except I fucking hate myself.

So I do the worst thing I can do. I grab her shoulders and kiss her.

11

SURI

This is entirely different than the time at the Wynn.

He’s forceful this time—from the moment he grabs my shoulders and spins me around so he can take my mouth. There’s this millisecond when his lips first touch mine where I have a choice. Where I can pull away if I want. But I don’t.

Because I pulled him up from the bottom of a pool but I’m not sure I saved his life. Because he is both cruel and broken, and despite both, my body screams for his.

When his lips touch mine, I can barely keep my knees from giving way.

Marchant sweeps the door open and wraps an arm around me, dragging me toward the king-sized bed. He turns me around and urges me down onto my back, with my legs hanging off the side of the mattress. He parts my knees and stands between them, leaning down over me so he can kiss my throat, my chin, my cheeks, and finally—when I can’t stand it anymore—my mouth.

His lips close over mine with a harsh groan, and I sink my hands into his wild hair and pull him down on me. His body is warm and hard. I run my fingers from his biceps down his taut sides, and they leave trails of goosebumps. He’s hard in seconds, pressing himself urgently against me.

I can feel his abs jerk as he breathes between our kisses: ragged breaths that do nothing to slow the fury of his mouth on mine.

His taste is a drug—hot and sweet and just a little salty.

With all thought stalled by the rhythm of our mouths and hands, I notice everything about the way he moves and feels. How when he breathes, his ribcage presses into mine so hard it hurts. Each and every kiss brings him down on me a little heavier. There’s something predatory about the way he grabs my shoulder, yanks my hair, nips at my neck, crawls up on the bed and tosses me back a few feet. He climbs up on top of me, and I’m reminded of a lion.

Rough becomes forceful, almost painful. My mouth feels bruised, yet when he wrenches his away to grab a breath, my hand around his neck pulls him back down for more. Another hit. A feeding frenzy.

We’re both slick with sweat, and salty. Licking, nipping, stroking, pinching. His hands slide down my hips and underneath my ass. He lifts me up and pushes his hips down. The room spins. I need him inside of me.

And then his hands are gone. His mouth is wrenched off mine. He pants above me, looking into my eyes with his wild brown ones.

“Why are you here?”

I remember the sensation of dragging him up from the bottom of the pool. Trying to kick enough for both of us. How heavy he was; how still. Does it count as saving if he didn’t want it? The question expands inside my mouth, but I don’t know how ask it.

I swallow instead and whisper through my sore lips, “Because…I want to feel something.”

His kisses are gentler when he eases back down on me. He lifts my shirt up, then slides one hand down my hip and peels back my yoga pants. As his hand finds me where I’m wet, his eyes widen.

“You’re beautiful, woman. Fucking beautiful.”

He crawls down and his mouth joins his hand, and I come quickly. It’s like the sky being torn in two. He does it again, and again, until I’m quivering and exhausted. Then he lies beside me and kisses my neck.

I palm him through his slacks and find him hard as stone. I fumble with the button of his pants, finally pull them down, then sit up to urge him down onto his back. I stare for a moment at his naked abs and hips and thighs. There’s something beautiful about his shape.

I long to know what the tattoo means, but I don’t dare ask. I don’t even touch it.

Instead, I stroke his hard length up and down, loving the way his thighs tense and his ass tightens and he lifts himself up off the bed to meet my hand. His hands grip my biceps. His eyes squeeze shut. I’m cradling his balls and stroking him a little faster when I decide I’d like to have him in my mouth.

I’m leaning over to do just that when he makes a strangled sound deep in his throat and spurts into my hands.

“Oh Christ,” he murmurs. He turns over on his side and raises an arm to cover his face.

I watch the smooth slab of his side as his lungs expand and then constrict. I watch as he gets up, never looking at me, and half-stumbles into the bathroom, returning a minute later with grave eyes, wearing nothing but his boxer-briefs and a look that jabs me right below the ribs.

He shoves me back down on the bed and climbs over me, nipping at my neck. Kissing me gently near my shoulder. His breath on my skin is soft and warm; his hands threading through my hands feel cool. His voice sounds soft and tired when he says, “You should go now, Beauty.”

I lift my forehead so it’s pressed against his. “I don’t want to.”

I stroke my fingers down his back and feel the goosebumps. I tickle my hand down to the elastic of his boxer-briefs and sneak a finger inside them, where I shock both of us by teasing his crack. He draws a shuddering breath and I can feel his body tense.

“If you don’t go now…you might not like the outcome,” he says against my throat. As if to accentuate the point, he lifts his head. His eyes are wide. “I mean it.”

I smile a little, caressing the hair that curves around his ear. “You called me Beauty a second ago. Does that make you Beast?”

His mouth tightens. “It’s not a joke.” He lifts off me and tugs me by my wrist. “Go, before I throw you down face first and fuck you like I want to.”

I’m feeling high in this moment. Lust-drunk and powerful. Like I can keep him on this bed as long as I want to, and turn that frown upside down.

So I say, “Do it.”

He grabs me by my hips and spins me, positioning me on hands and knees so my ass is in the air. He yanks my pants all the way off and slams his finger into me, stroking ruthlessly as his mouth covers my asshole.

