Wicked Steps (5 page)

“I’ll see you again soon,” he muttered. The sound of his voice wasn’t friendly. It implied a threat.

“You act as though I should know who you are. Why all the cloak and dagger? Just tell me your name,” I prompted in a hushed voice.

He cupped my elbow and leaned into me. “Sad to say, I am most likely your worst nightmare. It really is a shame, because I do find you rather riveting.”

“Please stop playing these games and just tell me.”

His lips brushed my cheek as they got closer to my ear. I tensed from his touch. “And take the fun out it? Really, I do want to tell you, but for now, how about I just give you a clue?”

My cheeks went warm as I flushed. I hated the fact that this man, someone I didn’t even know, had the ability to arouse me, even in a threatening way.

“When I walked in, you appeared enamored by that cock. Don’t conceal it. Study it. Scrutinize it. Analyze it. My hint to you—look at the signature,” he hissed. “Everything about me is far superior in person.”

I heard him humming as he strolled away. I stood there, unable to move, barely breathing.

What had he just said? What had I done?

I moved toward the portrait and viewed the signature in the lower right corner.

No.

No.

No.

There was no way that man was Wicked.

Wait. Shut up, Elle
.
You just let some hot stranger finger you six ways to Sunday. And now you’re going to deny who he claims to be?

No, it’s not true. He is not Wicked. He’s too young.

God, I wanted to kick my own ass because no one knew shit about the secretive artist.
The man could be a hundred or fifteen. Never mind I’d just gotten sexually amorous with a guest. But if he were Wicked, that could ruin me. What would people think if that arrogant asshat went public with the fact he’d gotten physical with the proprietor, the gallery owner that was handling his first U.S. showing?

Ugh! I am so stupid.
I let my pussy run the show instead of my common sense.

Well, I had mentally questioned if Mr. Perfect Stranger’s cock matched the size of his hand. If he were Wicked, that question had definitely been answered.

My emotions ricocheted between being overly stimulated and never wanting to tell a soul. But how could I not confide in Coco? I needed to share this predicament with someone. Maybe I could take the emphasis off the sex and just bring up the other things.

What other things, idiot?

I allowed the famous artist Wicked to have his way with me, in front of his work. I groaned, loudly. And what if someone had seen us while he had his hand down my underwear? He’d claimed he knew who I was, but that wasn’t a surprise, not really. My photograph had been in many magazines and newspapers, not only as Hartman’s wife, but as the gallery owner. Maybe that was a tactic he used to seduce women or keep them placated so he wouldn’t have to see them again. Pompous. Player. Prick.

The best thing I could do was go mingle with my guests.

What if he hadn’t left yet and was waiting for me to make an entrance? I supposed if he were still in the gallery, I could try avoiding him, but his body and face were like a compass, and my lust was pointing south.

Dammit, he got to me. No, I was just sexually deprived. I took the first thing offered to me. A six-foot-plus stranger with a pierced eyebrow and possibly a pierced cock, who had fingers that strummed me like a flamenco guitarist?
Frick!
And young.

That man was dangerous. That man was treacherous. That man was fire. And I, unfortunately, was kindling.

Kieran

Did I just finger fuck my stepmother?
I asked myself as I unbuttoned the stiff-collared white shirt. Fucking strangulation device. I tossed it on the floor as I sat on the bed in my suite.

I couldn’t help myself. Her scent invaded my nostrils as I brought two fingers to my mouth. Among her sensual taste, I could smell a subtle hint of lavender, probably body wash. Jesus, she tasted like French ice cream. My cock was so hard it begged to be free of my pants. I should have fucked her. The fact was I had flirted with the idea. Once she came on my fingers, I wanted to impale her with my cock and make her come tenfold. Even now, just my thoughts were causing my dick to leak. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to punish her. I wanted payback.

From what I’d read before attending the gallery showing, she was in her mid-thirties. When I saw her, I was sure it had been a typo. She looked much younger.

Ellery Wick was seduction on legs. I now realized how she snared my father. Although, knowing his history, all it had taken was a pretty face paired with an eager pussy. I guess she enjoyed older men, since according to my calculation, ten years ago, she’d been quite young. But I assumed power and wealth had been quite an incentive for her. Apparently, the age difference was of no concern to either of them, because he was more than willing to pay for beauty and sex.

I sucked one of my fingers and deeply inhaled. I’d been intoxicated the moment I recognized her. Her photographs didn’t come close to capturing her beauty. If this were another scenario, I would paint her. Nude. Glistening. Ardent.

