*WARNING: For Mature Audiences Only
Men have always found me to be so alluring; incredibly sexy, especially when I’m on my knees before them. I would watch their lips purse as I open my mouth, looking up at them as if they are kings to be worshipped, to be bedded and pleased. Their hooded eyes would become my addiction, and their tongues would lust for my appeal.
They would even watch me sleep. Men would sit beside the bed, elbows on the mattress, their pupils dilated by the sight of my beauty. They would touch the curve of my cheek, the supple lines on my lips, and once I open my eyes, I would see just how much I affect them; the heat and flush beneath their flesh, the thump of their pulse within their throats. Their Adam’s apple would bob as they swallow, and they would profess their love to me, tell me how exquisite I was; an angel in mystic disguise. “You are my savior,” they would whisper. I was the siren that seduced their dreams, the goddess amongst their crumbling universe.
I would smile at their confession and bring my mouth to both their cheeks, caress my tongue along theirs, swallow their sins, and committed crimes. I would pull them into the messy white bed sheets and then push their head below my waist.
I was that powerful.
I am the very definition of art and sex.
And I take full advantage of my reputation.
I now lay here on the hotel bed; legs spread wide open for him to see.
I wear nothing but a red lace teddy and a sheer robe that hangs loosely off my shoulders; its fabric shaping every curve of my sculpted body and plump breasts. I watch him gape, under my hungry eyes and painted ruby lips, watch him drool at the sight of me; see him harden within his pants.
He continues to sip the glass of wine that hangs tightly between his fingers, taking rough, callous gulps as the substance stains his lips.
We hadn’t spoken much since he entered through the door. He was certainly stunned by the wide open blinds, and the curtains twisted and clasped behind the window sill. A beaming neon cherry sign flooded the view, and it illuminated the walls and plush pillows, dripping light onto his olive skin. I had poured ourselves a glass of wine once he got settled, sliding off his jacket to help him relax, taking my time to graze my fingers along his shoulders. He couldn’t take his eyes off of me; following my every move, observing my every sigh, intoxicated with the way I licked my lips, nibbled the edges. When I led him into the bedroom, I could notice the history within his thirst, as if each memory of what we were, what we could have been, flashed behind his irises. Such a pity at that.
“You’re so sexy,” he breathes.
I give a tantalizing smile, laying back against the pillows and trailing my fingers down my body, clearly aroused by his comment. He curses then, biting his bottom lip as if aching for a taste.
“Can I ask you something?” I moan.
“Yes,” he barely answers; his breath shallow.
“Is she better than me?” I raise my brow.
His eyes burn into mine, both shocked, bewildered. “Excuse me?”
I shrug off the robe, letting it drift along my arms and onto the bed. I lean forward. “You heard me. Is she better than me?” I taunt.
He doesn’t answer, the silence becoming a deafening scream. I chuckle, bending over to rise up on all fours. I crawl towards the edge of the bed, slowly, watching him intently as he scans every inch of me; lingering on the arch of my back, the sway and shape of my hips. When I swung my legs over the bed, I almost thought he would cave, then kneel in front of me.
But he resists, even when I let my knees fall open before him again. He just tightens his grip on the glass, a low groan escaping his lips.
“Is she?” I ask again.
He shakes his head. “N…no. No.”
I smile at his obvious lie, watching his bulge grow twice the size, straining against the material. I then waste no time falling to my knees before him, looking up at the man who once told me he loved me.
“Are you sure about that?” I ask. I drag my palms up his ankles to his thighs, all the way up to his hips, his body trembling beneath my touch as I reach for the zipper of his pants. “Does she touch you like I do?”
He places the glass on the desk next to him, feeling as if he’ll squeeze it to death with the way my acrylic nails feel against his thickness. I pull down the zipper and begin doing the deed.
“What are you…holy…,” he stammers.
Eventually, he moans thunderously, just like I remembered, as I continue what I do best, his body leaning against the wall for support.
“Does she?” I demand once I release him.
“No…fuck. No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t.”
“Say it again.” I continue to stare up at his lost and lust-filled eyes, waiting.
“I…shit!” He gasps at my actions. “You’re so..so much better than…her.”
That is all it took.
He grips my chin and brings me up to his mouth like a man on the hunt, kissing, licking, craving, drowning in my spell. He stalks forward until we collapse onto the bed, and we tear into each other like beasts in a cage, letting him play the field, letting him rip the seams of the lace, letting his fingers wrap around my throat while he slips inside of me, letting him feel the warmth and slickness inside the beauty of the woman he once ached. I beg him to take me. I cry out his name until the headboard cracks until the lightning strikes, and over and over and over again. He proclaims I am better than her, that she is nothing to him, that he wants me, and loves me, and needs me, demands for her to cease to exist. I am his queen, he professes. I am his goddess and his only muse.
And then she comes out.
He was too focused, too sex-crazed to see who I’ve been hiding.
But she steps out of the bathroom, quietly, watching him enter in and out of me like a man obsessed.
The tears in her eyes must have stung her cheeks and poisoned her blood. To listen to her own husband moan like that, curse like that, to hear his licks all over another woman’s body, to hear him profess his love to another woman he had said he disgraced. Oh, that must be horrific.
He cannot have two women at once.
I had to convince her he truly never left me.
And if I can seduce and persuade a man just as easily as him, surely, I can do the same to her.
I see the knife then, her fingers gripping the handle beside her in such utter disgust I can almost see the blood boiling in her veins; taste the bile in her throat. Yes, I gave it to her as a gift, and told her she could do whatever she wants with it once she sees and hears the truth within these walls, if she dares. I even kissed her when I heard him knock on the door, and she was shocked, shocked that my own rosy lips sealed the deal.
Luckily, her dark, ominous eyes are not looking at mine. No, they are daggered into her husband’s muscular back, clued to the shoulder blades and spine moving to the rhythm of his pumps. She eyes his balls below me, winces at the sounds of his grunts and fucked-up claims of our love. Certainly, he hasn’t gotten over what transpired between us. I am the one who got away, after all.
So I do what was needed, shoving his head down to kiss along my throat, just so she has more access to his exposed skin, so he can’t see who walks towards the bed with vengeance written all over her temple. She raises the sharp blade above her head without a trembling bone in sight, clearly possessed by jealousy and feminine bitter rage, a hatred only a demon can bewitch. She glimpses at me for a second as if needing permission. I nod at her in agreement and give her my wickedest smile.
I guess it’s true what they say, isn’t it? If I can’t have him, no one can.
And so blood there will be.