I open my mouth to protest, but it’s only a breath before I realize it feels good. So good I’m falling forward with my belly pressed against the mattress. My legs can barely keep me up, and then he’s clutching my ass cheek, pumping my cunt, licking me with broad strokes of his tongue, and I’m gasping like I might pass out.

I might pass out.

He gets me close—so close—before he pulls his fingers out and moves his hot mouth off me. I draw my quivering knees in, and he slides his body underneath me so I’m on top. With a dark grin, he reaches down to find my pussy with his fingers again. It’s tighter now, and I’m curled over, desperate. “Don’t stop…”

I stroke my finger down his chest and lean down so my other hand caresses his head. His eyes harden. “Are you on birth control?”

I open my mouth to say it isn’t necessary, but he cuts me off. “Are you on birth control?”

I nod—to simplify things.

“You take it regularly?”

“Yes,” I lie. “But I also have a condom if you want it.”

He nods and I reach past him for my clutch, the only thing in reach when the fire started. I’ve got some fire-engine red, cherry-flavored condoms in it from that night with Adam at the gala.

I turn back around to find him sitting on his knees. His dick juts out ridiculously, and I’m surprised to find myself gasping with eagerness to feel it inside me. His hands, I’ve noticed, look chapped and painful, so I scoot closer and roll the latex over his plump head.

He closes his eyes as I fit it on him. He’s bigger than Adam, so it’s snug. Below his thickness, his balls look taut and heavy. 

I’m trembling as he leans closer. The tip of him brushes my thigh as he takes off my front-clasp bra and leans down to kiss my breasts. I shove him away and move my mouth as fast as I can to his dick. I caress those swollen balls as I stroke a shaft. He comes in half a minute, leaning over me and pulling on my hair. 

“Oh God,” he groans.

I smile as he stretches out on his back, staring without blinking at the ceiling.

“Can I?” I gesture to his cock, which is somehow still hard and ready. He nods a little. I tug the condom off and find a garbage can. When I return, already wondering if he wants more, I find him on his side, facing the air conditioning unit, with his broad, heat-chapped back to me. His breathing is shallow and fast.

 I sit down behind him, feeling almost ill with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t that. It’s just a fuck.”

“Okay,” I murmur.

“Is it?” His voice is low. Almost challenging.

“I knew what I was getting into when I came in here with you. I know you’re a drinker and a fighter and—”

“And what?” He turns around to face me, and I swear I think his eyelashes are wet. His face looks hard and angry.

“You’re not always nice.”

“No—I’m not.”

He grabs my wrists and pushes me down on my back, raising my arms above my head and pressing them down into the mattress.

His face twists. “You think you know me?” His eyes are hard—so hard and empty, I find my lips trembling before I whisper, “No.”

“You made a mistake.” His mouth tightens, and he squeezes my wrists harder. Then, for half a second, his eyes soften. He murmurs, “Do you want to go?”

I swallow hard and shake my head.

“If you stay, I’m going to fuck you.” He releases one wrist and runs his fingertips feather lightly down my belly. “Do you want to be fucked, Suri Dalton?”

He spreads my legs and lowers his face over my throbbing cunt.

“Answer me,” he murmurs, tracing a finger down my slit. I’m so wet, he glides between my lips with ease, pausing over my entrance to tease me with his thumb. I press my hips up, desperate to feel his fingers stretching inside of me.

“Answer me!”

“YES!” I half-sob.

He glides his fingertip over my clit, and I try to lift my hips to him. My legs are almost useless. I’m trembling so hard I can barely move.

“Wait here,” he tells me. “Do not move.”

He grabs another condom from my bag and quickly rolls it over himself.

Then he gathers both my arms in his big hand, holding them firmly over my head, and moves his hips so he’s teasing me.

“Come on, Marchant… Please!”

He slams inside me—hard and fast, and I scream.

When he leaves me panting in the shower several hours later, I’m not sure if I feel broken or empowered. All I know for certain is I want more. 

12

MARCHANT

“Right this way, Mr. Radcliffe.”

I follow the nurse down a long, white hall, and force my legs to stay steady as she slides an ID through a card reader beside a stainless steel door. It makes a soft clicking sound, and she pushes it open, revealing a small, white room dominated by a wide hospital bed and several large machines.

“We’ve spoken with your regular psychiatrist.” She motions to the bed, and I climb onto it. I’m so exhausted I can hardly see straight, so it’s an effort to keep the damn gown shut. “She said you’ve experienced a lengthy manic phase that’s likely winding down. Are you sure you want this?”

I shake my head. “I
need
this. I’m sure.”

I think about the day I flushed my Lithium down the toilet. March 15. I think about March 15, 2007, and I’m sure.

She nods. “Okay. Just try to relax. I’ll be back soon.”

I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. I see a golden casket. I feel the cool leather of the squad car seat behind my back. My memory thrusts me back in time, several hours earlier, that day, and I remember breaking the arms of another man in a white coat.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, you motherfucking murderer!”

I remember, hours before that, the phone call from Marissa. Telling me what had happened. Telling me what she’d done. Sobbing.

“You told me to! You told me to do it Marchant!”

I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut, and I try to remember the words I said that changed the course of both our lives. But I never can. Because I was manic. Because I was possessed.

I’m tired of being manic.