I doubted I could even find a color combination to match her long, wavy locks. The shade reminded me of rich caramel melded with different hues of burnished copper. Her skin was pale from the winter months, but her eyes were a crisp, startling blue, reminding me of London sapphires. She had small hands with long, tapered fingers that appeared delicate. She carried herself like an aristocrat, but underneath that expensive dress and coiffed New York hairstyle, she was still nothing but a home-wrecking whore.

My father had lured her with his money, and she had seduced him with sex. Even the thought of my father fucking her filled me with sudden rage. I was having a hard time defusing my emotions. I felt like a ticking time bomb.

I had only been fourteen when my father had the affair. I’d never seen the other woman—only heard about her. He really was a perverted bastard. My mind became inundated with images of the vile, filthy things my old man had done to her. Things I wanted to do. Things I planned to do to her. She killed my mother. She took everything from me. Now I intended to return the favor. I wanted nothing more but to crush her entire life and make her suffer, as my mother had so many years ago. I’d waited years to even the score. My patience had been fruitful. I was now able to deliver the justice I yearned for by stripping her bare of her livelihood.

Preston had promised to help me years ago. She wouldn’t even see it coming. I looked forward to watching the expression on her face when she found out who I was. She, without a doubt, clearly knew now I was Wicked. However, she had no concept how that name truly suited me.

Arriving back in New York, I’d been prepared to deliver swift retribution. But after seeing her and making her come, she aroused me. It had been a long time since a woman was foremost on my mind. To me, a beautiful female was nothing more than a receptacle for release. And really, who needed them for even that? My own hand could suffice if necessary. I didn’t trust them or desire any of them. They were there for my enjoyment, to be used and tossed aside. But Ellery, I wanted to own her ass. Maybe it was because she’d belonged to my father. She would become my possession, someone to play with. She would pay.

Heat coiled in my belly as I removed my pants and strolled to the shower. I stepped in and let the water rush over me. Even though it was cold, it would never diminish this erection. Beads of precum amassed at the crown. I traced my thumb over the top, through the metal ring, and under the rim. I grabbed some body oil and began the familiar fisting of my cock, sliding my hand, up and down. I could envision her face and still taste the remnants of her sweet pussy. It had started slowly, but now there was a furious annoyance building up inside me.

Fucking cunt.
All I wanted to do was destroy her.
Fucking bitch.
The angry visuals that plagued my mind aided in my orgasm as semen encrusted the wet wall. I felt unsatisfied. My climax hadn’t changed my need or want. I could go through the motions, but regardless, there would be no genuine release until I’d taken her and used her body in every way possible.

Ellery

I never mentioned to Coco the fact that the artist known as Wicked had his fingers inside me. I really wanted to share that information—I honestly did—but the shock would have made her choke on her bagel. As it were, currently I was having a hard time swallowing my coffee.

We always had breakfast at her loft in Soho whenever we worked late at the gallery. Luckily for me, she had met some random hottie at the event, which prevented our usual Saturday breakfast together. I didn’t mind. I was trying to recover mentally and physically from my own activities.

My lips were puffy and I had razor burn from just one kiss. I think he’d even left marks on the back of my neck, too. Luckily, my hair covered it. Along with sensing some bruising and swelling, my vagina felt as though it were viciously assaulted. I didn’t remember him being so rough, but then I hadn’t seen any sexual action by someone else in that area for years.

When Coco and I got together for breakfast on Sunday, I kept the conversation light. We mainly chatted about the event and the man she’d gone home with. I hadn’t heard yet from accounting. But I knew we sold quite a few pieces, and from the amount of sales we accomplished in one night, the numbers should be excellent.

“So tomorrow’s the day, huh?” Coco asked, grabbing more cream cheese for her bagel.

“Yeah, I guess. I’m not looking forward to it to be honest. But I guess it has to be done.”

“It’s about goddamn time. I hate to keep rehashing this, but don’t people normally do a reading of the will within the first few weeks of death? I mean, you’re only one person. It’s not like there are going to be any hiccups. He left it all to you. The end.”

“I suppose, but as I told you before, we’re talking about millions. Possibly billions if you count all the real estate holdings and companies. Hartman had quite the empire.”

“Elle, you are planning to dump Global, right? We have our hands full with the gallery. What you don’t need is that headache. Just have Preston sell it. Your dead husband fucked over enough people. The bidding wars will be enormous. You could make extra cash by putting it on pay-per-view.”

