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“You make me sick,” he tells her, but that means nothing.
That’s just Angus for you. Says one thing, means another. Delia understands that about him. He’s her brother after all.
But that’s not all he is.
When he slaps her around, when beats her, it doesn’t feel very brotherly, and the way he’s holding her after, kissing her, pressing his lips to her temples, her cheeks, her mouth, that’s not very brotherly either.
Sometimes he stops the car—just out of the blue, or ’cause he’s angry—grabs her, pushes her face-down into his lap, hand huge and heavy in the back of her neck.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he hisses, her cheek and nose squeezed against the bulge in his pants.
He’s already hard for her.
Of course he is. It’s what he wants—her mouth on his cock, warm and wet and reverent. He wants her to worship him. He wants her to want him, and so she does.
She would do anything for Angus.
Perhaps it’d be easier if she was just afraid, if she only did what he asks of her because she doesn’t dare to refuse him, but the truth is, she wants it, too. Wants it even more than he does. Needs it. Craves it like a junkie craves a hit.
Like all things addictive it’s wrong and it’s irresistible. She wants his thick, fat cock in her mouth, wants him to use her until her jaw hurts and her throat’s sore.
He loosens the grip on her, slides his hand up from the back of his neck into her hair and Delia sits up. She’s not looking at him, doesn’t dare to meet his eyes, but she knows how he looks, the line of his jaw, the sharp edges of his cheekbones, his gaze hot enough to burn holes into her skin. Her fingers tremble a bit when she unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans. Even though she’s done it like a hundred times before, there’s still the same nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach, the same lump in her throat. A shameful desire burns in her veins.
She leans in. His scent is dark and musky. It makes her mouth water. He’s got a beautiful cock, long and thick and hard, flushed dark with blood. She can’t wait for its weight on her tongue, for his taste in her mouth.
He groans when she closes her lips around him, laps at the underside of his dick, sucks, moves her mouth up and down the length of the shaft. She makes it nice and wet for him, just as he likes it.
He holds her down, shoves it in deeper, keeps on pushing until she gags. Her throat gives way too slowly, he’s impatient. It hurts, she can’t breathe, she’s choking on his cock, but she loves it nonetheless. She loves how it feels and how much he wants her.
Her is pussy throbbing. She’s so wet it’s as though her insides are melting. She squeezes her thighs together. She wishes she could touch herself. Wishes he would touch her.
But he doesn’t. Not this time.
Instead he wraps his large, broad hand around her neck, feels himself in her throat. She’s drooling all over him. She’s getting dizzy.
When he comes, he pulls out far enough she can taste him, salty and bitter on her tongue. She swallows every last drop.
“Fucking whore,” he calls her when he slips out of her mouth and shoves her back into the passenger seat. “You filthy little slut.”
She wants to kiss him.
She wants to bury her hand in his lush dark hair while he fucks her, enjoy how silky it is to the touch, how soft. (It’s the only thing that’s soft about him.)
Sometimes he lets her.
Sometimes he pulls her into his lap and onto his cock and lets her play with his hair.
He’s so large inside her, fills her so good she wants to cry.
“You’re so tight, darlin’,” he tells her when he fucks up into her, spreading her good and wide around his dick. You’re so big, she wants to reply, but she can’t form the words.
His breath is hot and damp against the side of her neck, his teeth sharp as he marks her, sucks a bruise into her skin, and another, his beard chafing her raw, his fingers digging painfully into the soft flesh of her hips.
She likes when it hurts. It makes her feel alive. She grinds herself against him like a bitch in heat, greedy for friction on her clit.
“Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he’ll say if it's a good day, whisper it low and rough into her ear and reach between them, put his thumb on her clit, rub circles around it until she whimpers and her thighs shake with tension.
“That’s it, baby girl,” he’ll breathe into her hair and fuck her harder, hammer into her until she’s coming, shuddering around him, her cunt clenching, clutching at his dick inside her, squeezing, and he’ll just keep going, pounding into her with increasing speed.
She’s so close again she can almost taste it when he finally comes with one last brutal thrust, spilling inside her, filling her up with his slick, hot seed.
If he’s feeling generous he’ll keep touching her, wring that climax out of her too, allow her to come on his cock a second time. “Greedy little thing,” he’ll call her then, almost fondly. “Can’t get enough of me, can you?”
And he’s right, she can’t. He’s like a high she’s chasing, no matter if it’s going to kill her in the end.
Whatever he’ll give, she takes it.
Takes his cock, takes his fist, takes the abuse and the insults and the endearments and the sweet nothings he whispers in her ear when they fuck. Angus is the devil, people say, and maybe they’re right, maybe she’s under his spell, but she doesn’t care. He can have her, body and soul.
She knows that’s the deal she’s making when she cooks with him, when she kills for him, when she sells drugs. Every crime seals her pact with the devil, every sin is another step towards hell. She’s aware of it and yet she can’t stop. It feels too good to have him.
It’s just the two of them against the rest of the world.
Some days her desire for him is sweet, almost innocent. That’s when he allows her to lean against him from behind, brace her arms on his broad back, embrace him like a lover, feel his muscles flex under his skin, the warm bulk of his body. That’s when he’ll put his hands on her tits, calluses rough against her nipples, when he’ll take one of the tender buds, roll it between his fingers, pinch it, tug at it, sending a bolt of lighting right to her cunt.
Other days, she wants him in other ways, darker ways. She wants to ride him like she rode Eldon—tie him to a chair and fuck him up, see him bleed and hurt and still have him rut into her, mindless like an animal, thinking of nothing but breeding, and then, just when she'd have him there, at the very edge of climax, she’d get off of him, watch his cock jerk and bob, red and desperate, come trickling from the slit at the tip—and then she’ll shoot him in the head, see it explode in a splatter of blood and bone and brain.
He understands that about her, how easily her adoration tips into loathing. Understands it because he feels the same way. They have that in common, too.
One time, when Angus is angry, he doesn’t give her his cock to suck, but shoves his gun into her mouth instead, metal and oil and gunpowder.
“Make it good,” he says. And she does, sucks his gun with the same enthusiasm as his cock.
She wouldn’t put it past him to follow through and pull the trigger.
“You’ll be the death of me,” people tell their lovers. It’s just something they say. They don’t mean it. Like Angus sometimes says something he doesn't mean. Delia, however, is more careful with her words, and this, she'd never say out loud. Can't even think it. Because she doesn't want to jinx herself. Because she knows it’s the truth. That’s how it’ll end.
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