Dance of Madness: Chapter 20

They say idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

I mean, I don’t. But “they” do.

In my case, the idle hands come from a distinct lack of Nero in my life over the last 60-odd hours. And they’re taking over, and making me do insane things.

…Like clean up my bedroom.

It’s not a disaster area or anything. But it was already overdue for a refresh when I moved out a few years ago, and ever since I’ve moved back, I haven’t done squat to it. So tonight, my idle hands are hard at work.

Switching around framed photos on the wall. Moving my monstera plant from one corner to the other. Switching up the arrangement of my super cozy reading nook. I even managed to grunt and strain my way through shifting my bed a little closer to the windows, because why not.

I finally turn to my massive bookshelves, eying them warily. Organizing my books is definitely a project I’ve been putting off.

No time like the present. I step closer, my lip catching in my teeth as my gaze lands on one of the several copies of The Sorrows of Young Werther on the shelves. My mind drifts to that scene in the bookstore.

Laz.

I frown as I turn away from the shelves. I grab my phone from my desk and flop face-down on my bed as I unlock it and open Instagram.

What are you doing, weirdo.

A large section of my brain has been completely stuck on Nero for the last few days: his mannerisms. The predatory way he walks and prowls, the feral feeling I get with him. His eyes, glinting green. His touch, his scent, the taste of his lips. The thrill of his footsteps rushing through the dark, right behind me.

But now, the small piece of my brain that isn’t preoccupied with Nero switches to another face.

I push down the bizarre feelings of guilt…what are those about…as I tap on Laz’s profile and start scrolling his posts.

At first glance, it’s the social media account of any young, good-looking mafia heir. Pictures of him next to exotic sports cars or holding a glass of champagne. On vacation. At clubs. Many photos taken at Doomsday, which he partially owns. Lots—lots—of him posing with or surrounded by gorgeous women.

I roll my eyes.

Then, I start to notice other posts, sprinkled between the rest. These ones have way fewer likes or comments.

They catch my attention, though.

Shots of vintage bookstores. Of first edition books. Reposts of interesting New Yorker articles and essays. Even some photos of Earnest Hemingway’s grave, which it appears Laz specifically traveled to Ketchum, Idaho to see.

I pause, frowning.

For the second time, I’m considering there’s a whole other side to him I never knew about.

I scroll back up and tap on a slideshow from when Laz visited Ibiza a few months ago. Shots of him shirtless on the beach—tanned, shredded, tattooed.

Charming, perfect smile. Slightly tousled dark hair. Piercing green eyes.

I lick my lips as my pulse beats erratically.

What if?

What if my pen pal from all those years ago wasn’t Nero? And what if that first time—my first time—was with Laz?

I roll onto my back and drop the phone next to me, shivering. A strange sensation slithers through me, and I hug myself to try to shake it away.

My phone dings next to my head, startling me. I reach for it and hold it over my face before I blink and sit up when see who’s just texted me.

Heat throbs in my chest. My cheeks warm as my lips pull to a grin.

It’s not an apology. But I think it’s the closest I’m going to get from him.

I swallow, biting my lip before starting to type with my thumbs.

I’m obviously teasing. But the second I send it, I’m worried if he’ll realize that. I’m typing “that was a joke” when my phone dings.

I roll my eyes, giggling at my phone.

I snort out a laugh. This is…weird. But fun. And suddenly, I’m in the best mood I’ve been in for days.

My cheeks heat as I grin at the screen.

No joke: I’m wet instantly.

But it’s also almost midnight, and I’ve got an early day tomorrow.

There’s no reply. Instantly, my mood sinks. I’m super close to typing “just kidding, I’m on my way” when I stop myself.

What the fuck, self.

A, he’s the one who left me at Greymoor and then went completely radio silent for days. And B, dropping everything and rushing over because he demanded it is fucking pathetic.

I stare at our text exchange. Still no reply. Not even hovering dots.

I purse my lips.

I will not change my answer.

Finally, my phone dings again.

My entire body tingles as my face flushes.

I grin as I keep typing.

The response is instant.

Fuck.

Vicious, hot need throbs deep inside me, snaking through every vein until I’m trembling.

My jaw drops.

I have never “sexted” with anyone. It makes the filthiness of what he’s saying even more thrilling, somehow.

More exciting.

I find myself giggling.

I grin as I keep typing.

I’m grinning like a fool as I start to type “When am I seeing you again?”

Then I frown.

Too much.

Way too much.

I erase it.

I drop the phone onto my bed, then go wash up in the bathroom. I brush my teeth and my hair, and change into some loose shorts and a tank top.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. My mind is too full of chasing, hunting, grunting growls. Of outstretched hands and punishing smacks. Of shredding, feasting lips and teeth, and the madness that he brings out in me.

At some point, I’m aware of consciousness barely returning to me. It’s still dark out, and the house is quiet. For a second, I’m confused why I’m awake.

A soft moan tumbles from my lips as consciousness begins to filter in a little more, and I gradually become aware of a heavy weight on the bed.

And of the fact that my shorts are gone.

Suddenly, I’m very aware of the fact that Nero is lying between my spread, naked legs, his tongue wrapped around my swollen clit and his green eyes piercing into mine.

“I warned you to lock your windows, princess.”