“Ha. Ha. I have no intentions of being involved with Global or any of the other ten-plus companies he owned. I don’t even want to be the primary stockholder. As far as I’m concerned, all I want is the gallery, the house in Scarsdale, a vehicle, and enough to cover living expenses. He had no other heirs, so the rest can go to charities, a ton of them.”

I only wanted what was promised, nothing else. Guilt had plagued me for the past five years and, still, even now, I felt contrite. Maybe that was the motivation behind why I wasn’t overjoyed about a legal meeting. It was also the reason I didn’t want his companies or any of the other vast investments he had. If most of it went to charity, I might feel some sort of vindication.

Our agreement still haunted me even after all this time. Yes, it’s what I signed up for. And I had done my part. But Hartman’s fortune was too extensive, and the price had been too high. I needed it behind me. I would rely on Hartman’s attorney to take care of my non-interests in all the companies. I just wanted that part of my life over. I was desperately trying to put my years with him behind me.

“So tell me about this flavor of the week you went home with,” I said, trying to deflect from my issues.

Coco shrugged as she sipped her mimosa. “Good body, had skills, nice. I haven’t had time to research his income yet.” She chuckled.

She always managed to obtain all financial information on any man that piqued her interest. She had the unordinary ability to stay on friendly terms with men she’d given walking papers to. I assumed one of these “‘friends” aided in her
economic espionage
. I always thought it was self-serving to ignore the personal attributes of the individual and have his qualifications as relationship material based solely on his financials. But Coco wanted the perfect package, and that included financial stability. She didn’t want to waste her time on a man who had no ambition or money.

She had told me, time and time again, at our age, time was precious. We couldn’t afford to make the same mistakes we made in our twenties, when the only thing that mattered was their cars and how attractive they were.

I, of all people, had no right to judge her. What I had done was worse than anything she could ever imagine. Even now, I still hadn’t confessed all the details concerning why I married Hartman. I told her only what she needed to hear. I’d warned him she was a digger and she would continue to probe if I didn’t tell her everything. The longer I waited, the worse it got, and eventually, there was no way I could justify it. But once we had the final plans for Salacity and the money to secure our dream, she stopped asking. Her mind was now occupied with the goals we had concocted years ago. The gallery had taken center stage.

It had been good the first two years. I spent my mornings with Hartman, going over weekly spreadsheets and budgets. I took care of any correspondences he had via email. He worked mainly from home, doing videoconferences. We had implemented rumors that he wanted to spend more time with his new, young wife.

Once a month, he would make an appearance at Wick Global just to keep up the façade of being the CEO. The changes were subtle, and for a long time, I didn’t notice. But when they happened, it was like the changing of the guards. He would just blank out, and some other entity would take over. It started gradually, but three years in and it began to happen two to three times a year. The episodes would only last a few hours. The cruelty he would exhibit knew no boundaries. Some of the time, he’d remember and beg forgiveness afterward. But I became increasingly afraid. He had warned me in the beginning that there were things about him he didn’t want me to ever know. Characteristics he never wanted me to witness.

In five years of marriage, we never made love. We’d had his variation of sex seven times, which left me battered inside and out. He’d been rough. No, he’d
brutalized
me, sometimes with a belt or glass dildo. Many times with what was available at the time. There was nothing loving about the things he’d done. The one anal assault had been so savage I’d had to seek medical attention the next day. I lied and told my doctor we’d been drinking and gotten carried away.

Hartman was so apologetic. He sobbed. But every time I saw the fine-line scars on my lower back and buttocks, I cried. I wanted to excuse it all because it wasn’t him; it was his disease. His mind was being consumed, and I pretended he didn’t have any control over what he was doing.

Even though I justified it, I knew these were the rumors people had whispered about behind his back. He had lied and deceived me with an imitation of a kind and warmhearted man, when in reality, he’d been this monster. He was a sadistic animal before he’d gotten sick. He might have loved me in his own way, but hurting me was his compulsion. It’s what got him off. It was his greatest pleasure.

Eight months before he died, I began cognitively ticking off the days. Praying every night would be his last and his death would come swiftly. Money aside, this had all begun because I wanted to do the right thing. I cared for this man and chose to sacrifice my life to stay with him even when he became a sadistic monster. I wasn’t going to be unrewarded. He had given me everything he’d promised while he was alive. Now that he was dead, I expected to be well compensated, per our agreement.

Yes, I’d done this all with good intentions, but we all know what they say. The road to hell is paved with them.