The room was dim, lit only by the blinking neon sign outside the window that bled red through the cheap curtains. The air was musty with old cigarettes and something sweeter—perfume, maybe, or blood memory.
Aiden woke to the cold bite of metal at his wrists.
His wrists were chained, arms splayed above him against the steel bed frame. The realization was slow at first, dulled by the lingering fog of something chemical. But when it hit, it hit hard. Panic. Adrenaline. Fury. fast and instinctual, and underneath it all… a flicker of shame.
He knew better.
A shape shifted in the corner.
Connie.
She was perched at the edge of a faded armchair, knees tucked to her chest, eyes gleaming with something between affection and obsession.
Connie was barefoot, her toes curling against the scratchy motel carpet like she didn't feel the filth anymore — or maybe she liked it. She wore a black robe, but under was a green lingerie piece. one of those thin, slinky ones that clung to her ribs and bared her shoulders like an invitation.
Her lips were stained deep red, like she'd done it with her fingers in the dark. The smudge of liner around her eyes made her look like she hadn't slept, or maybe had cried through half of last night and touched up her makeup without a mirror.
A silver chain hung around her neck, resting against the slope of her collarbone. It glinted faintly in the low motel light, a delicate contrast to the way she moved: sharp, restless, predatory.
Her nails were chipped black. Her thighs bore faint marks — old bruises, scratches, healed burns — like her body remembered things even if her mouth wouldn't speak them.
And her eyes, wild, wide, locked on Aiden, were full of desperate longing and calculated danger. She didn't just look like a girl with unfinished business.
Her hair was messy, lips slightly parted like she'd been humming to herself.
"You're finally awake," she said softly, voice trailing like smoke. "You always sleep like the dead."
He didn't answer.
This bitch is crazy
Aiden stared back at the water-stained ceiling, chains cold around his wrists. His arms were going numb, but his thoughts were anything but dull.
You let her get this close again. You knew better.
He should've fought harder.
He should've run faster.
He should've known she'd never really let go.
The dim motel room swayed gently, like he was underwater. The cheap curtains breathed with the AC. Shadows danced along the walls. And Connie…
Connie was on top of him. Quick as a cat.
But this time, she wasn't rushing.
She was savoring.
Her fingers ran down his chest like she was tracing scripture into his skin. A silken black robe clung to her shoulders, barely closed, revealing the tattoos he remembered all too well — the rose over her hip bone, the faded lyric on her ribs. Scars from fights that she had started or finished. And last but not least, His name above her breast, written in perfect cursive.
Mmm… slrrp… mmmhh—"
She kissed and licked down his throat. Featherlight. Reverent. Like he was something sacred, but desecrated. Something worth defiling just to feel holy again.
"Connie…" He said, trying not to give in, as this action diminished some of his anger.
"I know," she murmured, straddling his waist, grinding slow enough to drive him mad. "I shouldn't be doing this. But I can't stop." "Mmmmnnnnh…" "You did this to me". You broke me, Aiden. And now..."
She leaned back, robe sliding off her shoulders, revealing lace and skin and old, buried sins.
"Mmmnn…now I want to see if I can break you too."
She began to undress him fully, inch by inch, no shame, no hesitation, just hunger and history. The light caught on a scar on his right side. She kissed it. Bit it. Sucked it.
"You remember this?" she asked, dragging her nails down his sides.
His jaw clenched. "That night in Bronzeville. The alley."
"And this one," she said, doing the same thing. Licking an old gunshot wound, placed on his upper abdomen.
"LaSalle Bridge" he said, remembering a bad deal gone wrong.
Her hands moved with reverence, like a mourner at a funeral. No rush. Just a ceremony.
She slid his jeans down his hips, fingers dragging against the waistband like she was reclaiming stolen territory. Her breath hitched when she saw it, her pupils blown wide, hunger leaking into her expression like ink into water.
"Oh, fuck… I've been thinking about you all day," she breathed.
She moved her face closer, inches from his crotch, as if remembering an old friend. "No one else sees you like I do," she murmured, lowering herself, lips ghosting over his member.
"You're already throbbing," she teased, wrapping her hand around him. "You missed my mouth, didn't you?"
She unwrapped the top with slow, exaggerated care. The brown head glistened under the light like it had something to prove, and so did she.
She glanced up, caught him watching, and smiled like she was about to break a rule.
Then she leaned in and moaned, not from contact, not yet. Just the anticipation. Her breath brushed against him.
"Mmmmhhh… this is about to be goood."
With a delicate flourish, she popped it into her mouth, lips parting in a soft "o" that lingered a heartbeat too long. Her tongue swirled around the head in a lazy circle, savoring it, or pretending to. Her eyes never left his.
"Slkkk—mmmnn—mmmhh—hahh… you taste so good…" she announced, pulling it halfway out again with a wet little slurp. "Mmmnhh—slrp…Chocolate. My favorite."
The tip of her tongue flicked at the edge of his cock, then she tilted her head as if thinking, as if tasting required concentration. She sucked it back in with a loud pop, cheeks hollowing just slightly. She was the picture of playful innocence, until she spoke again.
"Too shy?" she teased, mouth curling into a wicked grin. "Or just scared I'll bite?"