“Apparently not,” he replies as the cool, green snake of jealousy twists and writhes inside my chest. I would never let him have an OnlyFans page. His cock is mine. The idea that no other woman has felt the glory of having it inside of her makes me almost giddy with feminine possession. My property, my male, mine and mine alone. “And no, I have no idea who my biological father is, and I don’t care to know.”
Oscar moves to stand up, but I grab his hand, keeping him there beside me. He looks down at our joined fingers and then back up at my face.
“You can talk to me,” I tell him, wondering if he can hear the thin crack in my voice that says I need him to open up to me. Pamela killed Penelope. That’s something I’m having a fuck of a lot of trouble digesting. Oscar isn’t the only one who needs to talk: I do, too. We all do, I think. As a group, we need more time to just … exist with one another. Everyday can’t be about violence and survival; we have to find space to live. “Is that why your dad snapped? Because he found out?”
“Maybe. Among other things. He’d squandered his family fortune, too. That was a big part of it, I think.” Oscar glances away for a brief moment before turning back to me. This time—for the first time ever, actually—I can see the faintest hint of blue in his eyes. “He murdered his financial advisor just a few months prior. Before that, my grandmother, his own mother. I didn’t find out about all of that until later. He was unhinged and I’ve manifested his trauma. I dye my hair; I get off on choking people. What can I say, other than that I’m a monster?”
We just keep staring at each other, until I get it in my head to grab him by his hair and kiss him.
He doesn’t seem surprised, but his mouth is firmly closed against the invasion of my tongue, almost like he’s afraid to let himself go. It takes a bit of prying, but I finally manage to get him to open up to me, my nails digging into the back of his scalp as his inked fingers clutch the side of the casket so tightly that his skin pales with the strain.
“Not here,” he finally growls out, pulling away from me with a monumental amount of effort.
“Here.” That one word from me is a fucking order. “As your queen, I’m telling you to get your ass the fuck over here.” I sit up on my knees and throw my arms around his neck, pulling him close even as he shudders from the overwhelming experience of a Bernadette Blackbird hug. See, I’m really, really fucking good at hugs now because I keep recalling all the ones that Penelope gave me that I shirked off like they were nothing.
Because you never know how important a hug is until you realize you can never have another from the person you miss the most.
“Bernadette,” Oscar says, a warning clearly evident in his voice. He won’t hurt me though. Shit, he said it himself, that the only reason he gave into sex with me is because he knew that, out of all the people in the world, that I was the one person he would be able to keep safe, even in the aura of his own violent monstrosity.
“What?” I whisper, the word a challenge against his tempestuous mouth. “Too afraid to fuck me in a casket, Montauk?”
“Afraid?” he asks, a mocking laugh in his tone. But then his face darkens, and he shakes his head sharply. “Never.”
I let out a small gasp as Oscar takes me by the hair and punishes my mouth with the force of his, shoving his tongue between my lips and bringing these soft little sounds to my lips that I wasn’t even sure I was capable of. He kneads the back of my head with his fingers, tasting me, diving deeper. His body lords over the casket, trapping me inside of it as he kisses me in a way I imagine he’s been waiting to do for a long time.
Completely unfettered.
He might be a master of knots, but thus far, the only person he’s truly managed to truss up is himself, trapped in a web of emotional rope. It sloughs off as he kisses me, urging me back until he’s fully crouched over the casket, a uniquely beautiful monster.
“Fuck,” he growls, pulling back slightly and looking up at the ceiling, like he’s checking for security cameras. There’s a chance that some are hidden in the room, but unlikely. That sort of tech costs money and, like I said, Prescott. We use paper and pencils and textbooks from 1999. “Get on your hands and knees.”
“Hands and knees?” I query with a quirked brow, but Oscar ignores me, reaching out and grabbing me by the hips. He flips me over as I let out a small sound of surprise. Holy fuck. One of those deft, inked hands of his sneaks around and unbuttons my jeans before he yanks them over my hips and ass, leaving them to bunch around my thighs.
There isn’t a ton of room inside the casket, but there doesn’t have to be. Just enough for him to kneel behind me, flicking the button on his slacks open as he grabs me by the hair and pulls my head back.
There’s no lead-up to the violent thrusting of his hips, just a brief pressure as my body stretches to accommodate his. Oscar’s pelvis slams into my ass, his cock hitting the end of me as I curl my hand over the edge of the casket, digging my pretty new nails into the side of it.
Like I told Stacey’s second, that girl Vera, I handle all this dick with a wet pussy and a smile.
A wicked curve takes over my lips, and I let out a deep, throaty chuckle that has Oscar digging his fingers into my hips. He slams into me hard, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing in the quiet room. It isn’t difficult to tell by the sound of it that I’m fucking soaked between the thighs. Thankfully, the bleeding has stopped. It’s all desire keeping my monster’s cock slick as he thrusts into me.
“Something funny?” he purrs as he leans over me, bracing one hand over the top of mine. With his other, he keeps hold of my hip.
“Nothing at all,” I promise as he works his hips against me. For somebody who’s still relatively inexperienced in the world of sex, he seems to know what he’s doing. Maybe he’s just a master of all the cardinal sins, working darkness into me with the sharp friction of his body inside of mine. “Keep going.”
“Yes, your majesty,” he growls out, grabbing a handful of my hair again and powering into me over and over and over. Pleasure courses through me in unstoppable waves, my thighs trapped together by my jeans, making him feel even bigger, making me seem even tighter.
Using my left hand for leverage, I start to push back against him, meeting each one of his thrusts with a movement of my own. Shit, I don’t even try to hide the throaty moans escaping my painted lips. Today’s color: Broke-ass Bitch. It’s the shade of obsessive love and irrational desire, caught somewhere between gray and purple. I swipe my tongue over it as Oscar fucks me in a pink-lined casket in some broke-ass funeral home in the worst neighborhood in town.
I come so hard that I actually bite my lip and make it bleed, my body shuddering and spasming as I struggle to stay upright. My inner muscles clench around Oscar’s inked cock, his piercings stroking me and making me purr like a kitty cat.
The orgasm rips through me and I collapse, my cheek pressed against the soft interior of the coffin as Oscar uses my body however he pleases. He fucks me until his hands clench so hard around my hips that I bite down on the pink cushion beneath my head. Oscar spills himself inside of me with a long, satisfying groan and then collapses on top of me.
We stay like that for several minutes, panting, catching our breath, readjusting to reality. Because when you get fucked like that, it’s as if nothing else in the entire world matters but for the joining of your souls.
Eventually, Oscar stands up, fixes his slacks, and then offers out a hand. This time, I take it, letting him pull me out of the world of the dead and right back into the nightmare of the living. He yanks me close, much closer than I expected, and actually holds me there for a moment, looking down and into my face.
“I don’t understand it all,” he says with a slight shake of his head, reaching up a hand to rub at the side of his face. There’s a smudge on his glasses right now, an actual smudge. And if you know Oscar Montauk, you know that he doesn’t allow simple human error like smudges on his fucking glasses. It’s monumental, that smudge. Life-changing, really. “Why you like me, that is. Or any of us.” He cups the side of my face with his pretty inked fingers and my eyes close of their own accord. I lean into his touch with a small sigh, feeling the proof of his obsession trickle out of me. “You could’ve been a model … or something.”
I smile and open my eyes.
“Or something. I’d much rather be a Havoc Girl.” I press up to my tiptoes, plant a lipstick smudged kiss against his cheek, and then drop back to my heels just in time for a tentative knock to sound at a door marked Employees Only. “Come in,” I say as the funeral director hesitantly cracks it open and slinks into the room like a kicked dog. I point back at the pink-lined casket behind me. “We’ll take that one.”
“Yes, miss,” the man murmurs, refusing to make eye contact. If he knows we fucked in his funeral parlor, he doesn’t have the balls to say a thing about it.
I take Oscar’s hand in mine, the way Callum has no problem doing with me. “It makes me feel human.” He was so damn right about that. There’s like nothing like a coffin-fuck followed by some chaste handholding to put the human experience into perspective.
“Hey,” I start as I lead Oscar to the exterior door. The way he looks at me, it’s a pinch of wariness mixed with overwhelming confusion—and tainted by love. He really does love me, doesn’t he? This knave known as Oscar motherfucking Montauk. “Do you think you could show me a little of your knot mastery?”
The look he throws me is full of innuendo, but that’s not the only thing I have in mind.
Murder is right up there alongside it.
The feds know exactly where our safe house is. There was no way to hide our move across town from Sara Young. It’s always a possibility that they’ll leak our location to the GMP, but that’s exactly why we’re here. If Maxwell sends his goons into the heart of Prescott, they’ll see exactly how influential our crew can be.